by W E Johns
CONTENTS
THE CASE OF THE BLACK GAUNTLET
THE CASE OF THE MANDARIN’S TREASURE CHEST
THE CASE OF THE LOST SOULS
THE CASE OF THE TOO-SUCCESSFUL COMPANY
THE CASE OF THE WHITE LION
THE CASE OF THE REMARKABLE PERFUME
BIGGLES, THEN AND NOW
THE WHITE FOKKER
THE PACKET
J-9982
THE BALLOONATICS
THE BLUE DEVIL
CAMOUFLAGE
THE ACE OF SPADES
THE CASE OF THE BLACK GAUNTLET
“SORRY to seem unco-operative, but you can tell your Editor that for security reasons we don’t want any publicity. Good-bye.” Air-Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth hung up the telephone in the Air Police office at Scotland Yard and turned a mildly indignant face to Air-Constable Ginger Hepplethwaite, who was standing near him. “Some magazine wanted to make a photo-feature of us,” he explained.
“Anything wrong with the idea?”
“Plenty.”
Air-Constable Bertie Lissie chipped in. “But I say, old boy, you’d look top-hole in an illustrated magazine,” he bantered.
“I’m a policeman, not a film-star,” returned Biggles curtly. “There are crooks who would like to have photographs of us and our Operations Room,” he added.
Bertie whistled softly. “By Jove! I didn’t think of that. Of course, we may have enemies.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me,” answered Biggles dryly, turning to some mail that lay on his desk. He picked up a small parcel.
“That one is marked ‘Personal’, so I didn’t open it,” stated Ginger.
Biggles unwrapped the parcel. A dark object appeared. Everyone stared at it, Biggles included.
It was a black leather gauntlet.
Algy Lacey came in. “Hallo! What’s all this?” he inquired. “A present from a grateful client?”
Biggles smiled lugubriously. “One gauntlet? I happen to have two hands. What do I put on the other one?”
“Isn’t there a message with it?”
Biggles explored the wrapping-paper. “Not a word.”
“Are you sure it isn’t one of your own that you left somewhere?” queried Algy.
“If it were mine, I wouldn’t be likely to decorate it with this particular device,” returned Biggles, holding up the gauntlet, to reveal, on the back of it, a gold Swastika.
“Well, blow me down!” ejaculated Bertie. “Who’s your Nazi friend?”
“There was a time when a gauntlet was a challenge,” put in Algy. “It looks as if someone is after your blood. What d’you make of it? Have you seen this thing before?”
“Yes,” answered Biggles slowly. “It happens that I have. It was lying on the aerodrome at Marham, in Norfolk, during the war, when a squadron of American Fortresses was there. There was the skeleton of an aircraft, too, still smoking. As a matter of detail, I’d just shot it down.”
“What an extraordinary coincidence,” muttered Algy.
Biggles raised his eyebrows. “Coincidence? I don’t think this is coincidence.”
“Then what is it?”
“That,” answered Biggles thoughtfully, “is what I’d like to know. There’s a reason behind this. Maybe, if we have patience, we shall learn what it is.”
“Give us the gen about what happened at Marham,” suggested Ginger.
“That won’t take long,” agreed Biggles, reaching for a cigarette. “I’d been out, intruding, in my old Spitfire. Coming home with the engine running a bit rough I looked in at Marham to find out what was wrong. I struck a bad moment. The Yanks were just taking off when out of a low cloud-layer dropped another Spit. No one took much notice. We waited for it to land. Instead of landing it opened up its guns. Obviously, the pilot was a Nazi, flying a captured machine. I went up and knocked him down. He crashed on the runway. I went out with the Yanks to try to put the fire out; but it was no use. Curiously enough, one object had been thrown clear. It was a gauntlet—this one, or one exactly like it. I took it to be the fellow’s mascot. He deserved all he got, because the trick was one no decent pilot would play. That’s all there was to it, except that the Yanks very nicely wanted to give me a decoration, which got my name into print, much to the annoyance of the Higher Command, who, as you know, take a dim view of personal publicity.”
“One of the Yanks must have sent you the gauntlet for a souvenir,” averred Ginger.
Biggles shrugged. “Possibly. I don’t like souvenirs—not this sort, anyhow. There are some things I’d rather forget.”
At this juncture the intercom buzzed. Ginger answered, “The Air-Commodore wants to see you,” he told Biggles, as he replaced the receiver.
“I’d better go along.” Biggles dropped the gauntlet into a drawer and departed for his Chief’s office.
Entering, he found that the Air-Commodore was not alone. He had with him a tall, thinnish, middle-aged man, who rose with a smile of greeting.
Biggles returned the smile and held out a hand. “Well, well!” he exclaimed. “If it isn’t the Wizard himself!”
The Air-Commodore nodded. He, too, smiled. “Of course. I’d forgotten that’s what we used to call Gainsforth in the old days, when he ran the Photographic Reconnaissance Unit. He finished as a Group Captain, you know. He’s now in charge of the Crown Film Corporation.”
“Still taking photos, eh?” remarked Biggles,
“Yes, but not the same sort,” confirmed Gainsforth sadly. “Making mosaics of enemy airfields was easy compared with making films for a critical public.”
A curious, puzzled expression came over Biggles’ face. “By the way, weren’t you at Marham, in Norfolk, the day I shot down a Spitfire?”
Gainsforth nodded. “That’s right. I photographed the wreckage.”
Biggles was staring hard at the man. “What a queer thing coincidence is,” he muttered. “Believe it or not, I was talking about that very incident not five minutes ago.”
“How extraordinary!”
“Never mind about past history,” broke in the Air. Commodore. “Gainsforth has come here with a proposition. It’s a Crown Film job, so it’s okay with us if you’re interested. He’ll explain. Go ahead, Gainsforth.”
“It’s really very simple,” complied the photographic officer who was now in the film business. “I’ve been asked to make the most important air picture since The Lion Has Wings. If it’s up to standard it will be shown at the International Peace Film Festival at Geneva. A big prize is offered for the best film.”
“Good. I hope it keeps fine for you,” returned Biggles blandly. “What has this to do with me?”
“I’d like you to be the Technical Adviser of the air-combat shots.”
“Combat? I thought you said this was to be a peace film?”
“So it is. But it struck me that the most effective way of showing the value of peace might be to illustrate the heartbreak of war.”
Biggles nodded. “You may have something there,” he agreed. “So what?”
“I want you to help me to plan the most exciting and authentic air sequences ever filmed, and advise generally on Service details.”
“You don’t mean you want me to fly?”
“Not necessarily, although one or two demonstration flights might be useful.”
“Why pick on me? What’s wrong with getting a serving officer?”
“No use. The Air Council has ruled out the employment of active members of the armed forces.” Gainsforth studied Biggles’ face anxiously. “Come on, now! You can’t let an old comrade down. I promise you’ll find it quite exciting, and you’ll be in interesting company.”
“Meaning w
hat?”
“Well, Max Petersen, the stunt pilot, is in the show; and the girl who plays the leading part, the Nazi woman who loves war and suffers for it, is the top-line German film star, Thea Hertz. I had a job to get her, believe me.”
Biggles looked puzzled. “What’s the idea of using a German girl?”
“There were several reasons. In the first place, she’s a brilliant pilot. She was a professional test-pilot at one time. Secondly, she’s the big noise in Germany at the moment. Don’t forget the propaganda angle of the film. Part of the idea of it is to be a popular handshake between Germany and the Western Powers.”
Biggles shook his head. “I still don’t get it. Does this girl fly in the film?”
“Of course,” answered Gainsforth impatiently. “She flies a Messerschmitt 109. That’s the basis of the story. You can’t have a film without a girl in it, anyway.”
“I suppose you know your job,” said Biggles sadly.
“Don’t worry about Thea Hertz,” went on Gainsforth. “There’s no nonsense about her. Incidentally, she did a certain amount of work for the Americans during the war. She’s a fine actress, and will only work under first-class direction. How about it?”
Biggles tapped the ash off his cigarette. “All right,” he said quietly. “But I still think there’s something queer about this set-up.”
“Of course! Film making always looks daft to outsiders,” declared Gainsforth. “But wait till you’ve seen the finished job. It’ll be a sensation. As a matter of fact, it’s nearly finished. We left the war-flying stuff until last.”
“Okay,” agreed Biggles. “I’m no film expert, but I’ll do my best.”
“That’s the spirit,” cried Gainsforth, enthusiastically.
II
Biggles’ first visit to the film studios—temporary buildings set up near the hangars on a privately owned Essex airfield—did nothing to arouse his enthusiasm. Everything about the place, the curious people and their high-pitched conversation, struck him as unreal.
“The story runs from the time of chariots to aircraft,” explained Gainsforth, as they walked round. “Actually, we’re having to work on the beginning and end at the same time, because Petersen leads the chariot team as well as doing most of the flying. Ah! Here he comes now.”
Biggles found himself shaking hands with a keen-faced agile-looking young man of about his own build.
“Thea’s just coming along,” said Petersen. “I left her in the hangar doing something with the Messerschmitt.” He grinned at Biggles. “You must think this is a sort of madhouse. Still, on the whole, stunt flying is no more dangerous than test flying. Here comes Thea.”
It was with genuine interest that Biggles looked at the slim but rather masculine figure in flying kit that was moving towards them with an aloof yet purposeful poise. On being introduced, he came under the scrutiny of a pair of ice-blue eyes that seemed to appraise him with unnecessary candour.
When she spoke her voice was cool. “I am so glad we have a real war-pilot to advise us,” she said in perfect English, though with a slight American drawl. “It was only in those circumstances that I agreed to make the film,” she added, giving Biggles another glance, one that held a kind of cynical admiration.
Gainsforth broke in busily. “Okay, everybody. Let’s get cracking. I want to run over the scene where the Messerschmitt shoots up a line of dummy tanks. Max will fly the machine.” He went into technical details.
Biggles made some suggestions.
“That’s the stuff,” declared Gainsforth. “You’re going to be invaluable. Let’s go and have a look at the Messerschmitt, to make sure everything’s right, before Max takes off.”
“See you presently,” said the German girl, and walked away.
Gainsforth led the way to where the Nazi aircraft stood outside its hangar. As Biggles’ eyes rested on it, he stopped dead, staring.
“What’s wrong?” asked Gainsforth quickly. “Isn’t it the right type?”
Biggles pointed to a device painted boldly in black and gold on the side of the fuselage. It was an upraised gauntlet. “Whose idea was that?” he asked sharply.
Gainsforth laughed, unmirthfully, uncomfortably. “Oh, that? It gives the machine a sort of realistic individual touch, don’t you think?”
“Definitely,” agreed Biggles coldly. “But what I want to know is, how did it get there?”
“The Art Department painted it—on my instructions. Ah! I see what you mean. You saw the original, didn’t you, that day at Marham, when you shot down that Boche pilot?”
“I did.”
“I kept the gauntlet as a souvenir.”
“Oh, you did! Where is it?”
“In my office.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Okay.”
They returned to the office. Gainsforth produced a cardboard box and tossed it on the desk. “There you are,” he said casually. “It’s in there.”
Biggles opened the box. It was empty.
Gainsforth was walking away, but Biggles called him back, pointing at the empty box.
“That’s odd,” said Gainsforth, staring. “I kept it in that box.”
“Well, it isn’t there now,” said Biggles in a brittle voice. “What’s more, I didn’t think it would be.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Someone sent that gauntlet to me by post. Have you any idea of who could have done it?”
Gainsforth shrugged. “How should I know?” He smiled curiously. “You’re a detective. Work it out yourself. I must go. I can’t hold up production for a thing like a glove. Let’s go and watch Petersen. We can discuss the mystery later.”
“How many people have access to your office?” inquired Biggles, as they walked on.
“Lots. I don’t bother to lock it. Maybe you think I’m crazy, but that goes for most people who make films.”
Biggles said no more. He felt there was something odd about Gainsforth’s attitude; but it would, he thought, be unfair to upset the film simply because someone had sent him a Nazi gauntlet. He could not believe that the introduction into the picture of this sinister emblem was merely coincidence; but, if it was not coincidence, who was responsible and what was the real purpose of it? Gainsforth, he suspected, knew more than he pretended; but the man was obviously so taken up with his film that he was unwilling to start a discussion by divulging what he knew—if, in fact, he knew anything. Was someone, Biggles wondered, trying to sabotage the film, for political reasons? If so, how far was the saboteur prepared to go?
Biggles decided that before he did any demonstration flying he would get his ground staff to have a good look at the Spitfire—just in case there was any risk of structural failure.
III
The following morning, with the mystery of the gauntlet still unsolved, Biggles was back at the studios, for this was the day scheduled for the final all-important combat sequence. There was a good deal of activity on the tarmac. The Moth which was to serve as the camera-plane was standing near the Spitfire and the Messerschmitt that were to do the “fighting”. Two black camera-trucks, looking like futuristic ray-guns, manoeuvred experimentally. A fire-tender and ambulance stood by, engines already ticking over. Everything looked real—uncomfortably so, thought Biggles. Even the cans of films that technicians were handling looked like drums of ammunition.
Gainsforth came bustling up, using strong language.
“Now what’s the matter?” inquired Biggles.
“It’s Petersen.”
“What about him?”
“He hasn’t turned up. What can the fool be doing?”
“I wouldn’t know. Have you tried his hotel?”
“Of course. He isn’t there. They don’t know where he is. They say someone phoned him up late last night. He went out and hasn’t been seen since.” Gainsforth groaned and ran his fingers through his hair. He pointed at the sky. “Here
come the clouds. The Met. people at the Air Ministry say the weather may break any time now. If we don’t finish the job this morning, we shall miss the entry date for the Festival.”
“You’ll have to get a substitute pilot,” suggested Biggles.
“There’s no time for that. It would mean more rehearsals. Besides, he would have to be insured, and all that sort of thing. I gave Petersen everything he asked for; now he leaves me high and dry. Curse the fellow!” Gainsforth started, and looked at Biggles as if an idea had just struck him. “I wonder....”
Biggles knew what was coming. He looked at Gainsforth suspiciously. “Go on, finish it,” he invited sarcastically.
“I was wondering if you’d help me out of the jam by flying in Petersen’s place. You know just what we’ve got to do.”
“Why should I risk my neck for a strip of celluloid?” inquired Biggles coldly.
“Risk your neck!” Gainsforth looked incredulous. “Don’t say you’re losing your nerve!”
Biggles did not reply to the taunt. He was thinking fast.
A voice behind broke in. “Nerves? What is this talk? No one would question the famous Bigglesworth’s courage.” Thea Hertz walked up.
Biggles dropped his cigarette and put his foot on it. He did not like the trend of the conversation, but still he said nothing.
The film-star shrugged her shoulders. “If we do not finish today someone will have to take my place in the Messerschmitt,” she told Gainsforth. “I have to fill another contract in Germany in two days. You knew that from the beginning, yet you let the picture get behind schedule.”
“Okay—okay,” cried Gainsforth desperately. “Don’t rub it in. I was just asking Bigglesworth—”
“But why should he bother? What is so important to us means nothing to him.”
They were standing near the Messerschmitt. Thea Hertz leaned against the fuselage and allowed a casual finger to follow the lines of the black gauntlet.
Biggles stared. The curious thought struck him that the mystery of the gauntlet was on the point of being solved. He couldn’t imagine how. But he would soon settle the matter.
“All right,” he said curtly. “I’ll fly the Spitfire.”