by W E Johns
He was never clear about what happened during the next few minutes. He managed to get to his feet to find himself in a cursing, snarling, struggling mass of humanity, arms and legs whirling. Finding it impossible to distinguish friend from foe he decided to get out of it, but was knocked down twice more before he succeeded, and then only with the help of Biggles, who dragged him clear with a curt; ‘What are you trying to do—get your teeth kicked in? Keep out of it. This isn’t our party.’
‘Where’s the pilot?’ panted Ginger, holding a handkerchief to his nose, which was bleeding.
‘The constable’s got him. The fool started up, so I threw him out of the cockpit and switched off before someone got his skull sliced open with a metal airscrew. What a scramble! You keep clear. Sinclair has plenty of men without us.’
This in the long run proved to be the case. The poachers fought hard, but the odds against them, with men as tough as themselves, were too great, and when they saw they were beaten they packed up.
‘Well, that’s that,’ said Sinclair, with great satisfaction, coming over.
‘And what now?’ asked Biggles.
‘We’ll take the whole bunch into Elgin. You can leave the rest of this to me.’
‘There are fish in the plane,’ put in Ginger. ‘I nearly broke my neck on ‘em.’
‘We’ll take care of that, too,’ declared Sinclair. ‘If you’re ready we’ll get along in my car. The rest can follow.’
That, as far as the Air Police were concerned, was the end of an inquiry as unusual as it was unexpected. It was also the end of as ambitious a gang of poachers as ever invaded the Scottish Highlands. Not only did they all go to prison, but Bikstein, with relatives in the fish business, who had worked out a plan for making what must have seemed like easy money, also lost some valuable property, which included an aeroplane and a motor-car.
All Ginger got out of it, apart from a new respect for salmon, was a black eye which, when he returned to the office, provided an object for mirth for some days.
‘How’s the fishing today, old boy?’ Bertie would ask.
‘How about a nice salmon steak for lunch?’ Algy would inquire, with an air of innocence. ‘Or shall we make it sardines? They’re easier to handle.’
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE FATAL RUBY
Biggles was working at his desk when Ginger placed on it the current issue of a daily newspaper folded to show a picture of a man in flying kit standing beside an aeroplane.
‘Does that chap remind you of anyone?’ inquired Ginger, pointing.
Biggles studied the photograph. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘But for the moment I can’t place him.’
Picking up a pencil Ginger sketched a moustache. ‘Does that help?’
‘I’ve got him,’ returned Biggles. ‘Hubert Gestner, alias Lancelot Seymour, the fellow we picked up flying stolen treasury notes to France. Although he already had a commercial ticket in Canada, he got the bright idea of joining a club over here as a pupil. Then, while apparently doing solo night flying practice, he was slipping across the Channel. He had a bad record, I remember.’
‘That’s who I thought it was,’ went on Ginger. ‘He had me foxed at first because he’s shaved off his moustache. He’s also changed his name. As you’ll see from the caption he now calls himself Captain Carson.’
‘I thought he was doing time.’
‘He’s out. I’ve just looked him up. He came out six months ago after doing three years—less good conduct marks. He’s back in circulation; moreover, in the flying business, running an independent air-charter company called Zonal Aircom.’
Biggles’ eyebrows went up. ‘The deuce he is!’
‘I wonder how he got the money to start it,’ said Ginger, suspiciously.
‘I’d wager it wasn’t his own,’ returned Biggles. ‘He’s the plausible, good-looking type, and that sort can usually find someone mug enough to provide the cash. He doesn’t stand to lose anything you may be sure—even if he had anything to lose. Wonderful how these crooks get away with it. What sort of a fleet has he?’
‘He hasn’t a fleet. Just the one machine you see in the picture. It looks like one of the pre-war Rapides.’
‘He’d get that pretty cheaply, anyway,’ commented Biggles. ‘Well, he’s a fully qualified pilot so maybe he’s going straight now. What’s brought him into the news?’
A slow smile, full of meaning, spread over Ginger’s face. ‘He happens to be the pilot who has undertaken to fly that notorious ruby, the Blood of Asia, to India.’
Biggles sat back, eyes saucering. ‘For Pete’s sake,’ he breathed. ‘How on earth did that come about?’
‘You can read all about it in the paper. According to the man who wrote this article the big companies preferred not to handle the stone.’
Biggles looked astonished. ‘Don’t tell me they’re afraid of it!’
‘Maybe not, but in view of its record they’re afraid some of the passengers might jib at flying in the same plane with it, and you couldn’t blame them for that. The last time, which was the one and only time, that stone travelled by air, the machine’s undercarriage folded up on landing. Had that happened at the take-off, with a full load of petrol on board, it might have been a nasty business. Anyway, it seems that the big companies are not prepared to risk their reputations by taking chances with a jewel that has left a trail of death and disaster half-way across the world. If anything went wrong they’d be blamed. So the job was put out to private charter and Zonal Aircom have got it.’
Biggles stared at the photo. ‘There’s a saying, once a crook always a crook. Gestner, or Carson as he now calls himself, couldn’t go straight if he tried. I know the type. If he starts with that stone, no one will ever see it, or him, again.’
‘That’s what I was thinking. Hadn’t you better warn the people responsible for the ruby?’
‘We can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Gestner has served his time. If, while he’s on the level, we say anything derogatory about him, or his past, we lay ourselves open to an action for slander. The fact that what we say is true makes no difference. An ex-criminal ranks as any other citizen while he goes straight. That’s the law.’
Bertie, who had been listening, stepped into the conversation. ‘So the police have to wait until Gestner pinches the stone before they can do anything. Is that the idea, old boy?’
‘That’s what it boils down to.’
Algy spoke. ‘If you tipped off the insurance company they’d cancel the trip.’
‘And Gestner could come on us for damages.’
‘How much is this pink pebble worth?’ asked Bertie.
Ginger answered. ‘According to the paper it’s insured for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, which I take to mean that that is what the new owner has paid for it.’
‘He must be nuts,’ sneered Algy.
‘Not necessarily,’ argued Ginger. ‘It has been bought by an Indian rajah, who probably has more money than he knows what to do with, in order that it can go back to where it started from.’
‘Fair enough,’ agreed Bertie. ‘Where did it start from?’
‘It was, originally, the eye of an Indian god. The whole story is here in the paper and I must say it has had a grim career—not to say queer.’
Biggles smiled, cynically. ‘Superstition dies hard. People love these creepy-creepy stories.’
‘Then you don’t believe this tale that the stone carries a curse?’ queried Ginger.
‘Not a word of it. What has happened was either coincidence or perhaps a natural sequence of events. It stands to reason that in a world crawling with thieves a jewel worth a king’s ransom should lay a trail of trouble.’
‘What about the way it arrived in this country from America?’ challenged Ginger. ‘What made the undercart of the plane collapse when it landed?’
‘A flaw in one of the components, or maybe metal fatigue. It certainly wasn’t the stone
. Don’t ask me to believe that a red rock crystal wrapped up inside the plane could have any effect on a length of steel tube outside it.’
‘Plenty of people said “I told you so” when it happened.’
‘Of course. That’s what they like to think. The undercarriage was due to crack. As the machine turned at the end of its run, and the weight fell on the weak member, it cracked. That’s all there was to it.’
‘That stone has caused a score of deaths,’ asserted Ginger, not to be put off.
‘With the possible exception of the first they would have occurred anyway. The ruby had nothing to do with them. I know the story. Two white men pinched the eye of the god. One then murdered the other to get sole possession of it. Louis the Sixteenth bought it and gave it to Marie Antoinette. Both went to the guillotine. The stone then went to Austria and was put in the Hapsburg regalia. The Crown Prince shot himself and the Empire collapsed. It was next heard of in the Russian Crown jewels, and you know what happened to the Czar and his family. After the revolution the ruby was bought by an American millionaire. His only son was killed in a motor accident. Then he lost all his money, so he jumped out of a top storey hotel window and killed himself. His widow died in a lunatic asylum. The ruby has now been bought by a wealthy Indian who intends to put it back in the eye socket of the god from which it was stolen, and that’s about the best thing that could happen to it. I believe the stone is at the moment in the possession of the rajah’s agent in London.’
‘And I’d say he’ll be jolly glad to be rid of it,’ declared Ginger.
‘Is that why he’s having the stone flown to India, instead of sending it by sea?’ asked Biggles.
‘No. The rajah wants the stone in a hurry in order to replace it before a religious ceremony in about a week’s time.’
Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘If Gestner gets his hands on it the rajah will be lucky to see it at all.’
‘And are you going to let that crook get away with this?’ demanded Ginger.
‘Why should I risk a lot of unpleasant publicity by interfering? We’ve no proof that Gestner intends to steal the stone. There would be plenty of people ready to start a scream that we were doing the poor man an injustice. No. This is one of the cases where I mind my own business. However, I’ll tell the Air Commodore what’s cooking and leave it to him. Maybe he can think of a way to tip off the insurance people without becoming directly involved.’ Biggles got up. ‘I’ll be back,’ he said, and left the office.
He was away about twenty minutes.
‘Well, what does the chief think about it?’ inquired Algy, when he returned.
‘It’s got him worried,’ replied Biggles. ‘Like me, he’s against doing anything officially. He’s rung up the insurance company and asked them to send round a senior representative, from which I gather he intends to tip him off... in confidence. He’s putting nothing in writing. I hope that lets us out.’
This hope did not materialize. An hour later Biggles was called on the intercom. telephone to the Air Commodore’s office, and there he was introduced to two senior members of the company that stood to lose a quarter of a million should the ruby disappear.
‘These gentlemen are very disturbed by what I have just told them,’ said the Air Commodore.
‘Why should that be?’ inquired Biggles. ‘They’ve been warned in time. The stone hasn’t yet left the country. Can’t they cancel the transaction?’
‘Not without a scandal, I’m afraid,’ said one of the insurance men. ‘This stone is news. Already it has had too much publicity of an undesirable kind. The insurance policy is signed and the premium paid. If we try to back out of it now we shall be accused of being afraid to take the risk, possibly on account of the stone’s reputation. That wouldn’t do our reputation any good.’
‘But you have a very good reason for backing out,’ asserted Biggles.
‘True, but to make that public might well be ruled as slander in a court of law. Gestner, being the sort of man he is, would know all about that, and go for us. The result might be heavy damages against us.’
‘That would be cheaper than losing the stone.’
‘It would lead to a lot of distasteful publicity, the sort that a firm of our standing tries to avoid.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘That, gentlemen, is up to you. We have at least told you to what sort of man you have arranged to entrust the ruby. What more can we do? We’ve no case against Gestner as matters stand.’
‘You can tell us this. Suppose it is his intention to abscond with the jewel, how do you, as a pilot, think he might do it?’
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘There are, of course, many things he might do. He can’t fly the Atlantic, and I doubt if he’d go to Asia, where he’d soon be a marked man if he tried to sell the stone. In fact, I doubt if he’d leave Europe, because, with the police on the watch for him at every port of entry, he’d have a job to get back without being spotted. His biggest problem might be to get rid of the plane. He’d probably do that to give the impression that he’d crashed in some inaccessible spot or perhaps gone down in the sea—a fate to which the reputation of the stone would certainly lend colour.’
‘But if he did that he’d lose a valuable plane.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘It’s an old machine. It can’t be worth much. It may not even be his own property. The ruby would buy him a fleet of new planes should he decide to go on flying. Do you know the route he intends to take?’
‘Marseilles, Rome, Athens, Alexandria ... the usual route to the Far East.’
Biggles stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Somebody might keep an eye on him in the early stages. If he gets as far as Alex, it’d look as though he intended going through with the job. If his purpose is to disappear I’d say he’ll show signs of it before he gets to Marseilles, where his arrival would be reported.’
‘Could you follow him?’
‘Possibly.’
‘Why possibly? You’re a police officer, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘If an officer on the ground saw a man, whom he knew to be a criminal, behaving in a manner which gave him reason to think that a felony was contemplated, he’d do something about it.’
Biggles smiled wryly. ‘It’s one thing to follow a man on the ground but a different matter to follow a plane in the air. Again, you can arrest a man on the ground the moment he makes the first move to commit a crime. You can’t arrest a man in the air.’
‘I wasn’t talking of arresting Gestner,’ said the insurance official. ‘If you followed him you would know where he went should he leave the route. Steps could then be taken to apprehend him, no matter where he went in Western Europe —and he’s hardly likely to cross the Iron Curtain.’
The Air Commodore put in his opinion. ‘I think there’s something in that, Bigglesworth. You say you think he’ll turn off before he reaches Marseilles. Very well. Follow him as far as Marseilles. If, then, he turns east, as if making for Rome, you could turn back. I agree it’s out of the question for you to follow him as far as Bombay. Should you need help in France you could rely on the co-operation of Marcel Brissac, of the Sûreté.’
Biggles looked resigned. ‘Very well, sir. If you’d like me to do that I’ll do it. There should be no great difficulty provided the weather remains fair. But I’d like your instructions about what I’m to do should Gestner leave his course and make a landing.’
‘I shall have to leave that to your discretion, bearing in mind that pilots do get off course by accident and that there are such things as genuine forced landings.’
‘As you say, sir. Is that all?’
‘All for the moment. You stand by in the Operations Room and I’ll make arrangements to let you know from where and at what time Gestner leaves the ground.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Biggles returned to his own office. ‘We’ve bought it,’ he announced ruefully. ‘We’re to shadow Gestner and check his movements. We’d better get organized.’
Two days later, shortly after dawn, the Air Police Proctor aircraft was in the air, heading south across the Channel on the same course as Gestner’s Rapide, which appeared as a speck in the clear sky about a mile in front.
‘He’s still climbing,’ observed Ginger, his eyes switching for a moment from the Rapide to the altimeter on the Proctor’s instrument panel, the needle of which was quivering on the twelve thousand mark. ‘What’s his idea, flying so high in weather like this?’
‘I’d say his reason for that is to avoid being spotted from the ground,’ answered Biggles. ‘If I’m right, that in itself looks suspicious.’
‘So is the fact that according to the Air Commodore he’s flying solo,’ remarked Ginger. ‘One would have thought he’d have taken a number two pilot if only to keep him company.’
Biggles and Ginger were alone in the Proctor, Biggles having decided that the two of them should be able to handle any situation that might arise.
Two hours passed with no change in the respective positions of the two machines, although they had put on another two thousand feet of altitude.
‘He’s still on course for Marseilles, anyway,’ remarked Ginger, as they headed down the Rhône Valley.
‘We should soon know what he intends to do,’ replied Biggles. ‘If his plan is to lose that machine he’ll soon have the right sort of country on both sides of him—the Plaine de la Crau to the east and the Cevennes or the Pyrenees to the west.’
After another hour had passed, with the Rapide holding its height and course for Marseilles, it became evident that Gestner had no intention of landing at any of these sparsely populated areas of France, and Ginger was beginning to feel that they were wasting their time when the Rapide began to edge towards the west.