They walked on to the hangar that housed the Halifax and found it as they had left it. The few airport hands moving about took no notice of them. Turning away Biggles said: 'Let's see what's in the next shed. I've been so taken up with Bollard that I haven't had time to make a thorough check.'
They walked on.
Occupying the front part of the hangar, and nearly filling it, was a Douglas D.C.4 displaying the insignia of Air Vietnam, the important air line owned partly by Air France and local companies. Biggles gave it no more than a cursory glance, and was about to turn away when something behind it caught his eye. Without speaking, but with a curious expression on his face, he walked forward. He stopped, staring: but still he did not speak.
Ginger, who had followed, was also staring. For there before them, painted in war-time camouflage style and carrying a Chinese hieroglyph for its registration mark, was a Morane aircraft. 'A Morane,' he exclaimed. 'But that isn't Marcel's machine,' he went on quickly. 'His was painted blue — or it was the last time I saw it.'
Biggles sniffed. He took a quick pace forward and put a hand on the engine cowling. '
She's warm,' he said softly. 'This engine was running not long ago.' He went closer to the fuselage, peered at it, and the face that he then turned to Ginger had lost a little of its colour. 'This is either Marcel's machine or its double,' he asserted, in a voice thin with suppressed excitement. 'The blue has been painted over. You can see it where the top coat has been scratched along the seams.'
'Blue may have been the standard colour for a batch of Moranes.'
'Even so, it would be mighty queer for two of them to find their way here. And what's this one doing in Chinese ownership? I'm going to find out who it belongs to. That shouldn't be difficult. Let's find a mechanic.'
There was no need to look for one, for at this moment two men in overalls, one European and the other Chinese, arrived on the scene with what seemed unnecessary haste; and before Biggles could speak they were asking him, in vehement French, what he was doing, and at the same time telling him to leave the building.
Biggles raised a soothing hand. 'All right — all right,' he remonstrated, in the same language. 'There's no need to get excited. And as for what we're doing, is there anything remarkable about us being interested in an unusual aeroplane? We're pilots, and there's no notice up about this hangar being private.' As he spoke Biggles made his way slowly towards the open doors. 'Am I right in supposing that the little 'plane belongs to a local Chinese gentleman?' he questioned casually.
'This is a private hangar,' was the curt reply from the white man.
Perceiving that the men had no intention of answering questions, Biggles did not press them. Taking a cigarette from his case he walked on.
'That's shaken me more than a little,' he told Ginger when they were out of earshot. 'Caught me on one foot, in fact. Joudrier was quite definite that Marcel's machine wasn't on the airfield, and I took his word for it.
Moreover, I'm sure the machine wasn't here yesterday. I walked past that hangar. The Vietnam Douglas wasn't there then, so had the Morane been there I would have been bound to spot it.'
'You've no doubt about it being Marcel's machine?'
'None, whatever. The behaviour of those mechanics proves there's something phoney about it. They wouldn't have kicked up that fuss had they not been given orders to keep people out. Actually, there's been no real reason why we should be astonished at finding the Morane. We know it came here, and provided it was still airworthy, what more likely place to find it than the airfield?'
'Even if it is Marcel's machine, that's about all it tells us,' said Ginger gloomily.
'On the contrary it tells us a lot,' disputed Biggles. 'It has given us some good news. It's the first ray of hope we've had that Marcel is still alive. The machine is airworthy. It was in the air this morning — or at any rate the engine was run up. It wasn't crashed, either by accident or design, so if Marcel is dead he didn't die that way; and if he wasn't killed in a crash there must be a chance that he's still alive. Moreover, if he's still alive, as the plane is here he can't be far away. That's how it looks to me. I may be taking an optimistic view, but the fact that we've found the machine has cheered me a lot. By hook or by crook we must find out who's using the machine now.'
'If you walk about asking questions you may start something.'
'It can't be avoided. No one's likely to tell us if we don't ask.'
'I have a feeling, judging by the behaviour of those two erks, that no one's likely to tell us if we do ask.' 'We shall see.'
'Where are you going to begin?'
'Here, at the airport; where else? Somebody must know what we want to know.'
Reaching the main hall Biggles went to a porter.
'There's a little machine, a Morane, in one of the hangars; do you happen to know if it's for sale or hire?'
The man gave Biggles a searching stare, while on his face dawned a faint suspicion of alarm. 'No,' he answered shortly.
'Well, can you tell me who it belongs to?'
The man's lips came together. 'I know nothing about 'planes,' he said, and turned his back.
Biggles walked over to a man in uniform, who looked as if he might be an assistant manager. 'Monsieur,' he said politely, 'my friend and I are having an argument which you may be able to settle for us.'
'Out, monsieur?' answered the man pleasantly.
'In walking past the hangars we noticed a small 'plane painted green and brown and carrying a Chinese mark. My friend says it's a Breqnet. I say it's a Morane. Am I right?'
Long before Biggles had finished speaking the man's manner had changed.
'I know of no such aeroplane,' he answered curtly.
'But aren't you something to do with the traffic?' 'I am.'
'Do machines come and go without you knowing?' 'Sometimes.'
Mild sarcasm crept into Biggles' voice. 'You mean, people can fly in and park their planes anywhere, without reference to you?'
The man shrugged. 'Excuse me, I am busy.' He turned on his heels and walked away.
'A poor liar,' was Biggles' opinion of him. 'No matter. We have at least learned this much. Behind whatever is going on here is someone powerful enough to scare these people into keeping their mouths shut. The one thing that does stick out a mile is, asking questions here isn't going to get us anywhere.'
'It might — but not where we want to get,' returned Ginger meaningly.
'The alternative is to watch and see who takes the Morane out. As it has recently been out it's unlikely to go out again today, so we might as well go back to the hotel for lunch and give the others the gen. We haven't done so badly for one morning.'
The remainder of the daylight hours passed without any incident to cast fresh light on the mystery of the Morane and the more serious matters involved. After lunch, during which Biggles gave Algy and Bertie the latest news, he and Ginger returned to the airport to watch the place generally and the shed housing the Morane in particular. The others, very bored, continued to play their parts as salesmen, for apart from the ad-visability of maintaining these roles there was really nothing else they could do.
With the coming of darkness, which put an end to outdoor observations, having spent a fruitless after-noon, Biggles and Ginger returned to the hotel, as, of course, did Algy and Bertie.
They were together in the lounge, quietly discussing the situation over a pot of tea, when a soft-footed Annamite waiter came in, walked up to the table and informed Biggles that Monsieur Estere, the manager, would like a word with him in his office, if he would be so kind as to step along.
Biggles, naturally, looked surprised. 'Are you sure he means me?'
'OW, monsieur,' confirmed the waiter and retired.
Biggles looked at the others. Now what?' he breathed. 'What on earth could he want with me — unless. . . .' He got up. 'Wait here,' he told them, and getting up made his way to the manager's office — the door marked Private from which he had seen Bollard e
merge.
A few seconds later he was looking at the hotel manager for the first time; and what he saw caused him to brace himself for an interview which he knew was going to be difficult, for he both disliked and distrusted the man on sight. But still, he reflected, the man no doubt knew his job well enough; for all over the world the Swiss enjoy a reputation in that capacity second to none.
Estere was typical of the type — medium build, good-looking in an unemotional sort of way, immaculate in his person and very well dressed.
His face was pale, and at the moment entirely without expression; and it may be said here that throughout the interview it never changed. His face he could control, but not his eyes. Grey, and rather wide apart, in some queer way they reminded Biggles of those of an Alsatian dog watching a stranger. They were cold, suspicious and alert.
He did not invite Biggles to be seated. Instead, in a voice as expressionless as his face he began to speak. 'I understand you have spent the day at the airport?'
'Quite right.'
'And in one of the hangars you saw an aeroplane that excited your curiosity.'
'That's putting it strongly. Say I was interested.' 'Why?'
'If this is to be a game of quiz it's my turn. Is there any reason why, as a professional pilot, I shouldn't be interested in aeroplanes? And secondly, what has that to do with you?'
Estere ignored the questions. 'Why were you asking about that particular
'plane?'
Biggles bridled at this unwarranted interrogation, but he held himself in hand. 'There's no secret about it,' he said evenly. 'I merely wondered how a 'plane of that type got here, and who brought it. Is there anything wrong with that?'
'Nothing. But the fact remains, you were asking questions, and at Saigon at the present time that can be a dangerous occupation. As you are staying in my hotel I thought it my duty to warn you.'
'That was very considerate of you. At the moment you seem to be doing plenty of questioning. Tell me, Mr. Estere, why should it be more dangerous to ask questions here than anywhere else?'
'Because the war has brought many strange people here - some of them undesirable - and they resent interference. This place is full of spies of several nationalities, and when no man dare trust another nerves tend to become frayed and tempers short. Having a business to run I do my best to avoid trouble.'
'Quite so. I can understand that.'
'How long do you intend to stay here?'
'No longer than I can help, you may be sure. But that decision does not entirely rest with me. We shall leave, I imagine, as soon as the business that brought us here is concluded.
Exactly how long that will be I can't say.'
'From the lack of success your employers are meeting it shouldn't be long. That's really all I wanted to say.'
What prompted Biggles to pursue the matter on the lines he did after what was obviously a dismissal, he himself may not have known. It may have been sheer devilment. It may have been resentment at the interrogation and the almost rude way in which it had been conducted; an interrogation which, as he knew perfectly well, had been intended to convey a hint that he and his party were included in the undesirables to whom Estere had alluded. Or it may have been a desire to retaliate, to hit back. Estere had gone out of his way to give him something to think about. Now he would give the suave manager something to occupy his mind.
'It's curious that you should ask me to come and see you,' he said smoothly, 'because, before leaving, I had intended to come to see you.'
'With what object?'
'On the advice of a man I believe you know; an American named Bollard.'
'What of him?'
'Last night, having perhaps taken a little too much to drink, he told me
— speaking as one airman to another — that on his job he was able to what he called make a few dollars on the side. He was thinking no doubt, that I should soon be returning to Europe with a lightly loaded aircraft.
Naturally, as times are hard, I asked him how he did it.'
'Did he tell you?'
`No. He wouldn't say. But he promised to give me an introduction to you on his return if I was still here.'
It was some seconds before Estere answered, and Biggles knew his shot had gone home.
'What exactly do you mean by that?' asked the manager, speaking distinctly.
‘I was going to ask you what you thought Bollard meant by it.' Biggles was smiling faintly.
Estere did not smile. The lids of his eyes dropped a fraction, so that they looked more than ever like those of an Alsatian. Speaking with slow deliberation he said: 'Are you trying to be funny at my expense?'
'My dear sir,' answered Biggles curtly, 'if you think I have come all this way to engage in an enterprise so unprofitable, you flatter yourself.'
'Is it then that you are trying to be clever?' 'Possibly. After all, most of us try to be that.'
'There is such a thing as being too clever. It often leads those who practise it into trouble — serious trouble.' 'That sounds almost like a threat.'
'I am giving you my advice. You are not in London, you know. This is Saigon, a town where wise men mind their own business.'
'That is precisely what I'm doing.'
'And what exactly is your business?'
'The same as yours. Earning my living.'
'You seem to go the hard way about it.'
'We can't all get in the easy money.'
'Why did you mention Bollard's name to me?' 'Because he mentioned you to me. Until then I didn't even know your name.'
'What did he tell you?'
'He told me nothing except what I've told you. Rightly or wrongly I gathered you helped him to augment his salary. If I'm wrong, forget it. I couldn't care less. Bear in mind I didn't ask to see you. You wanted to see me. Now we've seen each other. It doesn't seem to have got either of us very far, but there's still time.'
'As you say, there's still time.'
'If that's all I'll get along.'
'Think over what I've told you.'
`You might think over what I've told you.'
Biggles was turning to leave the room when there came an urgent rap on the door, which, without invitation, was thrown open, and a Chinese, dressed in European clothes, hurried into the room. In his hands he carried a newspaper. This, half-folded, he put on Estere's desk, and saying something quickly in a language Biggles did not understand, pointed at a picture.
Biggles' eyes, of course, went to it, but as from his position in front of the desk the reproduction was upside-down he could only see that it was a portrait. The paper, he noted, was the Saigon-Soir.
Estere, as if he realized suddenly that Biggles was still there, looked up. 'Good 'fight,' he said shortly. 'I'll speak to you again some other time.'
'Good night, and thanks for the advice,' Biggles replied and left the room.
In a couple of minutes he had rejoined the others. `Listen,' he said tersely. `Things are beginning to warm up. It was asking questions about the Morane this morning that did it.
The news wasn't long reaching Estere. Not that we need be surprised at that.'
'What about it, old boy, what about it?' demanded Bertie.
'Estere as good as gave me orders to get out.' 'Out of his beastly hotel?'
'And out of Saigon.'
'He's got a nerve,' muttered Algy.
'I'd say he's got very good nerves, and, unless we're right off track, he needs them for the game he's playing. He's suspicious of us. Nothing more than that, yet, I think; because if he knew definitely what we were doing he wouldn't have troubled to give us a warning. In a way he told me more than I told him.
In sending for me he has as good as told us that he's in the big racket that's going on here.
But make no mistake. From now on we're marked men; which means that we shall have to step warily or we shall end up like Marcel — however that may be. Incidentally, just as I was leaving a chap came in with a newspaper. He seemed to be a bit
rattled. It was the Saigon-Soir. Ginger, you might slip out and get a copy. Make it snappy.'
Ginger departed.
'Have you any idea of what was in the paper to cause the flap?' asked Algy.
'None whatever. It may have something to do with our business; but there's a picture on the front page that's evidently of importance to Estere, and if it's of importance to him it may mean something to us.'
Ginger returned, carrying the paper folded across the middle. He handed it to Biggles, who opened it as he had seen it on Estere's desk, showing the picture. He glanced at it.
The glance became a stare; a stare of incredulity. They all stared. No one spoke.
The picture was a head and shoulders photograph of a man wearing an open-necked shirt. The face was thin, haggard and unshaven. Below was the caption. In heavy type it announced: DANGEROUS MURDERER
WANTED BY THE POLICE. Small italics gave the information that the man was a renegade who had been fighting with the Viet-Minh rebels.
He had been captured and brought to Saigon, but had escaped during the night.
El and hollow-eyed though the face was, there was no mistaking it. The man was Marcel Brissac.
Biggles drew a breath sharply. 'That's what we wanted to know. This is where we get cracking. We haven't a minute to waste, because if they get him now he's had it. Estere, or the man behind it, will see to that.'
'Hadn't we better send a cable to Joudrier?' suggested Ginger anxiously.
'There's no time for that. With everyone on the watch, and in view of the state he's in, it can only be a matter of hours before they get him. And once they get him it won't take them long to silence him, because quite obviously, he knows too much.'
'If he only knew we were here,' muttered Ginger. Ifs won't get us anywhere. We've got to think hard and fast.'
'But where are we going to start looking for him in this rabbit warren of a town?' said Algy, a rising in-flection in his voice. may not be in the town. He may —'
'All right. Let's not get in a panic,' broke in Biggles. 'Let's use our heads. Put yourself in Marcel's place, a fugitive in a now hostile town.
53 Biggles Chinese Puzzle Page 3