Biggles of the Interpol

by W E Johns

  ‘Of course. The Colonel rang me up and at my request sent the whole works to me. So far the story has been fact. We must now introduce a little surmise. We may suppose that the problem of this phoney Baron, or Prince, was to get certain stones, probably stolen, into this country without declaring them to the Customs people. He hit on the bright idea of loading cartridges with them, and sending them, with his guns, as registered luggage to Scotland. He got away with it, too, for as we know, they arrived. He followed, breaking his journey in London, where he took a room at the Crestata Hotel.’

  ‘You know that?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll tell you how we know, presently. That he did not go on to Scotland was due to the fact that during the night, in his room, someone slipped a stiletto into his heart. The Yard could find no motive for the crime and the murderer was never caught.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I remember the case.’

  ‘What we knew, but did not reveal to the Press while we were looking for the murderer, was that the dead man’s name was Zorrall, an international jewel thief. We suspected he had been stabbed by an accomplice whom he had double-crossed. The only clue we had to the murderer was fingerprints; there were plenty of those but they were unknown to us. They were small enough to have been made by a woman. This, and the fact that there were fingerprints at all, suggests an amateur did the job. Apart from us having no record a professional crook would have been more careful.’

  ‘What about the stones?’ asked Biggles. ‘Have they been traced?’

  ‘Yes. These stones on the table were part of the fruits of a robbery at the Villa of the Countess Castelano, on the Riviera, in the South of France. Zorrall must have done the job. Having prised the gems from their settings he hid them in the cartridges, got them out of the country as has now been revealed and followed on himself. Had he not been murdered he would have collected the stuff in Scotland and that would have been that. Someone in the know followed him, killed him, and ransacked his luggage for the jewels, without, of course, finding them.’

  ‘Was anyone suspected of the robbery at the time?’

  ‘The Countess’s maid, an elderly widow, was suspected of being concerned with it. But she didn’t do the killing because on the night in question she was certainly in France, and the fingerprints were not hers. So the story ties up pretty well — except that we haven’t got the murderer. Any ideas?’

  ‘Did Zorrall actually take part in the pigeon shooting at Monte Carlo?’

  ‘Yes. He’s a first-class shot.’

  ‘Then the accomplice, presumably the murderer, would know he had a pair of guns. Obviously he didn’t know where they’d gone, or not finding the jewels in London would have guessed they were in the gun case and followed the guns to Scotland. He must have wondered where those guns went, and as the recovery of the jewels has never been announced he will assume the stones are still with them. It’s likely that he’s still looking for them. Any mention of a pair of guns belonging to Baron Zorrall, therefore, should prove an irresistible bait to the murderer.’

  ‘How would you bring the guns to his notice?’

  ‘The most likely place for guns to be mentioned would be in the best sporting journals. There’s a chance that the murderer may watch such magazines. Our only chance of catching him now would be through those guns; and if he knew that Zorrall sometimes went to Scotland for the shooting it should narrow the field considerably.’

  ‘I follow your argument,’ said the Air Commodore. ‘What exactly would you do?’

  ‘I’d run an advertisement in the English and French sporting magazines, particularly those read in the South of France, to the effect that Baron Zorrall is requested to collect his guns from Colonel McGill, Tomlecht, Morayshire, Scotland, otherwise they will be sold to defray expenses. If the man who killed Zorrall sees that he’ll apply for the guns, or come in person to collect them.’

  ‘That’s assuming he has the money to pay for them. A pair of high-class guns are today worth from three to five hundred pounds.’

  ‘If he’s a professional crook, as we suppose, not having the money shouldn’t stop him. Knowing what the jewels are worth he’d take any risk to get them.’

  ‘Your plan means sending the guns back to Scotland.’

  ‘Of course.’ Biggles smiled. ‘It wouldn’t be much use inviting a murderer to come here for them. I’ll take them to Scotland myself if you like, and hang around for a bit to see if anyone shows up. A spot of Highland air wouldn’t do me any harm. You might have a word with Colonel McGill and put him wise as to what’s cooking.’

  ‘All right,’ agreed the Air Commodore. ‘It is, as you say, our only chance. If the scheme doesn’t come off it will have done no harm.’

  In planning to trap the murderer of Zorrall, jewel thief and smuggler, Biggles did not expect him to arrive immediately at Colonel McGill’s house in Scotland. He thought it far more likely that the man would make a written application for the guns, at all events in the first place, to confirm that they were really the ones he sought. What he would do then was an open question, and would probably depend on the man’s financial position. He would hardly expect the Colonel to send him the guns without either the money or some proof of his claim to them. If he could produce neither money nor proof, then he would, Biggles was confident, employ other means to get them. If, as was suspected, the man was a professional thief, this would not be difficult.

  It need hardly be said that to guard against accident the cartridges in which the gems had been hidden had been replaced by ordinary lead shot.

  Colonel McGill, who was now a party to the scheme, undertook to show Biggles any letters that came in answer to the advertisement about the guns. Biggles was sure — too sure, as it transpired — that such a letter would come; and for this reason, although he was staying with the Colonel, he was nearly taken by surprise when things did not pan out as he expected.

  The gun case, smothered with international hotel labels, was put on the cleaning bench in the gun-room, with game bags, cartridge boxes and the usual paraphernalia of such places, The gun-room, as is so often the case, was not actually in the house, but formed part of a separate building in the courtyard, just outside the back door.

  Rather than upset the household Biggles had elected to sleep in an unused ghillie’s bothy that was an extension of the gun-room. There was no connecting door. That is to say, in order to get from the bothy to the gun-room it would be necessary to go outside and enter it by its own door. Both rooms were fitted with electric light.

  Ten days passed without incident. No letter arrived. No visitor called, and Biggles was beginning to feel he was wasting his time when the trap was sprung in a manner that he had not foreseen.

  He had gone to bed as usual just before midnight after spending the evening with his host, talking mostly about shooting. Also, as usual, he was soon asleep.

  Some time later he awoke with the sudden start that is caused by a strange sound penetrating the unconscious mind. He was wide awake on the instant. What had caused the sound he did not know. All he knew was, something had awakened him, and as is usual in such circumstances he lay perfectly still in the darkness, listening intently. The silence was profound. A square of dim moonlight showed the position of the window.

  At last there came what he was waiting for: a repetition of the sound. It was very slight, but hard, as of metal on metal. It came, without doubt, from the room next door — the gun-room. He thought it might be a gamekeeper preparing for a night patrol but he decided to make sure.

  Getting up and slipping a dressing-gown over his pyjamas he moved silently to the door of the bothy and looked out. He could see no one. No light came from the gun-room window, which was of course significant, for an authorized person would certainly switch on the light. A few steps took him to the gunroom window. He looked in. Against the glow of an electric torch, near the bench, a figure was moving. On the bench lay the gun case, conspicuous by its many labels. It was open.

  With i
nfinite care Biggles moved on to the door. It was ajar. His hand felt for the electric light switch. At the click the room was flooded with light.

  The person at the bench spun round with a gasp of alarm, and Biggles saw, to his astonishment, that it was a youth of about sixteen. He wore a black beret. He looked terrified.

  ‘Who are you and what are you doing here?’ demanded Biggles sternly, for he knew the boy was not one of the staff. If he was slow in grasping the truth it was probably because he could not associate this frightened-looking youth with the sort of man he expected.

  ‘M... monsieur,’ stammered the boy.

  ‘Are you alone?’ rapped out Biggles, glancing around.

  ‘Oui, monsieur.’

  Biggles pointed to the gun case. ‘What are you doing with that?’

  The boy had difficulty in speaking.

  ‘Is that what you came here for — from France?’ went on Biggles.

  ‘Oui, monsieur.’ The words were hardly audible.

  Now this was not the sort of situation Biggles had anticipated, and he looked at the boy critically. ‘You don’t look like a thief,’ he opined.

  ‘I am not a thief, monsieur.’

  ‘Then what are you looking for? Could it be some — stolen property?’

  The boy made a gesture of resignation. ‘I see you know,’ he said simply. ‘I have done my best and failed. You must do as you wish with me.’

  Biggles pointed to a chair. ‘Sit down and tell me all you know of this — the truth.’

  There, in the gun-room, the boy told his story.

  For twenty years his mother, a widow, had worked for the Contessa Castelano. He, Pierre Pastor, a schoolboy at the time of the robbery, also lived in the villa. Everyone was happy until a man named Baron Zorrall had arrived on the scene. The Baron had taken his mother out and later asked her to marry him, to which, being in love with him, she agreed. He, Pierre, had never trusted the man, for, as he averred, why should this rich man want to marry an old woman? Suspicious, he had watched Zorrall, and when one day he had seen him take his guns to the station he knew he was going away, for they were addressed to a place in Scotland. The next day he saw the Baron’s luggage go, addressed to the Crestata Hotel, London; but he said nothing to his mother for fear of upsetting her.

  That afternoon the Contessa went to a party. Pierre’s mother had gone out to meet Zorrall by an appointment which he did not keep. The villa was empty. Zorrall knew that, and it was then the jewels were stolen. Pierre had no doubt as to who had taken them. Knowing where his mother kept her money he had taken it and followed Zorrall to London to make him give up the jewels.

  ‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘I was a fool. But my mother was in love with this villain and I hoped to avoid a scandal.’

  ‘How did you get into England at that time without a passport?’

  ‘I said my mother was in front. I had lost her. Seeing I was only a boy they let me through the barrier. I went to Zorrall’s room at the hotel, and found him there, opening letters with a knife. I asked for the jewels, saying if he did not give them to me I would tell the police. He hit me on the face many times. Then he took me by the neck and shook me. What could I do? He was a big man. I snatched up the knife and struck back at him. He fell on the floor. Swiftly I search his luggage. The jewels are not there. Then I know they have gone to Scotland with the guns, and as I cannot remember the address I must go home without them. To my mother I said nothing. She was ill with grief. She thought Zorrall had taken her money with the jewels.’

  ‘Did you know that Zorrall died from your blow?’

  Pierre’s eyes opened wide, horror dawning in them. ‘I did not know, monsieur, for I did not see the newspapers.’

  ‘Where is your mother now?’

  ‘She still works for the Contessa. So do I, saving my money to repay her. Always I read the papers to see if the jewels are found. They are not. But I see a notice about the guns. I remember the address, then, for it was the same that Zorrall had put on his guns when he went to London. I ask for a passport for a holiday in England for now I am old enough to have one. I come here. Now you know why, monsieur. What must I do?’

  ‘Tomorrow you will come with me to London,’ answered Biggles. ‘Later, the Contessa will have her jewels.’

  At Pierre’s trial, all the circumstances being known, it was held that he struck Zorrall in self-defence and was discharged.

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