“Dope.”
“What sort of dope?”
“The hard stuff. Heroin.”
This was an answer Ginger did not expect. He was shocked, but he tried not to show it.
“Zolton runs one gang. The men with him now are his personal bodyguard. He’s a Greek Cypriot. Leader of the rival gang is another Cypriot. Turkish. His name’s Alfondari. They hate each other’s guts over the troubles in Cyprus. They both run night clubs in London, but that’s only a cover for peddling dope.”
“If you knew about this why didn’t you inform the police?” Ginger said sternly.
“I didn’t know it when they offered me a job. Later, if I’d squealed, they’d have murdered me. Murder means nothing to them.”
Hearing a car coming behind them Ginger looked back and to his unbounded satisfaction saw Biggles’ old Ford car cruising along the road. He raised a hand. Biggles stopped, looking at Ginger inquiringly.
“You’d better hear this,” he said urgently. He indicated his companion. “This is the man who was shot yesterday. His name’s Varley. The gang’s after him. He’s ready to talk.” As briefly as possible he repeated what he had just learned.
All Biggles said was: “Get in. Both of you.” This done he drove on a little way and pulled on to a wide grass verge. Then, turning, he spoke curtly to the ex-R.A.F. man. “Go on talking.”
“Who are you?” was not the unnatural reply.
Biggles told him. “You’re in big trouble,” he went on. “Your only chance is to come clean. Were you in the mail robbery?”
“No.”
“Then where do you come into this?”
“My job was to fly a parcel to a cottage Zolton has near the New Forest.”
“And what about this drug racket?”
“Zolton was afraid to keep the stuff here for fear the police got a tip off and raided the house. So what he did was this. I don’t know where he got the heroin but having got it he used to post it by registered mail to an accommodation address, a little hotel in Bloomsbury called the Marquis. It was marked ‘to be called for.’ Then when he wanted it he’d go and collect it. The rival gang got to know about this and — ”
“Just a minute,” broke in Biggles. “There’s something I don’t understand. If Zolton expected a parcel of dope by post why did he bother to rob the mail?”
“There was a reason. He had a tip off from one of Alfondari’s gang that they were going to collect the stuff — beat him to the address in Bloomsbury Street. He daren’t risk losing the stuff because his customers would be clamouring for it. You know how they get when they can’t get it.”
“But surely Zolton could have waited at the hotel for the stuff to be delivered?”
“He daren’t risk getting a knife in his ribs. Alfondari had sworn to get him. That’s why he shuts himself up at Lotton Hall. That’s what the raid on the post-office van was about. It wasn’t so much the money. It was the dope Zolton was really alter. Having got the mailbag my job was to drop it at the cottage in the New Forest. There’s some open ground handy. Zolton didn’t trust the roads for fear of being ambushed by Alfondari’s gang. I took off from that big field near the Hall but I had to turn back with engine trouble. I ` daren’t land on an aerodrome because of what I had on board so I dropped the bag as near as I could to Lotton Hall. But the wind was tricky and I saw the bag fall in that little wood. I thought it would be easy to find. I just managed to get to the airfield at Sparham, where I buckled my undercarriage; so I had to leave the plane there. Then I hired a car to take me back to Lotton Hall. When I told Zolton and the gang what had happened they wouldn’t believe me. We looked for the bag but couldn’t find it. They think I’ve hidden it somewhere. Joe Chandler, one of the gang, lost his temper and shot me. Then I was taken to the Hall. They’re still looking for the bag.”
“What was the idea of the white kitbag?”
“Partly for lightness and partly because it would be easy to see in the dark.”
“How did the gang get in touch with you in the first instance?”
“When I left the R.A.F. I advertised in the papers for a flying job. Zolton sent for me and offered to take me on as his private pilot. I didn’t know then what I was letting myself in for. I hope you believe me.”
“I shall soon know if you’re telling the truth,” replied Biggles. “If we got Zolton and his gang would you be prepared to give evidence against them — bearing in mind that if they were behind prison bars they wouldn’t be able to hurt you.”
“Yes, after what they’ve done to me.”
“Then I can tell you they won’t find the bag in the wood. It was found by a man out for a walk. He handed it to the police. The registered mail was then delivered in the ordinary way. Zolton isn’t to know that. If` he did know it he’d expect to find the parcel of heroin waiting for him at the Marquis Hotel in Bloomsbury.”
“Of course.”
“In which case he’d go to collect it.”
“As fast as he could get there. His customers will be howling for it.”
Biggles thought for a moment. Then he said to Ginger: “Where’s Minnie?”
“I left him to explore the grounds round the Hall.”
“And Bertie?”
“He went to the spinney. According to this chap he got tangled up with the gang.”
“Okay, then I’ll tell you what I want you to do,” ordered Biggles crisply. “Go back to the spinney and get in touch with Bertie.”
Ginger looked surprised. “That means the gang will see me.”
“That’s what I hope. You can talk to them.”
Ginger looked even more surprised. “Talk to them? What about?”
“You can tell them the simple truth. What happened in the spinney. How the kitbag was found, taken over by the police who handed the mail over to the Post-Office for delivery. The mail has now been delivered.”
Ginger stared incredulously. “That’s what you want me to tell them?”
“Exactly.”
Ginger shrugged. “Okay, if that’s how you want it. Then what?”
“As it’s unlikely that the gang will have any further interest in you you’d better try to find Minnie and call him off from whatever he’s doing. He needn’t waste any more time scouting round the big house.
Then you might as well all come home.”
“And what are you going to do?” questioned Ginger, naturally.
“I haven’t time to go into details but I shall go back to the office taking Varley with me. I’ll see he’s safe. That’s all. I’ll drop you off as near as I can get to the spinney.”
When this had been done, for a minute Ginger stood on the road watching the rapidly retreating car. He realised Biggles had some scheme in mind but did not waste time trying to work out what it was. Still perplexed he set off along the hedge towards the spinney to carry out his orders.
Chapter Eleven
It was with some misgivings that Ginger approached the fringe of the spinney. If what Varley had told him about Bertie falling out of a tree was true, and he did not doubt it because that would account for the crash he had heard, it seemed likely that Bertie would find himself in trouble with the crooks he had come to watch. It may have been for this purpose he had climbed the tree, he reasoned.
With such thoughts in his mind Ginger pushed a way through the hazel scrub towards the bigger trees nearer the centre.
He had taken only a few steps when again he heard hurrying footsteps coming towards him. He guessed, correctly that this was the pursuit Varley had feared. In view of what he had been ordered to do he did not attempt to avoid being seen. A man appeared. He held an automatic pistol. Ginger recognised him as the smaller of the men he had seen the previous afternoon. This caused him no surprise.
The man pulled up short when he saw Ginger. In a brittle voice he snapped: “Have you seen a feller with a bandage round his head come this way?” Before Ginger could answer he went on, frowning with suspicion. “Why, you’re one of the lot who
was here yesterday.”
“What about it`?” inquired Ginger, curtly.
“What’s your game?”
“What’s yours?”
“Don’t try to get smart with me. You’re a pal of the bloke who wears an eyeglass.”
“So what?”
“Where are you going now?”
“What’s that got to do with you? Do you own this place?”
“Yes.”
“Then why didn’t you say so earlier? What’s the idea of the gun? You playing Cowboys and Indians, or something?”
“I’m not playing at anything, as you’ll find out if you give me any more of your sauce. Have you seen a feller with a bandage on his face?”
“I’ve only just arrived, so how could I see anybody?”
“What are you after?”
“If you must know I’m expecting to meet a friend here.”
“The nut with the glass eye?”
“That’s right.”
“What’s he up to?”
“Why not ask him?”
“What was he doing up a tree?”
“Frankly, I haven’t the remotest idea,” answered Ginger truthfully.
“Okay, if that’s how you want it,” growled the man. “But if you’ll take my advice you’ll clear out.”
“Why?” asked Ginger, blandly.
“You’ll find out.” And with that the man set off at a fast pace along the edge of the spinney.
Ginger watched him go. Then, with an uncomfortable feeling that Bertie might be in need of support he continued on his way. The sound of voices somewhere ahead guided him.
He decided to try to find out what was happening before exposing himself, wherefore he now advanced with increasing caution. He could still hear voices sometimes raised as if in argument, and thinking fast moved towards them. He had seen four men walking towards the copse. He knew two had left the party: Varley, with the bandaged head and the man who was evidently looking for him.
That left only two potential enemies with Bertie, should he still be with them. That meant that in the continued absence of the others the odds would be even. Two against two. So in the event of trouble he and Bertie should be able to hold their own. Unless, of course, the others carried guns. That, of course, would make things more difficult. Wondering what all the talking was about he held on his way, still taking precautions against betraying his presence.
When he arrived at the spot where the conversation was taking place, in a small clearing, peering through the undergrowth he observed a curious, but in view of what he had just been told, a not unexpected spectacle. Seated on the trunk of a fallen fir tree was Bertie, his eyeglass adjusted and wearing on his face an expression of placid unconcern. In front of him were two men, one standing in a threatening attitude and the other supported by a shooting stick. The first he knew from the previous afternoon. The big man — Corsini.
The other was a tubby little man with a sallow complexion he had never before seen, but who, he suspected, was the owner of Lotton Hall. Subsequently this was confirmed.
The subject of the conversation was soon revealed. Bertie was saying: “Forgive me if I appear a bit slow on the uptake, but by what sort of reasoning can you suppose I would know what was in your bally kitbag?”
“You found it, didn’t you?” challenged Zolton.
“Not me, personally. It was a pal of mine. When he showed it to me there was nothing in it. Not a bally thing. Not a sausage. That’s what I keep telling you. Don’t make me say it again.”
Zolton’s manner became confidential. “I’ll tell you what,” he said quietly. “Show us what you did with what was in the bag and I’ll give you a hundred pounds.”
“Would you, though, by Jove,” exclaimed Bertie. “You must want it pretty badly.”
“I do.”
“Must be something valuable.”
“Valuable to me.”
“I only wish I could oblige,” returned Bertie, sadly. “I could do with a hundred nicker. Who couldn’t? I’m sorry I can’t help you.”
“If you don’t know anything about it what are you doing here?”
“I find the solitude refreshing.”
“This is my property. I could sue you for trespass.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. You’d have to prove damage.”
“You are causing damage.”
“How?”
“By disturbing my pheasants.”
“Ah! This is where you come into my line of country,” declared Bertie, confidently. “If you want pheasants here you’d better see about getting rid of the foxes. As any gamekeeper will tell you, you can have pheasants or, if you like hunting, you can have foxes. You can’t have both. Foxes have a taste for pheasant — if you follow me.”
“When I want your advice I’ll ask for it,” said Zolton, coldly.
Bertie shrugged. “All right, all right. No need to get shirty. I’m only trying to be helpful.”
“What were you doing in that tree?”
“Watching the foxes. There must be an earth quite close. The vixen has cubs. Cubs are always hungry. Pheasants make a nice dish. Which is why, as I told you just now, a pheasant hasn’t much hope here of living to a ripe old age.”
Here the other man broke in. “How much longer are we to listen to this claptrap? Can’t you see this smart alec is making a monkey of us? You can take it from me, he knows plenty. What’s he doing here? Come to watch foxes? I’m not falling for that guff.”
Said Zolton, with a shrug: “Well, if he won’t talk I don’t see how we can make him.”
“Don’t you? I do. Just leave him to me. I’ll take that silly grin off his mug.”
At this critical moment, as things began to look serious and Ginger decided the time had come for him to reveal himself, the man who had recently spoken to Ginger on the edge of the wood rejoined the party. Fortunately he entered the clearing from the far side so he did not see Ginger lurking in the bushes.
“Did you get him?” asked Zolton quickly.
“No,” was the answer, in a voice bitter with disgust. “Not a sign of him. I don’t know where he could have got to, unless he thumbed a lift on the road. But I can tell you something.” The man nodded at Bertie. “There’s one of his pals here. I saw him hanging about on the edge of the wood. I couldn’t get much out of him. I told him his mate was here with you. He said he was to meet him here. Hasn’t he shown up yet?”
“No. We haven’t got much out of this one, either,” said Zolton, sulkily.
“It was his fault,” growled the big man. “If he hadn’t barged in Varley wouldn’t have got away. What are we going to do?”
“There’s no sense in hanging about here all day so we might as well forget it.” responded Zolton. .
“Not me,” spat the big man, named Corsini. “By the time I’ve finished with him his mother won’t know him.” As he spoke he took from his pocket, and put on his right hand, that brutal weapon called a knuckle-duster.
Ginger decided it was time he took a hand. He stepped into the clearing. “So here you are,” he said cheerfully to Bertie. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He looked around. “What’s going on here? Is there some sort of trouble?”
Bertie answered. “These unpleasant fellows want me to tell them what was in that kitbag we found — or something of the sort.”
“Then why don’t you tell ‘em?” returned Ginger, casually.
Bertie looked at Ginger blankly. “Tell ‘em? Why should I tell ‘em anything?” He was obviously, and understandably, astonished by Ginger’s suggestion.
“Well, if you won’t tell ‘em I will, if it’ll put an end to all this nonsense,” Ginger said. “There’s no secret about it, is there?” He looked at the others present and proceeded to carry out his mission as Biggles had ordered. “What is it you want to know?”
“We want to know what you know about this kitbag that was found here,” said Zolton. “How did you come to find it?”
“Oh that. We didn’t find it,” Ginger answered.
“Then who did?”
“Apparently some local naturalist who was pottering about here.”
“What did he do with it?” Zolton was now looking as if hearing the truth he couldn’t believe it.
“Well, I can only tell you what I’ve been told,” replied Ginger easily. “When he found it it was full of something, so, naturally, he opened the bag to see what it was.”
“What was in it?”
“You’ll never believe this,” declared Ginger. “It was mail. Registered mail, at that.”
“What did he do with it?”
“Told the police about it, of course.”
“Then what?”
“I gather they sent someone to collect it. A local copper.”
“What did they do with it?”
“Handed it over to the Post-Office for delivery.”
Zolton’s eyes narrowed. “How come you know all this?”
“Through the local police. You must have seen an officer here yesterday. He could have told you all about it, no doubt, had you
asked him. He’s been looking around to see if there’s anything else here.”
“How do the local police think the bag got here?” “I wouldn’t know, but if you asked my opinion I’d say they haven’t got a clue. I imagine they’re still trying to work it out.”
Bertie’s expression at hearing this recital of the facts from Ginger can be imagined. The others in the party looked equally dumbfounded by this simple explanation of what to them must have been a mystery.
Said Zolton: “Do you happen to know what the Post-Office did with all this mail?”
“According to my information they delivered it,” replied Ginger. “After all, what else would you expect them to do with it?”
This was evidently as much as Zolton wanted to know. He rose from his portable seat, folded it and beckoned to his companions. “Let’s get out of this,” he said tersely.
Garsen did not move. “What about these two?” he asked, indicating Ginger and Bertie. “I’ve got a feeling they could be coppers. I can smell a copper a mile off.”
“Oh, leave them alone,” answered Zolton impatiently. “If they were anything to do with the police they wouldn’t have said as much as they have.”
Biggles Does Some Homework Page 9