47 Biggles Of The Special Air Police

by Captain W E Johns

  The film-star's voice, coming over the radio, broke into his thoughts.

  "Are you ready?"

  "Okay," answered Biggles, and switched on his cameras.

  Again came the voice of the Messerschmitt pilot; and at the words it spoke the smile of anticipation on Biggles' face froze into a mask.

  "You remember the black gauntlet, Herr Bigglesworth?" came the cold, dispassionate voice. "It belonged to my brother. I saw you shoot him down. I, too, was working on the American aerodrome that day—for the Führer."

  "Now listen—wait a minute—" Biggles started to protest, but the voice interrupted.

  "I have waited a long time for today, Herr Biggles worth. What you did to him I'm going to do to you—and this silly, childish film. When I have finished with you I shall drop my incendiaries on the studios and fly to my friends in Eastern Germany. I'll admit I have a slight advantage over you. The bullets in my guns are real ones. That's all." There was a click and the voice plugged out.

  With the mystery banished and the situation in plain view Biggles'

  reactions inclined more to sorrow than anger; sorrow that the woman should have nursed her hatred for an event that had occurred in the normal course of war. He was sorry, too, that she had cut the radio, or he could have pleaded for sanity. For a brief moment he entertained the thought that she did not mean what she said; that she was only trying to scare him; but when he saw the nose of the Messerschmitt swing round to get on his tail, he decided to take no chances.

  He was not particularly alarmed; at least, not on his own account; for he could not believe that the combat experience of his opponent was equal to his own. What he feared most was the loss of life that would result if bombs were dropped on the studios. Tragedy of some sort seemed inevitable. And the curious thing was, he could not see that it would have made any difference had his own guns been loaded with live cartridges; for even in these circumstances he would not have used them against a woman. The question was, how long could he go on taking evading action without being hit? He knew he could not outfly the Messerschmitt in the matter of speed or height, for in these respects its performance was rather better than that of his early type of Spitfire. In the matter of endurance, too, the Messerschmitt probahly held the advantage, for if the woman intended going on to Germany she would have seen that her tanks were filled to capacity.

  The comhat proceeded on more or less orthodox lines, and it was soon revealed, as he suspected, that the girl was not so adept at the game as she may have supposed. Test pilotage was one thing; combat-flying was another matter altogether. In the real thing, the Messerschmitt could have been shot down a dozen times; and Biggles tried to make this apparent, hoping that the woman would perceive the folly of what she was doing.

  But no. Round and round they waltzed, with the white chalk-lines made by the tracer-bullets cutting geometrical patterns against the blue sky.

  Biggles could imagine the spectators on the ground applauding the realism of the duel.

  It is not to be supposed that Biggles found this being hunted about the atmosphere to his liking. Diving, zooming, banking, jinking, his concern began to give way to irritation.

  There was this about it, he thought grimly. Gainsforth would have a good picture—if the Spitfire, with its cameras, survived.

  Once, after an upward roll, Biggles dived on the Messerschmitt from above and behind while the woman was still looking down for him. His airscrew was only a matter of yards from her tail. As his shadow fell across her she looked back and at the expression of thwarted fury on her face he was shocked and amazed. Such hatred was something beyond his understanding.

  His muscles set and his lips came together in a hard line. "All right, my fine lady," he muttered. "If that's how you want it, come on." He threw the Spitfire on its side and side-slipped earthward like a stone. In his reflector he could see the Messerschmitt following.

  There was a stampede on the ground as the Spitfire tore low across the airfield and shot between the hangars. Behind were some isolated poplars.

  He passed between them, turned about in his own length, and came back.

  Again he was behind his opponent while she was still looking for him.

  When she did see him, however, she spun round in a turn so reckless that for a moment collision seemed inevitahle. Biggles' lips went dry as he realised that the woman, in her raging fury, was prepared to kill herself if she could kill him at the same time.

  In a way, this thought was responsible for the end of the affair. He had no intention of allowing his tail to be chewed off by the Messerschmitt's airscrew. Jinking almost at ground level to confuse the woman as to the course he intended taking, he suddenly found himself confronted by a line of telegraph-wires. He went straight on under them, and then, coming round in a climbing turn, was just in time to see the end.

  The Messerschmitt behaved as though the wires did not exist, which convinced him, as he afterwards asserted, that the pilot never saw them; or, if she did, it was too late to do anything about it. She was, he thought, looking at him at the time. In any event, the Messerschmitt Mt the wires. Exactly what happened was not easy to observe, but it appeared that the aircraft started to zoom, with the result that it missed the wires with its nose, but caught them under one of its elevators. It staggered, snapping off two posts, came down on a wing tip and cartwheeled. By a miracle it came to rest right side up.

  Biggles sideslipped down, made one of the riskiest landings of his career, and raced tail-up for the spot. Jumping down he ran on wildly, for a cloud of vapour, caused as he knew by petrol running over the hot engine, told him what was likely to happen. One spark would be enough.

  He was only a few yards away when the crumpled figure in the cockpit came to life. Two things were photographed on his brain : narrow, carmine-painted lips, and the black circle of a pistol-barrel.

  "Don't shoot!" he yelled, and flung himself flat, knowing what must happen if she did.

  A split-second later the vicious whoof of exploding petrol half drowned the report of the pistol. With his hands over his face Biggles backed away from the fearful heat. There was nothing he could do. The fire-tender and ambulance raced up. There was nothing they could do, either.

  Sick at heart, Biggles turned and walked away.

  Iv

  "A wonderful film. You deserved to win the Geneva prize. I think it justifies us in withholding the true story of Thea Hertz." The speaker was Air-Commodore Raymond, and he was talking, in a subdued voice, to Group. Captain "Wizard" Gainsforth. The scene was a box in a West End cinema.

  The lights came up, revealing also Biggles and his assistants.

  "You know," said Biggles thoughtfully, looking at Gains-forth, "there are still one or two points about this business that I don't understand. You know the answers. Isn't it about time you came out with them?"

  Gainsforth considered the end of his cigarette. "Perhaps you're right,"

  he agreed. "I suppose I owe you an explanation, after what happened." He looked at the Air-Commodore. "If I straighten things out, have I your word for it that it won't go any further?"

  "Provided you haven't hroken the law."

  "I haven't done that—at least, I don't think so," answered Gainsforth. He went on. "First of all, you must understand that in my line of business the film comes first. To achieve success, almost any risk is worth while.

  Maybe you won't agree, hut that's how we see it. For reasons which I tried to explain, I wanted Thea Hertz in the picture. I knew she was the sister of the man Biggles shot down that day at Marham. Thea knew he was the man, too, because she happened to be there, officially working for the Americans, but actually a Nazi spy. Incidentally, she must have seen me pick up that gauntlet. When I offered the contract to Thea she agreed to accept on the understanding that an expert directed the combat sequences. When she suggested Biggles, I had an idea she had an ulterior motive, but of course I wasn't thinking in terms of murder. I wanted my film."

  "An
d you didn't care what happened as long as you got it," interposed Biggles coldly.

  "Within limits," admitted Gainsforth frankly. "I realised that if Thea found herself playing opposite to Biggles her anger would make her act superbly—naturally, if you like And I was right, it did."

  "I see," said Biggles slowly. "So you deliberately kept Petersen out of the way in order to get me into the Spit fire?"

  "Yes. But don't be too hard on me," pleaded Gainsforth. "As I have said, I didn't think Thea would go as far she did. But I was taking no chances.

  I had her watched. When, on the morning of the final show, I discovered that she had some live ammunition, I was shaken to the core. What could I do? Scrap the picture and throw away a hundred thousand pounds of good money?"

  "What did you do?" asked Biggles icily.

  Gainsforth smiled wanly. "I took out the bullets and put back the dummy tracer. So you see, you were quite safe. She couldn't have hurt you."

  "Why didn't you tip me off?"

  "Because if I had, you wouldn't have flown as you did. I shouldn't have got my picture, or the prize."

  "By thunder! You've got a brass face to admit that," rasped Biggles.

  "We've made a wonderful picture," said Gainsforth simply, as if that excused everything.

  "And what about the black gauntlet?" inquired Biggles. "Who sent it to me?"

  "Guilty again," confessed Gainsforth. "I did it." "Why?"

  "Because I wanted you in the cast. I didn't think you'd come. Without you I don't think Thea would have come. I knew you'd remember the gauntlet, and hoped that your curiosity would induce you to fly—"

  "You miserable schemer," broke in Biggles. He looked at the Air-Commodore helplessly.

  "These film people are utterly without shame or scruple," he declared indignantly.

  "The film's the thing. That's all that matters," said Gains-forth tritely. "Do you still insist that your name should be left out of it?"

  "Definitely," replied Biggles. "Publicity is the last thing I want." As the lights dimmed again he got up. "This is where we came in," he remarked. "Come on, let's go."

  THE CASE OF THE MANDARIN'S

  TREASURE CHEST

  "How would you like to undertake a treasure-hunt?" Air-Commodore Raymond, head of the Special Air Police, put the question half jokingly to his operational chief, Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth.

  Biggles pulled forward a chair. "You can have my answer in four words. I wouldn't like it."

  "Why not?"

  "Because records show that treasure-hunting isn't the fun most people imagine. To start with, the treasure is always in an ungetatable place.

  Having got there it's usually somewhere else—that is, if it exists at all. And lastly, you can rely absolutely on at least one unforeseen snag arising to throw your plans out of gear. All most people get at the finish is hard work, with heat-stroke or frost-bite thrown in, according to locality, to make them wish they'd stayed at home. That, stripped of its romance, is treasure-hunting.

  "

  For a moment the Air-Commodore looked amused. "This is a very unusual treasure," he asserted seriously.

  Biggles smiled sceptically. "Of course. Treasures always are unusual.

  Where is this particular hoard?"

  "In the middle of China."

  "Exactly! What did I tell you? Why don't people bury their stuff where it's easy to get at?"

  "The choice isn't always theirs."

  "I suppose it's the usual rubbish—gold and diamonds, tiaras and bangles?"

  "Nothing like that. I told you this was an unusual treasure."

  Biggles became sarcastic. "It will be worth at least ten millions, for a guess."

  "On this occasion," answered the Air-Commodore evenly, "I'd say it's beyond price; I mean, in terms of money." "Who does it belong to?"

  "A charming Chinese gentleman by the name of Mr. Wung Ling. He's been at Oxford studying medicine for three years, so he speaks English fluently.

  I've asked him to come here to meet you. I fancy I hear him coming now."

  A moment later the door was opened by a constable, who announced : "Mr.

  Wung Ling, sir."

  Biggles' eyes switched to the young man who entered. His face, like his name, was obviously Chinese; but that ended any association with the Orient. Everything else about him was Western. Biggles judged him to be not more than twenty.

  The Air-Commodore stood to greet him, pulling up a chair. "This is Inspector Bigglesworth, who may be able to help you," he said.

  Mr. Wung Ling bowed to Biggles before seating himself.

  "I would like you to repeat the story you told me yesterday," went on the Air-Commodore. "At the finish Inspector Bigglesworth will no doubt have some questions he would like you to answer."

  "Thank you. I will do that," answered the visitor gravely. Then, turning his chair to face Biggles, he began. "My story is really a simple one, although there are certain things that will have to be explained. As you have heard, my name is Wung Ling. That may not mean much in London, hut in China it is uttered with respect, for we are an old family, old even in a country where age is reckoned in centuries. My home is, or was, at Pao-Tan, in the

  province of Kweichow, not far from the place where the Burma Road makes a sudden turn to the north near Chungking. There my honourable ancestors have been mandarins for more than a thousand years.

  "Long ago we were very rich, but, not heing men of war, when the time of trouble came we gradually lost our possessions until all that remained was our house, our temple, our most sacred treasures, and a little land.

  When I speak of treasure I do not mean wealth as it is understood in the West. As you may know, in China, works of art and, in particular, literature, are held in esteem beyond all things. The golden age of Chinese art began before the Romans invaded an unknown little island called Britain. I mention that so that you will understand when I say some of our art-treasures are very, very old, The great artists have gone, and the world may never see the like of them again.

  "Through many centuries, then, my honourable forebears, each in his turn, collected the most beautiful things of the land in which they lived—

  ancient manuscripts, porcelain, lacquer and bronze work, carved ivory and jade. The value of these things could not be measured in terms of money.

  Gold can still he won from the earth, but if these things were lost they could never be replaced. They would be lost to the world for ever. They do not helong to one person. They belong to all people, because they represent the highest achievements of mankind, of culture, through the ages. They are the treasures not of the present, nor the future, but of the past." The speaker paused as if to allow his words to sink in. They were spoken in a tone of voice so sincere that it was impossible not to be moved by them.

  "When the Japanese invaded my country," went on Wung Ling, "with the approach of the enemy the first thought of my honourable father was the preservation of our treasures, those of the house, and of the temple where our ancestors are buried, which stands close. I was then a small boy, but how well I remember with what reverence he wrapped each cherished piece in silk before putting it in a brass chest. He made me, his only son, help him bury the chest in the garden, digging with our hands by the light of the moon, so that should his time come I would know where it was. It is still there. I alone know where it is, for my father is now with our honourable ancestors.

  "My father never left China, but he sent me to school in England to study medicine in the Western fashion, thinking that by this I might one day be of service to our suffering and misguided people. Last year he asked me to return home, for he intended digging up the chest. I went. But before this could be done the Communist invasion had started in the north and another war was upon us. The chest, therefore, is still buried. I returned to England. My father remained.

  "The rest of the story I know from an old servant who, when the country fell, fled to Hongkong. He died soon afterwards. Our
house was destroyed and my father died in the ruins. That is all, I know the chest must still be where we buried it that moonlit night. I do not want the things it contains, for I have nowhere to keep them. They belong to the world, and should be in safe custody where lovers of art can see them and appreciate the culture of my unfortunate country."

  Looking at Biggles, the Air-Commodore put in : "Mr. Wung Ling has made this suggestion. If we will recover the chest he will give it to the British Museum. The Museum authorities are willing to defray the expenses of an expedition for that purpose.

  They will also make arrangements for Mr. Wung Ling to complete his studies and qualify as a doctor."

  "That seems fair enough," said Biggles quietly.

  "In this matter of recovering the treasure," went on Wung Ling, "you realise that with the country in a state

  of chaos and anarchy it would be impossible for a European to travel overland. It is likely that even I would be murdered if I tried to reach my home. Only by flying could there be any hope of success."

  Biggles nodded. "You're sure you know exactly where the chest is buried?"

  "I could go straight to the spot."

  "Would you be willing to go?"

  "I would ask for nothing more."

  "What is the country like round your home? I mean, is there a place where an aeroplane could land? That's the dominant factor."

  "For the most part the country around Pao-Tan is treeless but undulating, although there are large areas washed flat by the River Shangpo when in flood. The trees were all cut down long ago to provide the maximum arable land on which to grow food—rice, millet and barley—for a growing population."

  "What about people? Are there any there?"

  "That is a question I cannot answer definitely," admitted Wung Ling.