by W E Johns
‘I take it he has a car,’ said Biggles.
‘Yes. He’s just bought a new Jaguar. There it is. He leaves it here when he’s away on one of his trips.’
‘What did he mean about a new tank?’
‘He got us to fit an emergency tank in the Coursier. Quite small. Only five gallons.’
‘Does he have far to go, then?’
‘I don’t think he goes beyond the firm’s continental branches.’
‘Does he do any flying here?’
‘Practically none. He learnt to fly here about two years ago. He’s a born pilot.’
‘Where are these overseas branches?’
Clinton gave Biggles a questioning look. ‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Just for the record. I like to know where privately owned machines go when they cross the Channel regularly.’
‘You surely don’t suspect him of any funny business? You can take it from me he’s all right.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘It could be in his own interest that we should know where he goes. If one day he had a crack-up we should know where to look for him. How often does he go abroad?’
‘Practically every weekend. Goes on Sunday and comes back Monday morning. Come to the office. He writes on the firm’s notepaper. The names of the branches are on it.’
They went to the office. Clinton took a letter from a tray. ‘Here you are. London, Paris, Brussels, Geneva and Milan. Anything else you want to know?’ he asked with a hint of sarcasm.
Biggles ignored it. ‘Are those the papers he mentioned?’ He indicated a wallet lying on the desk.
‘Probably. Do you want to look at ‘em?’
‘You might check where he landed in France and where he cleared Customs on his return.’
Clinton frowned. ‘My God! You are a nosy-parker.’
‘I’m a copper — remember? On my job suspicion becomes second nature.’
Clinton unfolded the documents. ‘Here you are. Paris, Le Bourget. That was yesterday. Southend, stamped this morning. All in order. Now I hope you’re satisfied.’
Biggles nodded. ‘Good enough. I’ll be getting along. Don’t forget, Clinton, people are not always what they appear to be. I have to ferret out those who aren’t. That’s not only in the public interest, it’s in yours. Better not tell Zand I was interested in his business — it might upset him. Be seeing you again sometime.’ He went out, got into his Auster and took off.
As soon as he was in the air he called the Air Police Operations office on its own radio wavelength. When Ginger answered he said: ‘This is urgent. Go to Zand House, Regent’s Park, and watch for a dark green Jag. to stop there. Check if anything is taken into the house from the car. Is that clear? Over.’
‘Roger. Over.’
‘That’s all. See you presently.’
An hour later Biggles walked into the office to find Ginger there. ‘Well?’ he queried.
Ginger answered. ‘The car came. One man in it. Foreign-looking type. He took into the house, first, from the boot, a couple of two-gallon petrol cans. He then fetched a small suitcase from the front seat. That’s all.’
‘Somewhere in the files there should be specification and performance figures, English version, of a new French light plane called the Coursier. Look it up. I want to know the endurance range.’
Biggles lit a cigarette while he waited.
‘Here we are. Eight hundred miles. Anything else?’
‘The man who got out of the car was a Persian named Kerman Zand. Apparently he holds a pilot’s ticket. Check that it’s in order.’
Ginger did so. ‘Okay,’ he reported. ‘No trouble. Anything else?’
‘Not now.’
Ginger closed the filing cabinet. ‘What goes on?’
Biggles narrated what had happened at the Icarus Aviation airfield. ‘There may be nothing in it, but... I wouldn’t trust that young man the length of Whitehall. He chucks money about too freely. I know that’s only intuition — or, if you like, experience; but there’s more than that. He’s had an extra fuel tank fitted. Why does he want that if, as he says, he only goes abroad to visit the firm’s branches on the Continent, all of which are well within the range of the standard version of the Coursier? He goes on Sunday and returns on Monday morning. What does he do? As people don’t normally work on Sunday one would expect the offices to be closed.’
‘It doesn’t quite add up,’ conceded Ginger.
‘I’ll tell you something else. When Clinton told him jokingly I was a copper, just for a split second a look, a sort of hooded look, came into his eyes. His lips were still smiling. He could control his expression but not what was in his brain. The tip of his nose went white. That’s always a sign of anxiety. A man can’t prevent that, either. A judge once told me it’s an almost certain way to tell if a witness is lying. The moment he departs from the truth he gets, an anxiety complex, a natural reaction from fear he may be caught out. That’s all. Knowing that trivial things can sometimes tot up to make a big one, I’m bound to wonder what this young man is up to.’
‘The answer might be in those petrol cans. What could it be?’
‘I’m pretty sure it wasn’t petrol. There’s nothing odd about having a spare can of petrol in your car; but when you get home you don’t take it into the house.’
‘Could it be perfume? There’s a heavy duty on it.’
‘Possibly, but I would hardly think so. Much of the money saved in tax would be lost in the cost of air transportation. Yet for a small firm this one seems to be making a great deal of money. How is it done?’
‘You say they’re Persians. Could it be anything to do with Persia? What does Persia produce?’
‘A good many things. Oil, of course, and carpets; all sorts of metals, including a certain amount of gold and silver. Some good turquoise. I can’t remember everything. I believe they produce some opium —’
‘Could drugs be the answer?’
‘I doubt it. If the Zands wanted opium no doubt they could get it without bringing it from Persia. No. If something irregular is going on one would expect it to be something to do with their business, which is cosmetics. Apparently their sales have been pushed up by a very exclusive perfume called “Rosa Luna”, of which they hold the secret. Young Zand reeked of it. Clinton says it’s in the hair-oil he uses. But this guessing is getting us nowhere. All we can do is watch this young man. It won’t be easy, because I could see Clinton resented me asking questions. Zand is the blue-eyed boy at Garfold — that’s the name of the airfield — largely, I suspect, because he treats champagne like soda-water.’
‘Why not take the bull by the horns and warn the Customs people at Southend that you’re suspicious? They’re experts. If Zand is carrying contraband they’ll find it.’
‘Yes, and if they drew blank we’d look silly.’
‘Then catch him when he parks his machine at Garfold. That’s where he must put the stuff in his car to take it home.’
‘That gives me an idea. Have you ever been to Garfold?’
‘Never.’
‘So Clinton doesn’t know you?’
‘I don’t know anyone there.’
‘Good. Early next Monday morning you’ll fly down. Pretend you’re a pupil from another club doing a cross-country. You’re having trouble. Engine cutting out and picking up again. You don’t think the machine’s safe to fly as it is. Can they do something about it? While they’re working on it you’ll be able to wander about. If the Jaguar is there, and the Coursier isn’t in the hangar, you’ll know Zand is in the air. When he comes in and puts his machine in the hangar, without letting him see you watch exactly what he does. Get the idea?’
Smiling, Ginger nodded.
‘Fine. Let’s leave it at that.’
The following Monday at noon Ginger walked into the Operations Room carrying flying cap and goggles.
Biggles was waiting. ‘Well, how did you get on?’
‘He’s up to something. I’ll tell you what happe
ned. The plan about me having engine trouble worked. The Coursier was away. At eleven o’clock it rolled up. I went into the hangar and watched from the tool room. Zand taxied in and got out. He was wearing a leather jacket with a fur collar. He took off his jacket and after a quick look round unzipped what must have been a little pocket in the fur collar. He took out six small objects, made of glass, I think, and put them carefully in a waistcoat pocket, each one wrapped in cotton wool. That’s how I was able to count them. This took less than a minute. After another look round he fetched two empty petrol cans from several piled in a corner and filled them from his auxiliary tank. He carried these to his car and went on to the club-house. I went back to the hangar and had a sniff at the spare tank.’
‘Perfume?’
‘No. And it wasn’t petrol. But the smell had a volatile quality as if it was some sort of spirit.’
‘Not brandy, whisky...’
‘No, nothing like that. As that was all I could do and they’d told me they could find nothing wrong with my aircraft I came home.’
‘Good work. At least we know he’s carrying something illicit or it wouldn’t be necessary for him to have a secret pocket in his flying jacket. We shall only find out what it is by catching him with the stuff in his hand. To do that means we shall have to wait until next Monday. We’ll go down together and risk a show-down. If he’s innocent, and the decent chap everyone seems to think he is, he won’t complain. If he isn’t — well, he won’t be able to. It begins to look as if this bright young man is making the oldest mistake in crime. Having pulled off something once, he imagines he can get away with it for ever. The cocky little rascal had the impudence to sneer at me that the police were always one jump behind the crooks. It’s time he was cut down to size. It’d be a pleasure to clip his wings.’
Another week passed. Ten-thirty on Monday morning saw the police Auster on Garfold airfield parked near the hangars. There’s the Jaguar, but I don’t see the Coursier,’ remarked Biggles to Ginger as they got out.
‘Are you going to wait in the club-house?’
‘No. I’d rather not see Clinton. He might try to interfere. We’ll go behind the hangars. We shall see the Coursier when it comes in.’
This they did. Time passed. A little before eleven the Coursier appeared. At the same time Clinton came round the end hangar looking anything but friendly.
‘I saw your machine,’ he said shortly. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘I haven’t time to tell you now,’ answered Biggles, in the same tone of voice. ‘Go to your office and stay there.’
Clinton stared. ‘Are you telling me—’
Biggles cut in succinctly. ‘Listen, Clinton. If you don’t do as I tell you, you may find yourself in trouble for obstructing the police. That could cost you your licence.’
Clinton’s jaw sagged. ‘If you think Zand —’
‘Go to your office and stay there. Don’t speak to anyone on the way.’
The pilot turned and strode off.
Biggles and Ginger hurried into Zand’s hangar and took up positions in the tool room which had a window looking into the main body of the hangar.
Presently the Coursier taxied in. The ignition was cut. The airscrew died. The sole occupant, Zand, got down. With his back to the watchers he took off his jacket, felt round the collar and pulled a zip fastener. The sound could be heard distinctly.
Biggles walked up quietly behind him. He said: ‘I think you know me. I’m a police officer. May I see what you have there?’
Zand spun round in such haste that a tiny object fell to the concrete floor. It broke. A dark, turgid liquid oozed out. ‘You interfering fool,’ he rasped. ‘Look what you’ve done.’
‘You’re not compelled to answer my questions, but I would advise you to do so,’ returned Biggles, without raising his voice. ‘What is it?’
‘Find out.’
‘You can rely on me to do that.’ Stooping, Biggles touched the liquid with a finger and raised it to his nose. He grimaced. ‘I also intend to examine the contents of your extra tank,’ he stated.
The next moment he came near to losing his life.
Showing his teeth like an animal, spitting out: ‘You cunning swine,’ Zand leapt at him with a dagger upraised.
Biggles jumped sideways. The dagger gashed the shoulder of his jacket. It was as close as that. Ginger put out a foot. Zand, carried forward by his lunge, tripped over it and fell. Before he could get up Ginger was kneeling on his back, with Biggles holding down the hand that held the weapon. He twisted it viciously. Zand cried out in pain. The dagger fell clear. Biggles tossed it aside. ‘This won’t improve matters for you,’ he snapped through his teeth. ‘Now behave yourself, you murdering little devil, or I’ll give you what you deserve right here and now.’
A voice spoke. ‘What’s going on here?’ Clinton strode up, his face livid.
‘I told you to stay in your office, but since you prefer to be involved in criminal proceedings you can make yourself useful,’ Biggles told him sternly. ‘Go and phone for a police car. I suspected this young man of smuggling. He’s just tried to murder me.’
‘I’m sorry if—’
‘Don’t waste time apologizing. Get on with it.’
Clinton hurried off.
Biggles took possession of several small glass phials, as the objects turned out to be, which he found in the fur collar.
Zand, shaking, his face grey, was allowed to get up. ‘I — I lost my temper,’ he stammered. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘You will be,’ Biggles told him grimly. ‘Now, what is this stuff?’
Zand ran his tongue over his lips. ‘I suppose you’ll find out,’ he muttered. ‘Attar of roses. The real thing. Special Persian roses. It’s the base of our perfume “Rosa Luna”. In that broken phial was the essence of a million roses.’ The Persian seemed to be on the point of tears.
‘Why didn’t you declare it?’
‘Each of those phials is worth nearly two hundred pounds. The duty would have been too heavy.’
‘And what’s in that tank?’
‘Absolute alcohol. You can only get it as rectified as that at one place in France.’
Biggles looked curious. ‘How much attar of roses do you put in a gallon of spirit to make your perfume?’
‘A few drops only.’
‘What do you charge for the stuff?’
‘Twenty pounds an ounce bottle.’
‘And you’ve just brought in four gallons of spirit. At twenty fluid ounces to a pint, if my arithmetic is any good that would have made twelve thousand pounds’ worth of perfume.’
‘About that.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘No wonder you can afford to buy expensive aeroplanes and motor-cars.’
Clinton came in. ‘The police car is here,’ he said.
The firm of Zand Cosmetics Ltd no longer exists. The directors are in prison.
Talking over the case afterwards, with an encyclopedia open in front of him Ginger said: ‘When we were discussing Persian products we missed one important item. Listen to this.’ He read: ‘“Attar of roses. The essence of Rosa centifolia or Rosa damascena, produced by distillation in water, the oil then being collected from the surface by means of a feather. It is chiefly prepared in Persia and Turkey, from which countries it is exported in small phials. It is very costly and is in itself too strong to be pleasant, but a few drops of it will scent a great quantity of spirit.”’
‘Which all goes to show that today a copper is expected to know everything,’ murmured Biggles sadly.
Returned Ginger, grinning. ‘It looks as if we shall have to carry an encyclopedia around with us.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘Not me. You know what they say. You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.’
[Back to Contents]
* * *
1 The country of Persia is now known as Iran.
THE LONG CHASE
From five thousand feet, under a sky almost clear of clou
d, the twin streams of traffic on the Great North Road looked like colonies of ants on the march, one heading north, the other south.
Biggles, testing new long-range two-way radio equipment which had just been installed in the Air Police Auster ‘Autocrat’, paying no attention to what was going on below, continued a widening circle over outer London, checking all points of the compass for possible interference. From time to time he glanced at Bertie who, wearing earphones, occupied the seat beside him.
‘How’s it going?’
‘Top-hole. Clear as a bell. I’ve just been listening to Ginger, speaking from Gaskin’s office. He’s been giving me a running commentary on a big wages snatch outside a bank in Hampstead.’
‘How’s he doing that? If he’s in Gaskin’s office what does he know about it?’
‘Gaskin is hot on the trail of the bandits in a radio car. They got away with the swag in a red sports car and he’s keeping the Yard informed of the route they’re taking, hoping road blocks will stop ‘em.’
Biggles looked interested. ‘Where are the bandits now?’
‘They’re just through Hatfield.’
‘Heading north?’
‘Yes.’
‘With Gaskin still after them?’
‘Yes.’
‘How far is he behind them?’
‘Can’t be far. He catches a glimpse of ‘em from time to time; but as they’re ignoring traffic lights he hasn’t been able to overtake them. They’ve already caused two accidents. They’ve been travelling faster than road blocks can be set up.’
‘What else has Ginger told you? How many bandits were there?’
‘Two.’
‘Could they be identified?’
‘No. They wore stockings over their faces. They can afford to take risks, knowing they’ll be for the high jump if they’re caught. They shot and killed a policeman who saw the raid and tried to stop ‘em.’