Biggles Investigates

by W E Johns

  What happened to the pilot of the getaway plane was a mystery never solved. As soon as the bandits had been lodged in gaol the police went straight on to the so-called flying club landing ground. There was no one there. Duncan, the ex-RAF officer, had gone, presumably in the plane, since it was missing. Biggles was of the opinion that rather than risk a charge of murder he had abandoned his associates and fled abroad.

  He may have tried to do this, but if so he failed; for a month later the remains of the aircraft were washed ashore on the Dutch coast, the machine obviously having been forced down in the sea either through engine failure or shortage of petrol. The body of the pilot was never found. Nothing more was heard of him, so it seems likely he was drowned.

  So, how he had come to work for the bandits, and whose idea it was to use an aircraft for escape, could never be ascertained. But, as Biggles remarked, it was not important. The scheme had failed.

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  A MATTER OF CO-OPERATION

  The door of Air Police Headquarters at Scotland Yard was opened and the burly figure of Detective-Chief Inspector Gaskin, CID appeared. He glanced around, and seeing only Air-Sergeant Bertie Lissie, inquired: ‘Where’s everyone?’

  Bertie answered: ‘Biggles is with the Chief; Algy is still in India and Ginger’s gone to London Airport for a natter with Her Majesty’s officers of Customs and Excise. Can I do anything for you?’

  ‘How long is Biggles likely to be?’

  ‘He should be back any minute.’

  Gaskin knocked out his pipe into the palm of his hand and dropped the crumbs of carbonized ash into an ashtray.

  A minute later Biggles breezed in. ‘Hello, Chief,’ he said briskly. ‘What load of trouble are you hawking round?’

  Gaskin did not smile. ‘Pug Donovan is back in circulation.’

  ‘What am I supposed to do, burst into tears?’

  ‘It’s no joke. You can’t know him. He’s an ugly customer in every sense of the word. He’s a bruiser. Fists like cauliflowers and fingers like blunt parsnips.’

  ‘Quite a greengrocer. I take it he’s been away.’

  ‘Close on a year. Last night I had a tip he was in a pub called the Frigate, in Stepney. By the time I got there—’

  ‘He’d gone.’

  ‘Are you telling this story or am I?’ demanded Gaskin.

  ‘I’m only trying to hurry you along to the point where you think I may come into the picture. I assume that’s why my office stinks of that shag tobacco you burn in your pipe.’

  ‘I want to know how, with every sea and airport watching for him, he got back into the country.’

  ‘So that’s it. How should I know?’

  ‘Reckoning he didn’t swim the Channel, he must have got someone to fly him over. Here’s his mug.’ Gaskin put a photograph on the desk. ‘No one could miss spotting a gorilla with a dial like that.’

  ‘Not exactly a pin-up boy,’ agreed Biggles. ‘There’s nothing I can do about it.’

  ‘You admit he might have got in that way?’

  ‘I’ve told you before, and I’ve told the Commissioner, I can’t prevent this sort of thing. In wartime you can shoot down an intruder who refuses to identify himself. In peacetime, no. Why do you want this nasty piece of work?’

  ‘He could tell us where he’s got sixty thousand quid in notes tucked away. I knew he’d come back for it some day. I’ve been waiting.’

  ‘Is he the only man who knows where it is?’

  ‘Another old lag, also an Irishman, named Spud O’Connel, might know.’

  ‘You don’t know where he is, either?’

  ‘I know all right. He’s doing a seven-year stretch on Dartmoor. He won’t open his mouth.’

  ‘He would if I made the laws of the land.’

  ‘Oh, and how would you manage that?’ Gaskin was mildly sarcastic.

  ‘I’d sentence these wide boys, who have their swag hidden away, to stay in the nick until they coughed it up.’

  Gaskin nodded. ‘You may have something there. But you try getting the law changed. Pug and Spud busted a bank in Pimlico. They were careless enough to leave their paw marks. We arrived two minutes too late. We picked up Spud, but Pug got away. He was seen in Paris the next day.’

  ‘Had he got a passport?’

  ‘Yes, although it’s out-of-date now. He must have caught the next boat. He wouldn’t have been so crazy as to try to get the swag through both British and French Customs. No. He dumped it somewhere and then made his getaway. Knowing we were hot on his trail, he must have been pretty smart about it. Whether the stuff was hidden before he and Spud parted company I don’t know for sure, but Spud would know where it was going because that would be arranged beforehand. They’ve worked together for years.’

  ‘Why didn’t Spud stay with Pug?’

  ‘Spud hadn’t got a passport. In any case, with us after them they’d know it would be safer for ‘em to part company. So, like I say, Pug managed to get away, but we got Spud the next day. He won’t squeal. He knows that if he did, when he’d served his time Pug would be waiting to slice him up. Now Pug’s come back here to collect the loot. He won’t dare to stay here. He knows we’ll be waiting. His problem will be to get the money out of the country, but if I’m any good at guessing he’ll have got that organized before he came over. I reckon he’ll go back to France the same way as he got here — by air.’

  ‘Meaning that as soon as Pug has collected the swag, the aircraft that brought him here will come back to fetch him?’

  That’s it. Knowing he daren’t show his face, he won’t stay here longer than he can help, so I haven’t got much time.’

  ‘Why do you think he risked going to the Frigate?’

  ‘It’s a regular meeting place for these rats. That’s why I keep an eye on it. I’d say Pug went there to get news of Spud. Being abroad he might not know what had happened to him.’

  ‘By now he’ll know he’s on the Moor with another five or six years to go.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Do you think Pug has a hide-out in London?’

  ‘Bound to have, or he wouldn’t have dared to come here.’

  ‘Would Spud know where it is?’

  ‘Probably. That doesn’t mean they’d trust each other very far if there’s cash in the kitty.’

  ‘I imagine if news reached Dartmoor that Pug was back the word would soon go round?’

  ‘Every old lag would know inside an hour. They have their own system of signalling. They’d also know that sixty thousand has never been recovered.’

  ‘That should throw Spud into a fever. He’ll imagine Pug getting away with the lot.’

  ‘No doubt of that. What’s in your mind?’

  ‘This may sound a bit unorthodox, but why not give Spud a chance to escape? He’d make a beeline either for the cash or the hide-out. All you’d have to do would be to follow him. He’d tell you all you want to know.’

  Gaskin looked incredulous. ‘Are you kidding? Put that up to the powers that be and they’d send for a psycho-analyst to examine your head.’

  ‘I was afraid you’d say that,’ sighed Biggles.

  ‘Well, will you do something about this air angle?’ pleaded Gaskin.

  ‘Without promising results I’ll lay on everything in my power to see Pug doesn’t depart by air without saying goodbye to us. Meanwhile, you’d better go on looking for him.’

  ‘You can bet I shall do that,’ replied Gaskin grimly. ‘If I have any luck I’ll let you know right away.’

  After the detective had gone Biggles looked across at Bertie and shook his head. ‘Fancy trying to find one particular rat in all the holes there are in London.’

  ‘Could he be right about Pug getting here by air?’

  ‘I suppose so. It would depend on the sort of brain he has and if he could find a pilot willing to take a chance. Only another crook, one able to fly and with an aircraft at his disposal, could undertake the job. If such a man existed, and kne
w Pug had sixty thousand smackers waiting to be collected, he’d probably take it on. Crooks all understand one language — money.’

  ‘It’s hard to see what we can do about it. How are we going to find this crooked pilot, assuming there is one?’

  ‘There’s one line of approach we might try. Apparently Pug has been lying low in France, probably Paris. Run over and ask Marcel Brissac if he has a pilot in his records, not in prison, who, given sufficient money, might be able to lay his hands on an aeroplane.’

  ‘And if he has?’

  ‘Get the details. Find out who he is, where he is, and what he’s doing at the moment. No doubt Marcel will help you. Whether you stay over there or come back home will depend on what you learn. Take plenty of money with you in case you decide to stay.’

  ‘If I find this man and see him take off I phone you. Is that it?’

  ‘Not exactly. That might be all right in daylight, but I can’t see anyone trying to slink in in broad daylight; it would be far more likely to happen after dark; yet after dark I wouldn’t have a clue as to where he intended to land. Unless you were able to check his course, and I wouldn’t hold out much hope of that, he might touch down anywhere between Kent and Land’s End. That’s the difficulty. But we won’t try to jump that fence until we come to it. For a start see Marcel and find out if he can help us. There’s no time to waste. Pug might slip away any day. It depends on what arrangements he has made, or has in mind.’

  ‘I’ll press on, then,’ said Bertie, getting up. ‘You’ll be hearing from me, or if not from me, from Marcel. So long.’

  Rather more than two hours later Bertie landed at Le Bourget, where his police and Interpol identity cards waived the usual formalities. Having seen his Auster in safe hands, he took a taxi into Paris, where at police headquarters he had the good luck to find Marcel Brissac, Biggles’ French opposite number, in his office. Greetings exchanged he explained his mission.

  Said Marcel, thoughtfully: ‘This man Donovan may be the elusive character the police have been hunting for a long time. We know he entered the country; the Security Officers on the train stamped his passport; but there is no record of him leaving. He must have changed his name. As far as we know he has done nothing wrong, but he should have applied for a permission to stay.’

  ‘Well, if this man is the one we’re after he isn’t in France at this moment, although we have reason to think he may soon return,’ answered Bertie. ‘The real point is this. How is he able to move from France to England without going through the usual channels? Do you know of a pilot who would undertake to fly him across? If so, how did Donovan get in touch with him?’

  Marcel made a typical French gesture. ‘That would not be so difficult. You know what they say about birds of a feather. If Donovan didn’t know the Paris underworld he would soon find his way into it. These rats can smell each other’s holes from a long distance.’

  Bertie agreed. ‘The question is, do you know of one who would, or could, fly Donovan to England? Remember, a lot of money is involved.’

  Marcel thought for a little while. Then he shook his head slowly. ‘No. I know of no crook who is a pilot, or has an aeroplane. That does not mean there isn’t one. We know that smuggling by air goes on all the time, but so far I cannot catch anyone. How does one stop an aeroplane for questioning?’

  ‘We’re up against the same difficulty.’

  Marcel’s expression changed. ‘But wait! A thought comes to me. There is just a chance this may answer a question for me. Écoutez. There is a small aviation company which works from a private aerodrome near Chantilly. It is run by two partners, one French, one British. It smells — how do you say? — Fishy. These men spend much money. Where, I ask myself, does it come from? No doubt they cheat the tax collector, but that does not explain the business. They say they do private hire work, to anywhere — England, Switzerland, Italy, Spain... But with good regular services everywhere who must have a special plane? And usually at night. They started with one plane, an old Berline Breguet. Now they have a new Aubert Gigale-Major, a four-seat monoplane for touring. This costs much money. Another thing makes me smell fish. One goes often to a shady bistro named The Black Fox near the Place de la Bastille. Why do they go there? This is a place where crooks meet?’

  ‘You think perhaps birds of a feather...?’

  ‘Tiens — tiens. Exactement. They have been seen with heads together talking to Armand Picot.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Once the King of the Black Market, now, I suspect although I cannot prove it, the Prince of Smugglers. These two pilots of Chantilly are clever. I watch, but still I don’t know what they do.’

  ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Desmond Grattan and Jacques Montelle.’

  ‘You think they may specialize in doing work for crooks, or flying them when they have to move quickly? Perhaps Donovan.’

  ‘Who can say? It is possible. They make too much money for honest men. Yet I cannot stop them flying.’

  ‘Grattan sounds Irish. Why is he allowed to work in France?’

  ‘He was in your Air Force in the war. He was shot down and hidden by the Resistance. After the war he was allowed to remain in France because he wishes to marry a French girl. Always he wears a little pair of wings in his buttonhole.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I do not know. Perhaps he is proud to be a pilot. Perhaps to let people know he is one. Montelle was in the French Air Force. He, too, was shot down, and carries on his face a scar which he tries to hide with a beard.’

  ‘I’d like to see these two air operators. I have no excuse for landing at Chantilly, but there’s no reason why I shouldn’t have my evening meal at the bistro.’

  ‘Take care, mon ami. It is not a safe place for a man with money in his pocket — unless he is known as one of the crooked fraternity.’

  ‘I’ll look in this evening.’

  ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Matter of fact I haven’t worked that out yet. I may not have to do anything.’

  ‘Pourquoi?’

  ‘I’m wearing an RAF tie. That might serve as an introduction to Grattan if he’s there. You might ring Biggles for me and tell him what I’m doing.’

  ‘But certainly.’

  ‘Thanks, old boy.’

  With that Bertie departed. He had a good lunch and devoted the rest of the afternoon locating and surveying, from the outside, the bistro Marcel had named, The Black Fox. It was typical of such establishments, a few tables for meals with a bar on one side. Later he had a cup of coffee and waited for night to fall before proceeding with his scheme. In fact, he had no clear-cut plan beyond having a look at one or both of the men of whom Marcel was suspicious. For the rest he was relying more on chance to pick up information that might be helpful. In the event luck was with him, although what happened was perhaps a natural consequence of the situation.

  As it was still early there were not many people in the place when he entered, but by the time he had sipped a drink, smoked a cigarette, had seated himself at a table and was reading the menu — for he intended having his evening meal there — customers were arriving almost too fast for him to give them individual scrutiny.

  He gave his order to a weary-looking waiter and, still looking about him, was half-way through his meal when he noticed a man at the bar, whom he had not seen come in, taking more interest in him than seemed necessary. He thought he knew the reason when he saw in the man’s buttonhole a tiny pair of gold wings. It must be Grattan, he decided. He took no further notice, but as he sat lingering over his coffee the man appeared beside him, and seating himself remarked, in English:

  ‘Hello. I spotted your RAF tie. What are you doing in a dive like this?’

  ‘I’m minding my own business,’ Bertie told him coolly.

  ‘All right. There’s no need to be snooty. I served in the RAF. Staying long in Paris? I live here now, and might be able to give you some tips.’

  ‘Thanks, but I
shall not be here a minute longer than I can help. I’m on my way home.’

  ‘Then what are you doing here?’

  ‘Neither BEA nor Air France has a seat until tomorrow.’

  ‘What’s wrong with the night boat train?’

  ‘I’d rather not travel by train.’

  Grattan winked. ‘Got something in your luggage...?’

  ‘I have no luggage.’

  ‘Where have you come from?’

  ‘If you must know I ran into a spot of bother down south. I popped in here to be out of the way.’

  ‘What was the trouble?’

  ‘Read the papers and you may guess.’

  ‘So now you’re in a hurry to get across the Ditch?’

  ‘Don’t be so damned inquisitive.’

  ‘All right — all right. It merely struck me I might be able to help you.’

  Bertie frowned. ‘Why should you?’ Things were going the way he hoped, but he was anxious not to appear eager.

  ‘Got any money?’

  ‘What’s that to do with you?’

  ‘I could get you to England tonight, if that’s what you want. But I don’t work for nothing.’

  ‘And just how would you do that?’ inquired Bertie cynically. ‘You got a yacht or something?’

  ‘Better. I could fly you across.’

  ‘Don’t waste my time. In what?’

  ‘A plane. What the hell do you think? It happens I run an aviation business. I’m always willing to help an old comrade — for a consideration, of course.’

  ‘You’re not serious?’

  ‘Why should I waste my time fooling someone I don’t know?’

  ‘What do you call a consideration?’

  ‘Two hundred quid, English or French — it’s all the same to me.’

  Bertie pulled a face. ‘That’s a bit steep for a short trip.’

  ‘I don’t charge by the mile, but by the risks.’

  ‘Two hundred’s about all I have on me, and I’d need some of that when I got to the other side.’

  ‘If you care to wait till tomorrow night I’d do it for a hundred, flat. Fifty when we start and the rest when we’re across.’