by W E Johns
‘Ah! There he goes,’ said Biggles.
‘I thought it was going to be Marseilles after all,’ opined Ginger.
‘No. Had he intended landing there he would have started to lose height before this. Why burn petrol unnecessarily?”
‘Where the dickens can he be making for?’
‘My guess is the Camargue. Come to think of it that would be an ideal spot for anyone to lose himself. It’s flat, only just above sea level; it stretches for miles and is practically uninhabited. Or a good deal of it is. It’s a queer place altogether—shallow lagoons, marshes, salt wastes, rushes, dry cracked sand, snakes and what have you. But you’ve seen the place, so you’ll know all about it.’
‘Yes, I believe they call it Africa in France. It’s the only place in Europe where the pink flamingos breed.’
‘Quite right. And that reminds me. Most of it is a bird sanctuary and planes have been forbidden to fly over it since a German pilot zoomed the flamingoes and killed scores of them. They graze a lot of sheep there in the spring, but the chief industry, I believe, is breeding bulls for the Spanish bull-fighting arenas. That’s Arles below us, on the northern fringe of the Camargue.’
‘If the Camargue is his objective, isn’t it about time he was going down? I can see the sea ahead.’
Biggles frowned. ‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘He’s heading straight out to sea.’
‘He can’t get to North Africa without refuelling, that’s certain—not even if he’s fitted an extra tank,’ declared Biggles. ‘He can’t have much petrol left even now. We’re getting low, too, if it comes to that.’
‘He may have a confederate waiting for him with a boat.’
‘If he has, we’ve had it. I’m not going much farther.’
The Rapide, now a speck in the sky, was still heading out to sea. ‘We’ve lost him,’ stated Ginger.
Biggles was watching the fading speck. ‘Not yet. He’s coming back, losing height. I think I know what he’s doing. He’s still trying not to be seen from the ground as a precaution against the time when inquiries about the machine start buzzing. I’d better get out of the way. We don’t want him to see us.’
Applying war-time tactics Biggles turned the Proctor into the eye of the sun, and from that position they watched the Rapide, with its engines idling, pass below them, going down at a steep angle. Still watching, they took up position in its blind spot and followed it down.
‘What are you going to do when he lands?’ asked Ginger, for it was now certain that this was Gestner’s intention.
‘We’ll watch to see what he does,’ decided Biggles. ‘If he abandons the machine we’ll land near him and ask him what he’s doing. We shall have to be careful. He hasn’t stolen the ruby yet. He may say he’s lost his way, or run out of petrol, or was having engine trouble. We should know better, but it might be difficult to prove he was lying.’
The Rapide was still going down, ‘S’ turning to lose height.
‘He knows what he’s doing,’ observed Biggles. ‘He’s making for the Bois de Riége, which is about the wildest part of the territory.’
The Proctor was now low enough for Ginger to see in detail the peculiar features of the terrain below. It consisted of miles of more or less flat plain, never more than a few feet above sea level, that followed the coast for as far as the eye could reach in the dry, glittering sunshine. Lagoons shimmered between areas of parched, fissured sand, scrub or broad belts of giant reeds. The only signs of life were birds, one or two small herds of black cattle, and, in the far distance, a horseman, raising a small cloud of dust as he cantered along a winding track. Far away to the north rose the towering peaks of the Pyrenees.
Looking back at the Rapide Ginger saw it make a somewhat bumpy landing near a lake completely encircled by reeds, although he did not realize how tall these were until Gestner, at the end of his run, suddenly turned towards them and, apparently opening his throttle, charged tail-up into them, to completely disappear from view.
‘There goes the machine,’ said Biggles, tersely. ‘That was no accident. I’m going down to challenge him. He’ll have switched off by now so he’ll see us, anyway.’
He made a quick circuit to go in on the same track as the Rapide, and while he was doing this Gestner appeared from the fringe of the rushes to stand staring up at them. But not for long. No doubt the Proctor’s British registration letters told him the truth, that he had been followed, for he set off at a run, heading inland towards some rising ground well covered with scrub. He had some distance to go, however. He had also to make a detour round some cattle that had been grazing, but now stood staring at him. One, its head held high, stamped a forefoot.
‘Watch out! That’s a bull,’ cried Ginger. ‘My gosh! It’s going for him.’
Biggles, who had been concentrating on his landing, had not noticed this, but at Ginger’s sudden warning he snatched a glance. In an instant he had jerked the throttle open, and turning on a wing tip headed for the animals with the intention, as he afterwards told Ginger, of trying to scare them into a stampede.
This, in fact, he did, but he was too late to save Gestner, who may have made a fatal mistake in running away; for he could not have hoped to outstrip the charging bull to the lake, the only refuge within half a mile. Helpless, they saw the bull overtake him and toss him high into the air. It tossed him again, and then, kneeling, gored him. Biggles, tight-lipped, zoomed low over the animal, whereupon it galloped away after the running cows. Gestner lay still.
Biggles took a chance, for the ground was by no means as level as he would have wished, and landed. With his wheels on the ground he swung round and taxied quickly to where the luckless pilot was lying in a crumpled heap.
‘Be careful,’ urged Ginger, noting that the bull had stopped, turned, and was watching them. ‘He may come back.’
‘Stand by to pick me up and take off if he does. Watch him.’ So saying, leaving the engine running, Biggles jumped down and ran to the motionless figure on the sand. He knelt beside him for a minute and then, with an eye on the bull, carrying a small packet in his hand, came back.
‘He’s dead,’ he told Ginger. ‘He was terribly injured. He hadn’t a hope. He couldn’t have lived after that first toss whatever we’d done.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Well, that’s that. All we can do is notify the local police and get home.’
‘What’s that you’ve got in your hand—the ruby?’
‘I imagine so. I found it in his pocket. It’s addressed to the rajah.’
‘Now what about it?’ inquired Ginger grimly.
‘What about what?’
‘The curse. This is another death for the record. That infernal stone cost Gestner his life.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘It may look that way to you, but I still say it was a natural consequence of Gestner’s own behaviour. Had he been straight he would by now have been well on his way to Rome.’
‘But he didn’t go to Rome. He came here.’
‘That was not the fault of the ruby. But let’s not argue about it.’
‘Are you going to fly home with that thing in your pocket?’
‘I am.’
‘Then you can fly alone,’ announced Ginger curtly. ‘I’m going to walk.’
‘Please yourself. I’m nothing for walking. I’ll go on to Marseilles and top up.’
‘You’re asking for trouble.’
‘I’m not prepared to admit that I’m scared of a piece of coloured carbon, which is all the ruby is, if that’s what you mean,’ asserted Biggles, shortly.
‘Here’s a man coming,’ stated Ginger, abruptly.
A horseman galloped up. In his hand he carried a stave tipped with a trident, and from his dress Ginger recognized him for one of the men called gardiens who have charge of the cattle.
He looked at the body on the ground. He looked at Biggles with cold disfavour. Speaking in French he said: ‘Don’t you know it is forbidden to fly over here?’
The gardien said, somewhat curtly, that he would telephone the police bureau at Arles, and with that he went off at a gallop.
‘We’ll get some petrol and push on home,’ Biggles told Ginger. ‘I’ll phone Marcel from the airport and ask him to meet me in Paris. If you’d rather take the train you’d better start walking. You’ve a long way to go, and there may be more bulls about.’
‘I’ll come with you, but I shall keep my fingers crossed,’ muttered Ginger. ‘Whatever you say, that stone is a killer. I’ve just seen it work. Let’s get off before I lose my nerve. For goodness’ sake mind how you go.’
Biggles smiled. ‘Okay,’ he promised.
The Proctor returned to London without trouble of any sort.
‘Phew!’ murmured Ginger, as he jumped down. ‘Am I glad to be out of that? I nearly swooned at every bump. I hardly dared to breathe.’
‘Rot,’ snapped Biggles. ‘Be yourself. I told you the thing was harmless.’
Two days later Biggles returned from the Air Commodore’s office to his own with a curious smile on his face. ‘Fasten your safety belt,’ he told Ginger. ‘I’m going to give you the shock of your life.’
‘Go ahead,’ invited Ginger. ‘I’m holding on.’
‘Apparently the insurance people passed on the information we gave them about Gestner to the rajah’s agent in London. He went into a flap. At all events, without saying a word to anyone, not even to Gestner, he put the ruby in his pocket and caught the next B.O.A.C. plane to India.’
Ginger stared. ‘Do—d’you mean that Gestner wasn’t carrying the ruby?’
Biggles’ smile broadened. ‘That’s what I said.’
‘But—but the packet,’ stammered Ginger.
‘That was a dummy.’
‘What was in it?’
‘A piece of coal.’
At the expression on Ginger’s face Biggles sat down at his desk and laughed and laughed and laughed.
[Back to Contents]
FISHY BUSINESS
In the office of the Special Air Police at Scotland Yard the inter-com. phone buzzed. Biggles picked up the receiver, listened for a moment, said ‘Okay’ and hung up. ‘That was Inspector Gaskin,’ he told his police pilots. ‘He’s sending a man along to us. A Pole, named Lutenski.’
‘What’s his trouble?’ asked Ginger.
‘Gaskin didn’t say. He seemed amused about something.’
Presently the door was opened by a uniformed messenger to admit a short, stout, dark-eyed, black-coated little man who gripped a bowler hat and umbrella with fierce indignation.
‘I have been robbed,’ declared the visitor, his eyes making a swift reconnaissance of the faces before him.
‘A lot of people have had that experience,’ answered Biggles evenly. ‘Take a seat and tell us about it. Please be concise.’
‘I am a British subject and I demand justice,’ asserted Lutenski.
‘You’re in the right country to get it,’ returned Biggles briefly. ‘Where were you born?’
‘In Poland. But now I am naturalized.’
‘Quite so. Continue.’
‘I am in the fur trade, and so much respected that I am allowed to go with the British Trade Mission to Russia to buy the best skins.’
‘For the Government?’
‘For myself. I am in the business.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ murmured Biggles dryly. ‘Proceed.’
‘Six months ago, in Leningrad, I buy a parcel of eight matching mink skins that were like no others I ever saw. The colour was cream. Beautiful. I pay much money for them. I may not bring them home with me, you understand. They must come through official channels, which takes time. Three months ago my parcel arrives. The Customs stamp says eight mink. Inside are eight mink. But they are not the skins I buy. They are common stuff, of poor quality. Someone has changed my parcel and I am ruined.’
‘Your label was put on the wrong parcel by accident?’
‘Not by accident. I have been robbed.’
‘You’ve already told us that, Mr Lutenski,’ said Biggles. ‘I’m sorry, but you must take this up with the Customs office and the forwarding agents.’
‘I have done that. Nothing is known of my skins. Nothing. Yet here in London the other day I see them being worn by Lady Branding.’
‘Are you sure they were yours?’
‘There could be no mistake. Furs have been the business of my family for generations. I know skins like you know faces.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I am so upset I go to this lady and say, please, where do you get these exquisite skins. She is flattered and makes no secret. She tells me she buys them from Marius Kindus, who has the so expensive shop in Mayfair. I know Marius, so I go to him and say, how do you get these skins which I buy in Leningrad? He denies they are my skins.’
‘Was he with you on the Trade Mission to Russia?’
‘No. He buys the skins, he says, from a private trader who makes a special show at a flat in Park Lane. I say this man is a crook. He has stolen my parcel. I rush to see him. He is not there. The flat is empty. The thief has gone.’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘I go to the Chief Customs officer and ask the name of the man who imports my skins. He must know because high duty would be paid on skins so exceptional. What does he tell me? He says his records show no such skins have been imported. I make a mistake. Me—a mistake!’ Lutenski snorted.
‘Customs would know if the skins had passed through their hands.’
‘Of course. They say they did not. How, then, did the skins get into this country?’
‘You mean—they were smuggled?’
‘I mean more. If skins can come into this country without paying duty, honest traders will be ruined. Not only do I lose my beautiful skins but I see now I am faced with bankruptcy.’
‘It boils down to this,’ said Biggles. ‘You think your skins were stolen on the Continent, smuggled into this country and disposed off at a private show?’
‘Yes.’
‘To this show would be invited dealers in expensive furs?’
‘Yes. Marius says several were invited.’
‘Why weren’t you invited?’
‘Because the thief knew that as my label was on the parcel I would recognize the skins.’
‘But if this man Marius Kindus didn’t go on the Trade Mission to Russia he would never have seen the skins until the day he bought them.’
‘Not unless he has a private door through the Iron Curtain.’
‘Are you suggesting that he smuggled them?’
Lutenski hesitated. ‘It must have been the man who gave the show in Park Lane. Flat 17, Greenwood Mansions.’
Biggles stood up. ‘Very well, Mr Lutenski. I’ll go into this and see if I can solve your problem.’
‘If furs are being smuggled it is as much in your interest as mine,’ was Lutenski’s last word, as he went out.
‘Is he on the level?’ asked Algy, as the door closed behind him.
‘I’d say yes. If he hadn’t lost the skins he wouldn’t be chasing them. And if he hadn’t acquired them honestly he wouldn’t have dared to go to Customs—or come to us. It certainly looks as if the skins were smuggled in. If it was done once it will be done again. The question is, how is it being done? For a start, let’s check the statements of this man Kindus. Algy, ring the leading furriers and ask them if they attended a private show in Greenwood Mansions, Park Lane, recently.’
In half an hour Algy gave Biggles the answers. Not one furrier had any knowledge of such a show.
‘It begins to look as if Kindus is a liar, anyway,’ o
bserved Biggles. ‘I suspect he fixed this show to account for the skins should he be questioned. But a point arises here. In selling the skins as made-up furs to Lady Branding he must have known that sooner or later Lutenski would spot them, either in reality or in a photograph in a Society paper. Ladies buy furs to show, not to hide. Would he have taken that risk had he known the skins had been stolen? I doubt it. I shall assume, therefore, that however Kindus got the skins he didn’t know they’d been seen, and bought, in Russia, by Lutenski. Now let’s turn the spotlight on the flat in Park Lane. Ginger, ring up the hall porter and ask if the flat is still empty, and when it was last occupied.’
Ginger soon had the answer. The flat was unoccupied, and hadn’t been let for more than a year.
Biggles smiled cynically. ‘Now we know Kindus is a liar, if nothing worse. Our drill now is to find out how Lutenski’s skins got into his hands.’
‘But just a minute, old boy,’ interposed Bertie. ‘Why did he have to lie about the best furriers attending a show in Park Lane?’
‘Obviously he couldn’t say that only he was invited; that wouldn’t have made sense. He had to say something. Imagine his position when— assuming he hadn’t come by the skins honestly— Lutenski burst in on him and accused him of pinching his furs. Had he got the skins in the open market there would have been no need to lie. But he hadn’t. So he had to think fast and invent something. Hence the flat in Park Lane. Whether or not he knew the skins had been stolen is another matter. I’d say he didn’t know, or he wouldn’t have risked them being seen in London. He’d have sent them to Paris or New York. In a word, he knew they hadn’t come into this country openly. That was why he had to lie.’
‘Which means that if he didn’t smuggle them himself he knows who did?’
‘That’s about the English of it. I’ll ask Gaskin to get us the low-down on him. He’s got special men for that sort of job. I’ll go down and have a word with him.’
In two days Biggles had full particulars, and a photograph of Kindus, on his desk. The first and most important thing about it was, the man had no police record. Forty-seven years of age, married but with no children, he had been born in London of Latvian parents. He was a furrier of repute, patronized by wealthy clients. He lived in a flat over his shop, but often spent week-ends at a country house he maintained at Wivenhoe, in Essex. There, at moorings, he kept a launch named Scandik, in order to indulge in his recreation of deep sea fishing. He was a member of the Tunny Fishers Club and had made some good catches. A newspaper clipping showed him standing on the deck of the Scandik, a vessel of about fifty tons, with a tunny weighing six-hundred-and-fifty pounds.