Biggles Of The Special Air Police

by W E Johns

  “But Marco,” pleaded Periera, “He will die. He must eat.”

  “I’ll take care of him,” answered Biggles. “He has done the mischief. Only he can undo it. You put him in his cage and maybe arrangements can be made for you to fetch him later. Meanwhile, we’ll send word round the district to let the natives know that the White Lion of Nagoma is on view—behind bars. That should bring them back.”

  Half an hour later, as Algy and Bertie marched off with their prisoner towards the hungalow, Biggles remarked to Ginger: “I agree with Periera; it seems a shame to bump off poor old Marco. After all, it wasn’t his fault. He must hate his coat of paint as much as anybody. No doubt it will wear off in time. He’s probably a gentleman compared with some members of the human species. What will they think of next?”

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  THE CASE OF THE REMARKABLE PERFUME

  As BIGGLES entered the office of his chief at Scotland Yard, Air-Commodore Raymond of the Air Section, his eyes rested for a moment on a small, lean, tired-looking little man who sat in the visitor’s chair. He noticed that his skin was of that curious pallor, a sort of neutral tint, that is so often the result of living in an unhealthy part of the tropics. An old felt hat rested on his knees.

  “Oh, Bigglesworth, this is Mr. Eustace Cotter,” introduced the Air-Commodore. “He was sent here by the Colonial Office. He’s in a spot of trouble. I’d like you to hear his story. We could then decide if it is possible for us to help him.”

  Biggles pulled up a chair, accepted a cigarette, and lit it. “Go ahead, Mr. Cotter,” he invited. “I’m listening.”

  The visitor cleared his throat. “I am, in the way of business, an explorer—or, if you prefer the word, a prospector,” he began. “That does not mean, however, that I am concerned only with gold or precious stones. The modern professional prospector has a wide range of commodities to seek, from base metal deposits to the plants and herbs from which many patent medicines are derived. It would be true to say that today everything has a commercial value. The only questions are the quantities in which the commodity exists and the transportation facilities available. For my own part I have specialised in the aromatic oils and gums from which most perfumes are derived—for which purpose, I should tell you, I am financed by the well-known firm of Goray. Perfume is a bigger business than is generally supposed, for it is used for a hundred purposes besides the common ones of scent, cosmetics, and toilet preparations. Every woman, and nearly every man, uses perfume in one form or another every day. You use it in your shaving-soap and your hair-cream. In short, we live in days when everything has to have a pleasant smell, and consequently the creation and production of basic aromas employ an enormous number of people. A good perfume, or better still, a new perfume, can be worth millions to the economy of a country that must export its goods, as we must, to buy food. I’m sorry to have to go into this, but it is necessary that you should understand that perfumery is not just a luxury trade. It is big business.”

  Biggles nodded. “I follow.”

  Mr. Cotter continued. “Now let us get on. Nearly all good perfumes are obtained from a vegetable base, from the essential oil extracted from flowers, leaves, the bark of trees, roots, and even the seeds of plants. Vanilla, for example, so popular as a flavouring, is derived from the seed-pod of a climbing variety of tropical orchid. The word itself is Spanish, meaning a little scabbard, because that is the shape of the seed-pod.”

  Biggles smiled. “I’ll remember it every time I eat an ice-cream,” he promised.

  “I will now come to the point,” went on the explorer. From his pocket he took a wallet. From this he selected an envelope, which yielded a piece of stiff white paper, folded once. This he opened to display what it contained. It was a small, insignificant flower, pale-blue in colour. A tinge of excitement crept into his voice as he inquired: “You don’t know what that is?”

  “It looks to me like a flower,” said Biggles simply.

  “It is an orchid.”

  “Okay,” agreed Biggles, without emotion. “If you say so, it’s an orchid. I’m no gardener.”

  “You may have difficulty in believing it,” said Mr. Cotter seriously, “but that flower is one day going to cause a sensation. It is worth to the country that first produces it on a commercial scale, at a conservative estimate, twenty million pounds.”

  “And how much do you, personally, get out of that?” inquired Biggles dryly.

  “Something, naturally, I hope,” admitted Mr. Cotter frankly. “Why, otherwise, should I risk my life looking for such things? But I shall not get as much as you may think.” A note of bitterness crept into his voice. “It is not the explorer, the man who usually dies on his job, who makes the money. It is the people who exploit what he discovers. But every explorer knows that from the outset, so he has really no cause for complaint. Now watch.” Mr. Cotter returned the wallet to his pocket and produced a small, screw-topped phial. “This is the seed-pod of the flower I showed you,” he said, unscrewing the lid and tipping three or four small brown objects into the palm of his hand.

  Instantly the room was flooded with the most wonderful fragrance.

  “Did you ever smell anything like that?” cried the explorer enthusiastically.

  Even Biggles was impressed. “Never,” he admitted.

  The explorer returned the phial to his pocket. “The firm that is first in the market with that perfume will take the lead over every competitor,” he asserted earnestly. “Every woman will want it.”

  “I imagine there is some difficulty about collecting this particular posy or you’d have had it in the bag by now?” murmured Biggles shrewdly.

  “Quite right,” admitted the prospector. “That plant grows in the heart of the South American jungle—to be specific, in the hinterland of British Guiana. Knowledge of it came to me first through native rumour. I spent two years of my life, and nearly ruined my health, finding it. It is the sort of thing every commercial explorer dreams of finding, but seldom does. Unfortunately, I located the plant at the wrong time of the year. The seeds were not ripe. Had they been, I could have brought them home and cultivated the flower under glass. In that way, I could at least have raised enough plants to establish my claim to the perfume. As it was, I was too ill to wait for the seeds to ripen. I collected a few roots, but they died before I could get them to civilisation. Now for the tragedy. I employed native bearers, of course. In charge of them was a half-caste named Ramon. I didn’t like the fellow from the start. Too late I realised that he knew more than he pretended and really joined my party for his own ends. He understood the value of what I had found, and deserted me as soon as we were within reach of civilisation. It has now come to my knowledge that he has approached a foreign firm, who have financed him to go back and collect seeds of my botanical treasure. What tale he has told them I don’t know; not the true one, I imagine. However, there it is.”

  “I see,” said Biggles slowly. “But this is British territory. Can’t the authorities there stop him?”

  “No. At least, I think it is very unlikely. The fellow knows the country too well. There would be no need for him to enter through Georgetown, the capital. He could get to the place via Brazil, or French or Dutch Guiana. The only way to beat him is to race him to the spot. No doubt he will travel in the orthodox way, overland, either through the jungle itself or by canoe on one of the several rivers.”

  “Ah!” murmured Biggles. “I get it. Your idea is to fly there and beat him to it?”

  “Exactly.”

  The Air-Commodore stepped into the conversation. Looking at Biggles, he said: “There is no doubt that Mr. Cotter has a commercial proposition of considerable importance to our export market. Both the Colonial Office and the Board of Trade have agreed on that. But they can do nothing about it. So they passed him on to us, presumably because, as we are the only Government department outside the R.A.F. with aircraft, we might be able to help.”

  “It’s hardly a police job,” obs
erved Biggles doubtfully.

  “At a stretch it could be made one, I think,” answered the Air-Commodore. “After all, this fellow Ramon was employed by Mr. Cotter. He broke his contract. The treacherous scoundrel has stolen something, and has sold it. In my opinion, stealing the fruits of the expedition makes him just as much a thief as if he had made off with a piece of equipment—a rifle or a canoe. And British Guiana is, after all, our territory. Ramon does not hold a Government licence to explore for profit, so he’s breaking the law anyway.”

  “I agree, if you put it like that,” answered Biggles. “For moral reasons alone the rascal shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. I’m all against rogues prospering.”

  The Air-Commodore smiled. “From which I take it that you’re prepared to make a trip to British Guiana?”

  Biggles shrugged. “I can’t say that flower-hunting is in my line, but if it will do any good I’ll have a go at it. Is Mr. Cotter prepared to come with us and show us the spot?”

  The explorer answered for himself. “Certainly,” he agreed with alacrity.

  “Fair enough,” continued Biggles. “In that case we’d better get to work right away on the practical side of the show.” He looked at the explorer. “I take it there is a place handy where an aircraft can be put on the ground?”

  “Not on dry ground, I’m afraid. But there is a lake. In fact, there is a string of lakes, much of the area being lowlying ground that drains mountain systems on either side.”

  The Air-Commodore got up. “Now that the project has been decided I think you’d better take Mr. Cotter up to your office,” he suggested. “You can take your time, there. No doubt he will give you all the information you need.”

  “Good enough,” agreed Biggles. “Come along, Mr Cotter. The sooner we’re airborne the better.”

  II

  Three days later a twin-engined “Scud” amphibian of the Police Flight made a landfall at Natal, in Brazil, having crossed the Atlantic on the regular track from Dakar, in West Africa. In it were Biggles, Algy, Bertie, Ginger and Mr. Cotter. After the usual formalities, and a meal, during which time the aircraft was refuelled, Biggles headed north, and late in the afternoon touched down on the airport at Georgetown, capital of the British colony of British Guiana.

  Mr. Cotter’s knowledge of the colony was now shown to advantage, and he was able to smooth out the inevitable minor difficulties, such as the importation of firearms. Ramon, he thought, should they meet him, would have native porters, and as these would probably be of a type similar to himself, trouble might be expected.

  Having parked their kit at the hotel where the party intended to stay the night, Mr. Cotter went off to make discreet inquiries about the traitorous halfbreed. He returned at sundown to report that he could get no news of him, from which it could be assumed that the man was keeping clear of the capital. There was good reason to hope, said the explorer cheerfully, that they were ahead of his renegade employee.

  Shortly after dawn the following morning, the Scud took off on the last leg of its journey to the objective, a matter of two hundred miles. Mr. Cotter now shared the cockpit with Biggles. An open map lay on his knees, although, as he said, the weather being fine and visibility good, be did not really need it; for they would for the most part have a dominant landmark in the broad Essequibo River, which, once the coastal region had been crossed, wound a sinuous course through the almost untrodden jungle that rolled westward to the horizon.

  Biggles was content to be within reach of the river. To make an emergency landing on it would be a perilous operation, but there would, at least, be a chance of survival. Elsewhere, there would be no chance at all.

  After a flight of rather less than two hours the explorer announced that one of several lakes that could be seen ahead was their destination. On the previous occasion that he had been there, he remarked with a smile, the journey had occupied him for the best part of two months. As they approached, he indicated the stretch of water on which he wished to land. Near by, in the surrounding jungle, grew the perfumed floral treasure. A game-track, he said, led to the more or less open savannah where the orchid flourished. The jungle itself was for all practical purposes impenetrable.

  In answer to a question from Biggles he said that, as far as he knew, there were no obstructions on the water likely to damage the aircraft in landing. Biggles was afraid of floating logs. Cotter put his mind at rest by asserting that most of the trees of the forest were of wood so hard that they would sink if they fell into the water.

  Biggles eyed with misgivings several large colonies of wading birds that occupied the shallows, notably some sort of scarlet crane, or heron. These did, in fact, rise in a spectacular cloud as the aircraft glided in; but by turning away Biggles avoided them without difficulty and continued to lose height. After a trial run he went in to a smooth landing. He went on slowly, watching the water closely, and presently brought the machine to a mooring a few yards from the bank, between some growths of a magnificent water-lily with leaves five feet across. He switched off and looked around. A sultry silence fell. The only sound was the occasional discordant cries from the brightly plumaged birds as they returned to their feeding-ground.

  “Wonderful!” exclaimed Mr. Cotter. “This flying certainly makes travel easy over this sort of country. I can’t imagine why I didn’t think of it before.”

  “It’s all right if you know where you’re going, and what you’re looking for,” answered Biggles. “But I’m afraid you’d find it a bit expensive to cruise around on the off-chance of picking up something worth while.”

  He joined the others in the cabin, where a picnic lunch had been laid out. As soon as it was finished Mr. Cotter announced his intention of completing his quest forthwith. He was flushed with excitement, and all agog to secure his prize; and as he said he knew just where it was, there appeared to be no difficulty about this. He expected to be away only about an hour; whereupon Biggles said that in that case, as they had ample daylight, they might as well go straight back to the coast afterwards. Although he had come prepared to stay for a day or two if necessary, there was no point in hanging about once the seeds of the orchids had been gathered.

  Shortly afterwards, therefore, Mr. Cotter, with a haversack slung over his shoulder, waded ashore. Ginger decided to go with him, both as a matter of interest and also to stretch his legs. He picked up a rifle, not so much because he expected that he would need it, as for the feeling of security it gave.

  Actually, having been in a tropical jungle on several occasions, in the walk that followed he saw nothing to excite his curiosity. One jungle, he was aware, is much the same as another. All are uncomfortable places. However, when, following the narrow game-track to which he had referred, Mr. Cotter led the way out of the heavy timber to some open country, this promised to be less uncomfortable than some. There were plenty of orchids of the common sort, but with these the explorer was not concerned. As they walked on he remarked: “It was unfortunate that Ramon happened to be with me on the last occasion that I used this path, otherwise he would not have known the exact habitat of the orchid. Usually, he stayed in camp, being lazy by nature. The crafty rascal must have had a shrewd idea that the orchid was about here. He knew what I was looking for, of course. Indeed, I made no secret of it.”

  Suddenly the explorer stopped, a hand raised. “Smell,” he requested, with a gleam in his eyes.

  Ginger caught a whiff of exotic fragrance. “Very nice,” he agreed, without, however, sharing his companion’s enthusiasm.

  Mr. Cotter strode forward. “Here we are!” he exclaimed, and unslinging his haversack started plucking at the plants with the glee of a schoolboy picking ripe apples.

  Ginger looked at the orchids, but finding them almost insignificant compared with most of their kind, soon lost interest, and making his way to a dry spot sat down to wait. They were, he reckoned, within a mile of the aircraft, so no possibility of danger entered his mind. The explorer had said that as far as he knew t
here were no natives in that particular district, probably on account of the hordes of mosquitoes that arose from the margins of the lakes at nightf all. Still, Ginger kept his eyes open; but all he saw to engage his attention for the next half-hour was a snake, which might or might not have been poisonous. He gave it the benefit of the doubt—not that it made any move to molest him.

  Mr. Cotter, smiling and triumphant, with a full bag of the aromatic seeds, had just announced that he was ready to return when, from the direction of the lakes, came the hum of an aircraft engine. It persisted for perhaps a minute and then cut out. Ginger paid little attention to it, merely remarking that he hoped everything was all right and commenting on the way the trees muffled the sound, giving the engine a curious note.

  Mr. Cotter, shouldering his bag, said casually that Biggles was perhaps moving the aircraft to a better mooring, out of the full glare of the sun—a reasonable suggestion. Nothing more was said, and presently they started on the return journey, well satisfied with the outcome of their quest.

  They had covered about half the distance when, rounding a tangle of undergrowth, they came suddenly face to face with two men, one white and the other brown, who were striding along the track. The surprise was mutual. Both parties pulled up short and regarded each other from a distance of ten yards. To Ginger’s subsequent mortification he did not grasp the situation as quickly as he thought he should have done. Moreover, he reprimanded himself bitterly for having lazily slung his rifle instead of carrying it in a position in which it might have been of use. The fact remains, he had still not moved when he found himself staring stupidly into the muzzles of two revolvers.