by W E Johns
They waited for Ginger to come back and went on down a long corridor until they came to a door behind which voices were speaking. Biggles opened the door. The conversation ended abruptly. They walked in.
There were two men in the room, seated near the fireplace, one on either side of a coffee table on which stood bottles and glasses. One was the man they had seen in the forest. The other was younger, a short, slim, swarthy type, black- haired, dark-eyed. Taken by surprise, for a moment they could only stare. Then Brand half rose and sank down again. ‘What’s this?’ he demanded loudly. ‘Who are you?’
Gaskin answered. ‘We’re police officers from Scodand Yard,’ he announced evenly.
‘What do you want?’
‘We’re making inquiries about a body found in the New Forest. We think you may be able to help us.’
‘Why do you think I should know anything about it?’ inquired Brand, with asperity. He tried to speak naturally, but without success.
‘The body had fallen from a plane. Half a parachute was found near it.’
‘Well?’
‘The other half is in your car. There’s a plane in your hangar. We saw you in the forest this morning. We thought you might know something about it.’
Brand must have known he was cornered, but even so, it is unlikely that any of them were prepared for his explanation. Ginger could only conclude that it was calculated to clear him of murder, although it would leave him open to a less serious charge.
‘All right,’ he said, as if reaching a decision. ‘I’ll tell you the truth. I admit I was in the plane, but Dubroc, who must be the man you found, jumped of his own accord.’
‘Having first cut the ropes, I suppose,’ put in Biggles, cynically.
‘Yes.’
Biggles looked incredulous. ‘Are you asking us seriously to believe that this man cut up a parachute and then tried to use it?’
‘Well—er—not exactly that. He cut the cords. I saw him do it. I can only think the one he cut was intended for me, but Leroux here, in handing them out, must have got them mixed up.’
The man named leapt to his feet. ‘That’s a lie. I never touched the parachute. Don’t you try to blame this on me.’
‘Were you the pilot of the plane?’ inquired Biggles.
‘Yes. But I had nothing to do with the parachutes. I never wear one. Brand changed them over. I saw him. But I didn’t know then that one had been damaged.’
‘When did you know?’
‘After we had landed.’
‘Did Brand tell you?’
‘Yes. He wanted me to go with him to find—’
‘You shut up,’ broke in Brand. ‘I suggested going back to make sure Dubroc had landed safely, and to pick him up.’
It was now evident that Leroux was concerned only with himself. Looking at Brand he said: ‘If you didn’t know Raoul’s parachute was no use why did you ask me to pretend the plane was out of control and then shout to Raoul to jump?’
‘Was Brand sitting next to you?’ queried Biggles.
‘Yes. Raoul was behind.’
‘Did you rock the plane?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you know why Brand wanted you to do that?’
‘Not then. I did when I heard him tell Raoul to jump. I remembered him changing the parachutes, and I guessed—’
‘Lies. All lies,’ broke in Brand.
‘Do you normally wear a parachute in the air?’ questioned Biggles.
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I like jumping. I was in the Parachute Regiment.’
‘He was a German paratrooper,’ sneered Leroux.
‘Okay. That’s enough,’ put in Gaskin, crisply. ‘We’ll get this sorted out at the Yard, where I’ll take your statements. Don’t try any tricks. I’ve men outside.’
Brand, glowering, hesitated, as if contemplating a break. If so he thought better of it and allowed himself to be handcuffed to his protesting accomplice. They were taken to Gaskin’s car. Gaskin then went through the house in case there should be anyone else there. Finding no one he locked up pending a thorough search of the premises and the cars returned to London, where Marcel was waiting for them.
‘Voilà!’ he said, when his eyes fell on Leroux. ‘You too?’
‘You know him?’ asked Biggles.
‘Too well,’ answered Marcel.
The truth of what happened on the fatal night was never proved, for Dubroc was dead and the statements of Brand and Leroux conflicted, as each laid the blame on the other. They agreed on one point. It was Dubroc who had cut the parachute, so as it could be argued that he died by his own hand the charge of murder was dropped. The question was, why had he done it? Leroux’s explanation may have been correct.
According to him, Brand, in his trips to England, always by night, feared that a mishap would leave a foreign plane stranded on his ground, wherefore he sometimes went down by parachute, leaving the plane to return to France without having landed. The men who worked for him were expected to do the same, and were chosen for that purpose. This had been the intention on the night in question: hence the parachutes. Dubroc was being brought to England ostensibly to escape from the French police, but actually to prevent him from talking. Brand was carrying a large sum of money, payment for an arms shipment. Dubroc knew that. (This apparently was true, for the money, in French notes, was later found in the house).
Leroux believed that Dubroc planned to murder Brand for this money. He cut Brand’s parachute so that when he baled out he would fall to his death. Dubroc would follow, find him and get the money. But Brand saw Dubroc cut the parachute and switched them over. He was then faced with the task of finding Dubroc’s body to avoid police investigation. Leroux swore that he realized this only when Brand ordered him to land. This, certainly, would clear up the mystery.
Other charges against Brand were provided by documents found in the house. The illegal traffic in arms was not his only activity. He dealt also in drugs and foreign currency, improperly using an aircraft for the purpose. He went to prison for fourteen years. Leroux was taken to France under an extradition warrant to face a charge of treason. He broke down under questioning and the rest of the gang was picked up.
‘What I do not understand,’ said Marcel, when it was all over, ‘is how this affair started.’
‘It started,’ answered Biggles, ‘when a boy found half a parachute in a wood and had the good sense to take it home to his father.’
‘Ah!’ breathed Marcel. ‘And the father could—how do you say—smell the rat.’
‘As it happened, several rats,’ returned Biggles, smiling.
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MISSION ORIENTAL
There were two men as well as Air Commodore Raymond in the Air Police headquarters office when Biggles, in response to a call from his chief on the intercom. telephone, walked in. One was obviously British, a senior civil service type; the other was a small, brown-skinned man with slightly slanting eyes who, although dressed in European clothes, was equally obviously an Asiatic. Biggles thought Burmese, although in this he was wrong.
‘Come in, Bigglesworth,’ invited the Air Commodore, quietly. ‘Let me introduce you to Mr Preston, of the Colonial Office, and Mr Ong, a secretary on the personal staff of the Sultan of Kulang, in Malaya.’
The British official nodded. The Asian bowed from the waist.
‘As I shall want you to fly out to Kulang I thought it might be a good thing if I explained the purpose of the trip to you while these gentlemen are here,’ went on the Air Commodore. ‘You could then ask them any questions that may occur to you, a detail, perhaps, that I might have overlooked.’
‘Very good, sir.’ Biggles’ expression did not change. He saw nothing unusual in being asked to fly half-way across the world on a special mission, for long-distance mobility was the particular purpose of his department at Scotland Yard.
‘I don’t think there should be any great difficulty about this,’
went on the Air Commodore. ‘All you have to do is land at a spot that will be pointed out to you by Mr Ong, who will travel with you, pick up two passengers and fly them home. For the purpose of the operation I will ask the Air Ministry for the loan of a Hastings aircraft and see that you are provided with diplomatic papers that should facilitate your passage out and home.’
‘I understand, sir,’ acknowledged Biggles.
‘In case things should not work out according to plan, I had better give you a general outline of the situation, so that you will know how you stand and so be in a position to make any adjustments that may be necessary,’ resumed the Air Commodore. ‘Kulang, as you probably know, is one of the smaller sovereign states at the north-eastern extremity of the territory administered by us, a geographical position which, at the moment, is anything but a comfortable one. The jungles to the south are the retreats of the terrorist bands that still plague the Malay Peninsula. From the north, from Burma, and from the north-east across the South China Sea, are now being infiltrated Communist agents, their purpose being, we may suppose, at a given signal to start the usual agitation with the object of overthrowing the government. We should be sorry to see that happen if for no other reason than that the Sultan is our friend, as was his father before him.’ The Air Commodore looked at Mr Ong. ‘May I speak freely?’
‘Please do.’
The Air Commodore proceeded. ‘As if these conditions were not difficult enough for the Sultan to cope with he has an enemy within his gates; an uncle; his father’s younger brother; a prince named Chan, who sees in this uneasy state of affairs an opportunity to seize power.’
‘Which I take to mean he has been got at by the Communists,’ put in Biggles.
‘Exactly. He opposed the Sultan’s accession but was thwarted by the loyalty of his subjects. Since then the Sultan has married, and as he now has a son, a boy of ten named Prince Suba, the chances of the uncle to succeed in his ambition—by fair means—become more and more remote. It is with the Sultana and her son that we are now concerned. The Sultan has no fears for himself, but he sees in the present situation a threat to his family and has asked us to help him. Should he fall, his son, were he in Kulang, would not long survive him. The uncle would see to that. On the other hand, if Prince Suba was in this country his assassination would not be so easily achieved; and while the boy was alive the uncle would have no legal claim to the throne. Suba was due to come here to school, anyway. You follow me?’
‘Perfectly, sir. Why hasn’t the boy come here?’
‘That brings us to the point,’ stated the Air Commodore. ‘The difficulty has been to get him out of the country. In order to get to Penang, Kuala Lumpur or Singapore, from where he could fly out on one of the regular services, he would have to pass through the terrorist-infested jungle. Quite aside from the uncle these men would kill him if they could capture him, if for no other reason than that the Sultan has co-operated with us against them by refusing them sanctuary in his country. Prince Suba is in danger in Kulang, but he would be in even greater danger should he attempt to leave by an overland route.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I understand.’
‘We have been asked by the Sultan, through Mr Ong, to bring the boy and his mother here. They will be in danger from the moment they leave the palace, but that is a risk that will have to be taken, since it is the lesser of two evils. Certain arrangements have already been made. The Sultana and the boy, disguised as servants, will leave the palace by a back exit and proceed to the rendezvous where you will pick them up. Alternative dates and times have been settled to meet local meteorological conditions. Mr Ong knows these. But here we are faced with a difficulty. Kulang is hilly and mostly covered with forest, for which reason no aerodrome has ever been laid down.’
‘If there is no cultivated land how do the people manage for food? Surely there must be some level country.’
Mr Ong explained. ‘Certainly there are some paddy fields where the essential rice is grown, but at this season of the year, immediately following the monsoon, they will be swamps, if not actually under water.’
Frowning, Biggles turned to the Air Commodore. ‘How am I going to get down?’
‘There is one place only, Mr Ong tells me, where a landing is possible,’ answered the Air Commodore. ‘It is a stretch of sandy beach running for some miles along the coast. The northern end is no great distance from the palace.’
‘What sort of sand is this?’
‘Mr Ong assures me that it is hard. We can accept that as correct because during the war Japanese troop-carrying aircraft frequently used the beach to fly in reinforcements.’
Biggles looked dubious. ‘Firm sand must mean that it is subject to inundation by the tide.’
‘Mr Ong says the times of the tides have been taken into account. You will arrive at low tide, but except at flood tide there should still be room for you to get down. Prince Suba and his mother will be waiting. All you have to do is pick them up and make your way home by the route on which you decide. A point arises there. There will be no need for you to risk such a landing on full tanks, the weight of which might put your wheels in. You’d need only enough fuel to see you to, say, Kuala Lumpur or Penang, where you could top up and then carry on home. Well, there it is. How do you feel about it?’
‘I see no difficulty, sir, as long as things pan out as arranged.’ Biggles smiled faintly. They don’t always do that when one has to take certain factors on trust. However, we’ll deal with the snags if and when they arise.’
‘Any questions for Mr Ong?’
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘I don’t think so. It all seems straightforward. The only thing we have to decide is when do we start? What is the first date on your list, Mr Ong?’
‘Twelve midnight on the seventeenth—a fortnight today. There will be a full moon and the tide will be at its lowest ebb at that hour.’
‘Then we’ll aim for that,’ decided Biggles. ‘The fewer the number of times the Sultana has to risk leaving the palace the better.’
Mr Ong agreed.
‘All right, Bigglesworth, I’ll leave the matter in your hands,’ concluded the Air Commodore. ‘I’ll see about the Hastings, and the documents to see you through intermediate airports. Mr Ong will give you his hotel in London so that you can contact him at any time on any point that might arise.’
‘Very good, sir.’
‘I suppose you’ll take your usual crew with you?’
‘I think it would be advisable to have them with me just in case we run into trouble. I’ll report progress to you in the usual code, on the high frequency, as often as possible.’
Biggles turned to Mr Ong. ‘I’ll be getting in touch with you, sir,’ he said, and returned to his operations room to tell his pilots of the assignment and to make preparations for the flight.
On the night of the fourteenth day following the conversation in London a Hastings aircraft of Transport Command, of the type used for carrying Important Persons, having crossed the Malay Peninsula from Penang, nosed its way northward at ten thousand feet towards its objective, the Sultanate of Kulang. At the controls was Biggles. Beside him at the dual installation sat Ginger. Also in the flight compartment were Mr Ong, Algy, at the navigation table, and Bertie, prepared to act if necessary as radio operator.
Below and to starboard lay the China Sea, dark and mysterious, not a light showing anywhere. On the port side the sombre mass of the mainland could just be discerned in the gloom, for the moon had not yet risen although a grey streak low over the horizon gave promise of its early arrival.
So far the trip had been routine flying, without incident.
After a silence that had lasted for some time Mr Ong spoke. ‘I see the island I spoke to you about, Captain. Now we have only about fifty miles to go.’
‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Biggles. He did not alter course.
A few minutes later the moon, looking like a great silver balloon, soared up to cast a path of shimmering ripples acro
ss the sullen sea.
‘That’s better,’ said Biggles, retarding the throttle and, as the machine lost height, he began to edge towards the land. A cluster of lights appeared.
‘That is the town of Kulang,’ said Mr Ong.
‘I’d have thought most people would have been in bed at this hour,’ remarked Biggles. ‘It is within a few minutes of midnight.’
Ong did not answer, and it struck Ginger, who was looking at him, that he himself seemed somewhat puzzled. However, after a few more minutes had passed, with the machine still losing height, Ong observed: ‘Now you can see the beach.’
Ginger could see it plainly in the now bright moonlight, a long pale stripe bordering the black mass of the hinterland.
‘Check for drift,’ ordered Biggles. ‘I don’t think there’s any wind to speak of but we’d better make sure.’
Ginger reported no drift, whereupon Biggles cut his engines and in a shallow glide began a series of S turns to drop off height as he approached the landing area. No one spoke. It was as if everyone realized that the crucial moment was at hand; that the next few minutes would decide the success or failure of the operation. They were now in the hands of Mr Ong. If his information regarding local conditions proved to be correct, all should be well. If it was at fault in any respect, particularly in the matter of the hardness of the sand or the state of the tide, there could be trouble ahead. It had not been possible, of course, to check these things. For which reason a certain amount of tension was perceptible in the compartment as Biggles straightened out for his approach.
As far as the length of the landing area was concerned, thought Ginger, Ong had been right. It ran on for miles and, as far as could be seen from the air, the beach was free from obstructions. Apparently Biggles was satisfied for he went straight in, as he had hoped would be possible, without touching his engines. Thus, it was with the minimum amount of noise that the big machine touched down and ran on to a stop without any dragging of the wheels to suggest that the sand was anything but firm.