Biggles of the Interpol

by W E Johns

  As they walked towards the aircraft Ginger went on: ‘Did Marcel give any particular reason for wanting us to go over? He’d been able to identify the machine and the pilot, so presumably the log books were there.’

  ‘No. But I gather from what he said that he suspects there’s something phoney about this crash. Apart from that, as the machine is one of ours, and had no business to be in France, he was bound to advise us. Had a French machine hit the deck on our side of the ditch I would have done the same thing. There are some queer goings-on nowadays, and the whole idea of Interpol was co-operation.’

  ‘Does he know what time this crash occurred?’

  ‘Apparently not. No one saw it happen. It was found by a farm labourer going to work shortly after daylight. It must have been there most of the night. I mean, if the Tiger left the ground at eight and flew straight there, as for the sake of argument we will assume it did, it must have hit the ground somewhere about ten. The engine was stone cold when Marcel got to it, anyway. I don’t mean hit the ground literally. It ran head-on into a tree, which makes it look as if the pilot made a boob and overshot. He must have hit the tree pretty hard, too. Crayford was flying from the front seat, and the fuselage was so telescoped they had a job to get the body out.’

  ‘That looks queer in itself — unless Crayford was drunk, or blind.’

  ‘He may have dropped off to sleep. That’s happened before today. I once did it myself on a long night run. I might never have known about it had I not had a dream. It may only have been for a few seconds, but when I realized what had happened it shook me to no small order. Luckily it was a calm night and the machine was still on course. Here we are.’

  An hour and a half later, shortly before ten o’clock, after circling round the little crowd that had gathered near the crash, Biggles landed, taxied on to where Marcel stood waiting, switched off and jumped down.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ he greeted, as they shook hands. ‘Any developments?’

  ‘Non.’

  Biggles indicated a significant-looking blanket near the crash. An ambulance was parked beside it. ‘Is that the body?’

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘What’s the idea of keeping it here?’

  ‘I think you might like to see it.’

  ‘That’s not a nice way to start the day on a fine morning. Have you a particular reason for wanting me to see it?’

  ‘Yes. We may need supporting evidence, mon ami, and we cannot make evidence of what we have not seen.’

  ‘What about the doctor? Is he here?’

  ‘He has been, but must go because he has ill people to see.’

  ‘He gave you a certificate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What does it say? If you tell me I shall know what to look for.’

  ‘The pilot he is dead because the bone at the back of his head — how do you call it?’

  ‘Skull.’

  ‘Exactement. It is broken. Crushed like an egg which is dropped.’

  ‘Did you say the back of his head?’ Biggles was looking at the crash.

  ‘Oui. The back. So you think that is extraordinaire, hein?’

  ‘I’d say it’s more than extraordinary,’ answered Biggles slowly.

  ‘That is what I think. And that is why, because this is an Englishman, I ask you to come quickly. All the men I have seen who die by running fast into a thing that is hard break the front of their heads. In an aeroplane there is glass in the face where it hits the instruments, because when the plane stops suddenly the pilot goes forward, not back. And as you see, this plane she stops very sudden — pom. This poor man dies not from the crash but because his skull is broken by a blow from behind.’

  ‘You mean — there was someone in the back seat?’

  ‘That is it.’

  ‘But wait a minute. There was no one in the back seat when the machine hit the tree or he would have been hurt. I doubt if he was in the machine at all.’

  ‘So! Now we have a mystery.’

  ‘I’ll tell you something else,’ said Biggles, lighting a cigarette. ‘This man Crayford was a pilot of experience. For three years he flew in the R.A.F.. Therefore he must have known what every pilot knows, that it is better in case of collision to let the wings take the shock and so save the fuselage in which he sits. Why did this man apparently go to great pains to ram his nose into the trunk of a big tree at high speed? It would have been better to turn, even though he wrenched off the undercarriage.’

  ‘He did not ram the tree, which he must have seen if he is alive, because he is already dead. Dead from a strike on the back of the skull.’

  ‘That,’ said Biggles, ‘is the answer. The only answer. The answer I would expect from an intelligent detective like Marcel Brissac.’

  ‘Merci, monsieur. Now tell me, old dog, what happens here last night?’

  ‘After taking off, solo, in England, Crayford must have landed somewhere and picked up a passenger, one who was able to fly an aeroplane. As he had no licence he would not have been allowed to take off with one. In the air this passenger hits Crayford on the head with enough force to kill him. Perhaps he only means to stun him, but he kills him, so he must have struck hard. Having killed his pilot he flies this way, perhaps following the line which he would see plainly, until he has only enough petrol left to make a landing. Here is a big field — perfect. He lands. But he cannot leave the machine in the field with a dead man in it. It must look as if the pilot is killed in a crash. So he takes the machine near to this tree, opens the throttle wide and jumps off. When he goes away he leaves what he hopes the police will think is a genuine crash. Maybe he doesn’t know that there are now police who also have experience of aviation.’

  ‘That is the story,’ confirmed Marcel. ‘Now we must find this passenger who is a murderer.’

  ‘That shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘France is a big country, mon ami, and our man has a long start.’

  ‘The machine left the ground at eight o’clock last night. If we work on the assumption that it flew straight here, and we can do that as the murderer, by using all his petrol, clearly wanted to get as far south as possible, the landing here must have been made about ten o’clock.’

  ‘Which means that our man may be hundreds of kilometres away by now.’

  ‘How far he has got will depend on the mode of transport he employed. If this was a rendezvous, and someone met him here, he may be difficult, but by no means impossible, to find.’

  ‘He could be out of France by now,’ put in Ginger.

  ‘He could, but I don’t think he will,’ answered Biggles. ‘He would be taking a desperate risk if he tried it. No, he won’t try to leave France — not just yet, anyway.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten that in order to cross a frontier you must produce a passport, which is checked by the passport officers of both the countries concerned — the country the traveller is leaving and the one he is entering.’

  ‘The murderer may have a passport.’

  ‘Even so he’d be a fool to show it. Having made an illegal entry into France it will show no Entree stamp, with the date. How could he explain that? His nationality doesn’t alter the case.’

  ‘Bon,’ came back Marcel. ‘We find this man with a passport that is more dangerous than no passport at all. Now tell me, old fox, where shall I start?’

  ‘If the man wanted to go south by the quickest means available there’s the main line railway nice and handy. That might be the very reason, to be near the railway, that he chose this field. Suppose we have a word with the stationmaster, or the booking-clerk, at the station over the way? There can’t have been many passengers demanding tickets from such a small station during the night. He may remember some of them. Let’s go over. You can ask the questions, Marcel.’

  After telling the driver of the ambulance to remove the body of the dead airman, and leaving a gendarme in charge, Marcel led the way to the station, a mere ten minutes’ walk.
Having found the chef de gare, who happened to be in the booking-office, he proceeded with his questions.

  These produced the results Biggles had anticipated. Three tickets only had been issued during the night; two to people known to the booking-clerk for the next station down the line, and the other to a stranger, for Nice, on the Riviera. The clerk remembered this man well, for he had had to wait a long time for his train. They had spoken, and he had observed him closely, as is the way of country people, particularly as in this case the traveller spoke like a foreigner. An Englishman, he thought, from his accent. They seldom had tourists there and the clerk had wondered what he was doing. In fact, he had asked him, but received only a vague reply. He described the man as fair, well-built, about thirty years of age. He wore a check tweed cap, a light waterproof, and carried a leather portfolio. He had arrived, and asked for a ticket, at about half past ten.

  Questions now turned to the times of trains.

  ‘From this station the man would catch only a slow train?’ said Marcel, to the stationmaster.

  ‘Certainly, monsieur. In any case, the Rapide and the Train Bleu had already gone through. The expresses do not stop here.’

  ‘At what time would he arrive at Nice?’

  The stationmaster looked it up. ‘At four o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘He might not go through to Nice,’ Ginger pointed out. ‘He could get out, say, at Marseilles.’

  ‘That is possible,’ conceded Biggles. ‘But there would be a big difference in the fare between Marseilles and Nice, and if he booked to Nice the chances are that he intended going there. Being one of the largest cities in France it would be a good place to lie low, if that’s the intention. Anyway, it’s doubtful if we could get to Marseilles before him but we could certainly beat him to Nice. How about it, Marcel? Shall we fly down? To catch him coming off the train would be easier than looking for him later, when he has established himself in some small hotel or apartment.’

  Marcel agreed, so having thanked the stationmaster for his assistance they returned to the scene of the crash.

  ‘We might as well all fly down together in my machine,’ suggested Biggles, and again Marcel concurred.

  ‘I will give orders that nothing here is to be touched,’ he said. ‘There should be fingerprints, perhaps on the joy-sticks. If those of the gentleman who goes to Nice are found also on this aeroplane he will find it not easy to explain how it happened, eh, old fox? Voilà! Let us go.’

  They took off and headed south. Landing only once, at Bron airport, Lyons, for fuel, they arrived at Nice nearly an hour before the train was due. In fact, they thought they saw the train approaching Cannes, Biggles having deliberately gone a little out of his way to strike the coast west of Nice and so follow the railway to the objective. From the big modern airport of Nice a taxi took them to police headquarters, where Marcel, having explained the situation, was able to enlist the services of two gendarmes should they be required.

  And so it came about that when the long train, grimy after its journey from Paris, drew into the vast station, five people were waiting at the barrier, the two uniformed policemen standing a little back from the others.

  As they stood there watching the passengers alight Ginger could imagine what a shock was in store for the man they sought should he be among them, for by this time, having put many hundreds of miles between him and his victim he would be, not without reason, congratulating himself on a clean get-away. The odd thought struck Ginger that the man who had used an aeroplane to commit a crime was now likely to be brought to justice by the same means.

  Most of the passengers had passed through the barrier, and Ginger was beginning to wonder if their scheme had after all misfired, when Biggles said quietly: ‘Here he comes.’

  There was no mistaking the man, for the description they had been given fitted in every detail. Swinging the portfolio, his light raincoat over his arm, he approached the barrier with the confidence of one who hasn’t a care in the world.

  Marcel allowed him to pass through, surrendering his ticket, and then touched him on the arm. ‘Excuse me, monsieur, but may I see your passport?’ he asked politely.

  The man’s expression changed. The confidence gave way to an anxiety he was unable to conceal. ‘Why do you want my passport?’ he asked, shortly.

  ‘A matter of formality, monsieur. We are police officers and we are looking for someone.’

  The man — they still did not know his name — produced a blue and gold British passport from his pocket.

  Marcel took it, turned to the photograph on the first page and compared it with the face watching him.

  ‘You are Monsieur George Bardello?’ said he.

  ‘Yes.’

  Marcel went through the visa pages. ‘When did you enter France, monsieur?’

  ‘Er — yesterday.’

  ‘How is it that your passport carries no stamp of entry?’

  The man must have realized then that he was trapped. The colour fled from his cheeks, leaving them ashen. ‘No one — no one has asked me for my passport,’ he stammered, although he must have known that he could not hope to get away with such a flimsy excuse.

  ‘I wonder how that could have happened,’ said Marcel, blandly. ‘May I see what you have in your portfolio?’

  That did it. For a second or two Bardello, his lips compressed, stared at Marcel as if trying to read from his expression how much he really knew. Apparently he decided, from the attitudes of the three men confronting him, that he was trapped, and made a desperate bid to escape, hurling himself at his accusers. He broke through them, too, but only to find himself in the grip of the gendarmes, who acted with a speed which showed they had been ready for just such a move. Then, as if realizing that his case was hopeless, he allowed himself without a struggle to be led to the waiting police car.

  Marcel picked up the portfolio, which had been dropped, and opened it., Without a word he showed the contents to the others. It was stuffed with bundles of English one-pound notes.

  Biggles nodded. ‘I thought it might be something like that,’ he said quietly. ‘We shall soon know all about it. He’ll talk when he sees he’s beaten. I know the type. I’ll leave you to take care of him until we can get home and send over extradition papers. In a simple case like this it shouldn’t take long.’

  Biggles was right when he said he thought Bardello would talk. Caught with the proceeds of a mail-bag robbery on him and with his fingerprints on the joystick of the crashed Tiger Moth, he broke down under questioning and confessed.

  An ex-air gunner of the R.A.F., in which he had served with Crayford, he had on his discharge drifted into crime to become a member of a London gang of car bandits. These he had double-crossed, bolting with the proceeds of a mail-van robbery. Aware that their revenge would be swift if they caught him, his problem then had been to get out of England. He had gone to Holmwood, purely by chance, in the hope of stealing an aircraft. There he had seen, and renewed acquaintance with, Crayford. It was then that this plan had been conceived. He had asked Crayford to give him a ‘flip’ for old times’ sake. Crayford had pointed out that he was not yet qualified to carry passengers; but, foolishly, and fatally as it transpired, he had allowed himself to be persuaded into a breach of regulations by picking up his passenger in a near-by field.

  As soon as they were in the air Bardello had struck his pilot on the head with his revolver, which left him in possession of the aircraft, with what result we know. All that remained was to fake the crash, a scheme that might well have succeeded had it not been for the swift action and co-operation of the Air Police.

  Bardello declared that he had no intention of killing Crayford; his intention had been merely to stun him. But this, from a man with a criminal record, cut no ice with a hard-headed jury, and in due course the man who was both thief and murderer paid the usual penalty.

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  THE MAN WHO CAME BY NIGHT

  It was a phone call from Inspector G
askin, of Scotland Yard, that took Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth and his police pilot Ginger Hebblethwaite to the North Hampshire village of Shotsey. They met the Inspector, with the local police sergeant at the churchyard gate.

  ‘I thought you’d better have a look at this,’ the bowler-hatted Inspector told Biggles. ‘It looks to be up your street.’ He led the way to a small isolated building.

  ‘What’s this place?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Mortuary.’

  ‘Nothing nasty, I hope?’

  ‘It might have been worse,’ stated the Inspector, as the sergeant unlocked the door. They went in.

  On the bench lay the body of a slim, good-looking lad of not more than seventeen or eighteen. On a side-table lay the clothes he had presumably been wearing when he had met his death. Conspicuous were a flying jacket, cap and goggles. Water dripping from them had formed a puddle. On the floor lay a mass of wet rag that was clearly an unfurled parachute.

  ‘Where did you find this?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘In the lake, in the park opposite,’ answered the Inspector. ‘Property of Colonel Linder. His hobby’s fishing. Once every so often the lake’s drained to clean out the pike that eat the trout. The gamekeeper did the draining, which simply meant opening a floodgate at the lower end. This lay on the mud. He fetched the police sergeant. The county police called me. Seeing it was a flying job I called you.’

  ‘Have you identified him?’

  ‘No. He isn’t British. At least, no one’s missing in this country. The only thing he had on him was this. It was in a ticket pocket. Might have been a lucky charm or something.’ The Inspector showed a French fifty-franc piece through which a hole had been punched. ‘He must have deliberately removed all marks of identification.’

  ‘Which means he knew he was taking a chance on something.’

  ‘He knew all right.’ The Inspector picked up a haversack, obviously heavy. ‘This is what he had on him — probably helped to drown him. Nice little lot of expensive Swiss watches. Must be two or three hundred.’