Biggles signalled to Bertie to cut the engines. "There we are," he said with satisfaction in his voice. "I don't know any surface vehicle that makes a track as wide as that. It could only have been made by an aircraft and a big one at that. Take the measurements, Ginger."
Brand was staring like a man who has difficulty in believing what he sees. "I thought I knew something about tracking, but that's a new one on me," he muttered. "What's Joe after?"
The black was running through the settling dust to intercept what appeared to be a small white butterfly that had been blown high into the air. It fell on a clump of salt-bush. He picked it off with great care, came back, and showed what he held in the palm of his hand. It was a tiny piece of tissue paper, perhaps three inches long and a quarter of an inch wide. There was some printing on it in pale blue ink. Biggles took it, and turning it over revealed that it was in fact a tiny paper tube, sealed at both ends, although it had been torn across the middle.
"What the dickens is it?" asked Ginger in a mystified voice.
Biggles read the printing aloud. "Favor-Paris. Cure-Dents Sterilise. Hotel de Paris. M.C."
Brand looked at Biggles. "Does that mean anything to you?"
"Plenty," answered Biggles. "I'd have come from England for less."
"But what is it? What can that scrap of paper tell you?"
"It tells me," replied Biggles, "that at least one of your crooks was a foreigner. He was recently in Monte Carlo. Also, he has the rather unpleasant habit of picking his teeth."
Brand blinked. "Are you kidding?"
Biggles shook his head. "This is no time for fooling, Brand. This scrap of paper contained a sterilized toothpick which was made in Paris. In France, where tooth-picking after a meal is a common practice, toothpicks are either to be found on the tables of the big hotels or will be supplied on request. This particular specimen was supplied to a Hotel de Paris, of which there are several in France. But the most celebrated Hotel de Paris is in Monte Carlo, hence the letters M.C. Your bandits, Brand, were no local bushrangers. So much, at least, we have
discovered. What's Joe got now? He's just picked something up. The draught we made seems to have uncovered more than tracks."
Joe, who had been nosing about where the soft sand had been cleared, came back with a button. There was nothing remarkable about it. It appeared to be an ordinary button from the cuff of a man's jacket. The colour was greenish-grey.
"You're doing fine, Joe," Biggles told him. "Go ahead and find some more."
Joe did his best while the others watched; but there was nothing else.
An hour was spent surveying the site of the tragedy. In the middle of the track was a large hole. Around it lay scattered the wreckage of the ill-fated jeep. The footprints to which Brand had referred were still there in a well-trampled area, where presumably the bandits had unloaded the gold.
"I think it's all fairly clear," said Biggles. "The plane landed some distance away and unloaded the gunmen. They took up positions in the bushes. When they had done their dirty work the plane came over and landed where we found its tracks. With the gold loaded up it took off. Where it went is anyone's guess. It could be anywhere in the world.
Sooner or later, no doubt, it would make for Europe, where there is a ready market for gold —and no questions asked."
"What are you going to do next?" inquired Brand.
"As there's nothing more we can do here we'll take you home and then start back for England," answered Biggles. "We shall refuel at Darwin and perhaps spend the night there. I'm well satisfied with the results of the trip. I'm much obliged to you for your help, Brand."
Thus it was decided. Biggles took the mine manager and his tracker back to Barula Creek, and stopping there only long enough for a cup of tea, took off again and headed north.
"What did you make of that wheel track?" Biggles asked Ginger as the Wellington droned on over the dreary waste.
"I've no figures on me, but I'd say it was made by a D.C.3 fitted with a tricycle undercart,
" answered Ginger. "I can check up when we get home."
"That's, what I think," replied Biggles. "Which means that the track could have been made by the machine Marcel told us about. Unfortunately, as there must be thousands of D.C.3s in service, in one part of the world or another, it doesn't help us much in the way of identification. More than one may have been fitted with a tricycle undercarriage. We'll go into that when we get back."
"Such a machine would be just the job for air pirates," opined Ginger. "Surely the one that came here must have refuelled somewhere?"
"We can make inquiries as we go home," rejoined Biggles. "Mind you, with nothing much to carry it would have a big endurance range, particularly if it was fitted with spare tanks. We'll ask Darwin if they've any record of such a machine."
"What about this dud newspaper reporter? Where did he come from? A small machine like a two-seater must have refuelled all along the line, unless it was bought in this country."
"We'll check up on him, too," promised Biggles. "If he was genuine it should be an easy matter to find out the name of the newspaper that financed him."
The sun was well down when the Wellington reached Darwin, where Biggles had decided to refuel and spend the night in order to start fresh on the long journey home. He had just switched off when an exclamation from Ginger brought his head round. "What is it?" he inquired.
Ginger pointed to a small machine standing on the tarmac. "That answers to Brand's description of the newspaper man's plane," he said tersely. "That's an Aeronca —
American. Look at the colour. I'd call that brownish-green."
"By Jove! You're right," returned Biggles. "This is where we start asking questions."
They all walked over to the control office, where they were greeted by a flight officer named West, whom they knew because Biggles had shown him his credentials on the way out.
"Any luck?" inquired West, as they drew near.
Biggles pointed to the Aeronca. "Who does that machine belong to?"
"Len Holmes."
"Who's he?"
"He runs a little flying-school here, and a fly-yourself service. There he is, just going to pull the Aeronca in." "I'd like a word with him. Will you call him
over?"
"Sure." West whistled, and beckoned. Holmes came across, and Biggles was introduced.
"Bigglesworth runs the Air Police in England," explained West. "He wants to ask you about that Aeronca of yours."
"I bought it," declared Holmes, looking indignant. Biggles smiled. "I'm not accusing you of pinching it.
Tell me this. Did you by any chance hire out that
machine about a month ago to a little dark chap?" "Newspaper man?"
"That's right."
"I certainly did," stated Holmes. "I'm not likely to forget him. He said he'd only be gone an hour or two, but he was away all day. I thought he was down in the bush, and was just going out to look for him when he rolled up. He said he'd had a spot of engine trouble but had managed to put it right. Sounded a funny sort of tale to me."
"What was his name?"
"Canton. At least, that was the name on his licence. I had a look at it, you may be sure. If I remember right, it was issued in 1939. He was a chap about thirty-five, I'd say."
"Was this a Royal Aero Club ticket?"
"Sure it was—a B Licence, too. If he was good enough to fly for hire in England that was good enough for
me."
"Where did he come from? I've a reason for asking these questions."
"I don't know. He rolled up on a motor bike and said he just wanted to put in a bit of flying time for practice. He seemed to have plenty of money."
"Did he pay you himself, or did he ask you to send the bill to his paper?"
"He paid me himself, in cash."
"And he gave you the impression that he was just having a joy-ride on his own account?"
"Yes."
"At Barula Creek," said Biggles slowly
, "he led them to believe that he was on a job for his paper."
Both Holmes and West stared. "So that's where he went?" burst out Holmes.
Biggles nodded.
"By thunder! No wonder he wanted to make sure his tanks were topped up!"
"Even so, it's hard to see how he could have got to Barula Creek and back," said Biggles quietly.
Holmes looked nonplussed. "He couldn't have done it," he declared. "His tanks were half-full when he got back. If he went to Barula Creek he must have got some more petrol from somewhere, and there's no pump that I know of in the outback."
"There's only one way he could have got it," said Biggles.
"What do you mean by that?"
"The Aeronca wasn't the only machine in the outback that day."
West clicked his fingers. "That's it! " he cried. "Funny you should say that, because it throws light on something that's puzzled me a lot. My guess is the other machine was a
"Have you seen one?" asked Biggles sharply.
"I sure have," declared West. "A D.C.3 went over here one day without calling. That's unusual, because
practically every machine coming from the north puts in here to refuel. This one went right on. In fact, it seemed to sheer off. It was pretty high, so thinking the pilot might have lost his way, I signalled all stations to be on the look-out for him. I also tried to make contact with the machine, but if he got my signals he didn't answer. As far as I can make out he didn't land anywhere. At least, I've had no record of a landing. I said to myself, well, if he's down, he's down. We can't search the whole blooming continent every time a chap gets off his course."
"He made no signal?"
"Not a squeak."
"But if he was lost he'd have asked for his position." "You'd think so. Anyway, he didn't call, so it was really no affair of mine."
"You didn't happen to notice if this kite had a tricycle undercart?"
"No. He was too far off."
"Hm," mused Biggles. "Did you see anything more of this chap Canton?"
West answered. "No. When he didn't come to my office I tried to find him. He should have signed my book."
"So you don't know where he went?"
"I haven't the foggiest. He just faded away. I've still got a blank space in my book." West frowned. "D'you think he had anything to do with the gold robbery?"
"Could have," answered Biggles non-committally. "But say nothing to anyone about that.
I'd like you to do this for me. If either of you see or hear anything of this D.C.3 again, or this fellow Canton, I wish you'd let me know. A cable to Scotland Yard will find me."
The two men agreed.
"Thanks very much, chaps, for being so helpful," said Biggles. "We shall stay the night.
In the morning we'll top up and start for home. Meanwhile, mum's the word.
So long." With the others he walked towards the airport exit.
"The pattern of this business begins to take shape," he resumed, as they walked on. "
Marcel seems to have been on the track, too, with his story about that D.C.3 that no one owns. As I see it, what happened was this. The bandits came here in a Douglas D.C.3.
This fellow Canton was one of them. They came from the north. They made the usual landfall, Port Darwin, to check their bearings, but they didn't stop. Apparently having plenty of petrol, they landed some distance on, well inside the country. Having parked themselves Canton unloads a motor bike and slips into Darwin to hire a machine. He couldn't get all the way to Barula Creek on a motor bike, for obvious reasons. Having hired the Aeronca., he flew to the mine, where, acting as a newspaper reporter, he got the information he needed. He then flew the Aeronca back to Darwin, refuelling at the Douglas on the way. He probably got petrol from the Douglas going both ways. Anyway, he knew where he could get petrol if he wanted it. He then returned to the Douglas on his motor bike. The big machine then moved nearer to the place decided on for the ambush.
It all worked out as planned. After the jeeps had been shot up the Douglas was brought right in to where I landed the Wellington this morning. The gold was loaded up, and away it went. They probably reckoned on their engines smothering their landing-track with sand. No doubt they hoped that no one would associate an aircraft with the job. It was the last thing to occur to Brand, as you may have noticed. When you come to think of it, it was all very simple. It could hardly go wrong. Where these thugs have gone is anyone's guess. They wouldn't be likely to stay in Australia, where they'd find it difficult to sell the gold without questions being asked. They'd move nearer to an easier market—
to Europe, no doubt. Well, taking this trip of ours all round, it's been well worth while.
We've learned a lot more than I expected. In the morning we'll push along home as fast as we can to see if there are any developments there."
V
INVESTIGATIONS
A WEEK after the incidents narrated in the foregoing chapter Biggles was home again, somewhat tired after long hours in the air; for, as many people have discovered, there are few vehicles more tiring than an aircraft when there is nothing to relieve the tedium.
Admittedly, speed is achieved, but that, unfortunately, is not evident during the process.
No reptile appears to move more slowly than an aircraft at a high altitude. And, as Biggles remarked to the others en route, as the world was a big place, and an aeroplane a very small object, they were likely to be even more tired before their quest for the air bandits bore fruit.
However, there was plenty to do at Operational Headquarters. To save time Biggles had made a signal to Algy, from Egypt, asking him to check up, through the Air Ministry, on the pilot Canton. This had been done, and Algy's report was waiting. There was nothing much to it, but what there was went some way towards confirming what was already known. Canton had learned to fly before the war. He had flown with the R.A.F. during the early part of the war, but had been discharged on medical grounds as the result of a crash. Later he had made a complete recovery and had qualified for a pilot's B Licence, which permitted him to "fly for hire". This had been cancelled in 1949 following a conviction in a civil court for importing watches by air without declaring them to Customs; in simple English, smuggling. For the same reason his name had been erased from the list of members of the Royal Aero Club. After that he had faded out of aviation circles. His present address was unknown.
"Same old story," observed Biggles, on reading the report. "Once a crook always a crook.
He'll finish where they all end up."
What was perhaps more important than this, Marcel had been on the 'phone during Biggles's absence, but on learning from Algy that he was abroad had asked to be notified of his return as he had something to say. Contact was made with him in Paris, and he said he would come over right away.
In the meantime Biggles sent Algy to Scotland Yard with the button found at the scene of the hold-up. His instructions were to see Inspector Gaskin of C Division and get expert opinion on it. Again the report was meagre, although this was only to be expected. The button was of German manufacture. It was plastic of a somewhat unusual type, made by a firm in Hamburg. It was standard in size and shape, and had probably come off the cuff of a sports jacket of greenish material. It would probably be difficult to replace outside Germany.
"Which means," remarked Biggles, "that one of the gang either has a button still missing from his cuff, or an odd one. He may not have noticed that the button is missing."
"Is this the fellow who picks his teeth, do you suppose?" inquired Ginger.
"It could be. But there must have been at least four of them in the aircraft that went to Australia, and it might have come off the jacket of any one of them."
One other detail appertaining to the case came as an inquiry put through Air Commodore Raymond, to whom Biggles reported his return by telephone. No sale or movement of any quantity of gold, such as would happen if the stolen gold had reached the open market, had been noticed. This meant that the
bandits had not yet disposed of their haul; or if they had, it had gone to black-market operators who had so far kept it under cover.
They were discussing the different aspects of the case when Marcel Brissac arrived. He had flown over in his
Morane, and breezed in with a cheerful enthusiasm that gave cause to suppose he had important information to impart. This, however, was not so—or so it appeared at first glance. Such news as he had was negative. The gist of it was this.
He had been busy; and this, at any rate, was certainly true, for it transpired that he had flown over most of North Africa, making inquiries at military and civil airports about an unknown D.C.3. As these had produced no result, he had switched his questions to another track. These now related to possible landing-grounds or flat areas with a water supply available in the region of the Ahaggar Mountains. The question had been put to French pilots of considerable Saharan experience. They were unanimous in their opinion that there was no place in the central Sahara, outside their own scattered refuelling stations such as the notorious Bidon Cinq, where white men could live for any length of time, much less maintain an aircraft. In the whole vast area, Marcel had been told, there was only one white settlement, and this was an artificial oasis occupied by members of a religious order who called themselves the White Prophets of Peace. "Whoever they are they must be mad to live in such a cauldron," observed Marcel, with a shrug.
"Men who devote themselves to religion usually choose somewhere pleasant to live—
and why not?" remarked Biggles. "Why make an artificial oasis, anyway? Aren't there enough natural ones in the world?"
"Mais non! They did not make the oasis," explained Marcel. "Attendez. I will tell you how it comes there. Years ago there is a man, very rich, very gentle, who loves deserts and the creatures that live in them. Why this should be I cannot comprehend. Perhaps he was a little mad. Who can tell? His name is Monsieur Bourdau. Always he goes to the great deserts, to sit and watch."
40 Biggles Works It Out Page 4