53 Biggles Chinese Puzzle

by Captain W E Johns

  Half an hour later two police cars arrived. Air Commodore Raymond and some plain clothes men got out. 'Nice work, Bigglesworth,' congratulated the Air Commodore. '

  What have you caught?'

  Biggles smiled faintly. 'Judging from their weight, enough watches to make a free issue to the Force.'

  Statements made by the helicopter pilot caught in the act of smuggling the watches confirmed what Biggles had suspected: that more than one organization was making a good thing out of illegal air transportation.

  As usual with gangsterism these were now in conflict with each other, to the danger of the public who little suspected what was going on over their heads. Obviously, behind these transactions were men with brains, air experience and big money available.

  It seemed unlikely that such men would take part in actual operations.

  They would keep in the background. Should their agents be caught they could be replaced. Biggles's problem was how to get at them. He knew the nickname of one - Alex - let slip by the helicopter pilot, who turned out to be an ex-officer dismissed the Service for personal smuggling on operational flights. He stated that he had been approached immediately after his court-martial by a man unknown to him. He was, of course, an ideal type for the smugglers - efficient, resentful, and now out of a job. Thinking on these lines Biggles had baited a trap.

  Algy, under the assumed name of Mason, had just been cashiered for improper conduct -

  or so a notice, with a photo, in the press announced. A week had passed.

  Biggles waited in the Air Police Ops. Room for developments. Algy loafed about the West End, keeping away from Scotland Yard.

  On the morning of the eighth day Biggles' 'phone rang. As he listened his eyelids made a signal to Bertie and Ginger who were watching. 'Great work, Algy,' he said at last. '

  Accept, but don't appear too anxious. We'll be there. I'll warn Marcel Brissac of the Surete to stand by.' He hung up, and turning to the others explained. 'It's worked. Algy has been offered a hundred pounds to fly a Puss Moth to France tonight. All he knows is he's to land a passenger and bring a parcel home. His starting point and objective will be given him at zero hour. He thinks the machine must be kept near London.'

  'What's our drill?' inquired Ginger. 'He's going to make a forced landing on the Downs north-west of Brighton. When we hear him coming, fiddling with his engine, we flash our code cypher with hand torches and he'll touch down as near to us as possible.'

  'What will his passenger say when Algy says he's going to land?'

  'What can he say? Carry on over the Ditch with a sticky engine? Not likely. Obviously he's not a pilot or he wouldn't need one. For that reason he won't dare to interfere with Algy for fear of a crack-up. We'll go down by road.

  Let's get mobile and find a good spot.'

  Biggles and his party were in position by nightfall. Conditions were perfect. Visibility was good. There was no wind, no moon. They waited. A distant village clock struck the hours. Occasionally a big machine of one of the regular services droned over.

  It was not until two a.m. that they heard the sound for which they were listening — the purr of a light plane apparently having trouble with its engine.

  'Lights,' ordered Biggles crisply.

  Bertie and Ginger dashed off to their prearranged stations, torches winking the police call sign. They couldn't see the machine for it carried no lights, but they could follow the sound as it lost height.

  Then, suddenly, it loomed up, and those on the ground converged at a run on the spot where trundling wheels announced that it was on the ground.

  They found it on the fairway of a golf-course, for Algy had overshot a little, excusable in the circumstances.

  Two men were standing beside the Moth when they arrived. One was Algy.

  The other, carrying a small suitcase, was, judging from his language, in a flaring temper. Curiously enough he took little notice of the new arrivals until Biggles said, cheerfully: 'Hello!

  Having a spot of trouble?'

  The unknown man spun round. 'How far am I from a road and where can I get a car?' he demanded harshly.

  'I've got one waiting,' answered Biggles evenly. 'We're police officers.

  Better come quietly. I'll take the bag.'

  That did it. There was a struggle, but the odds were four to one and the handcuffs soon clicked.

  'Let's see what's in the bag,' said Biggles. 'Show a light, someone.'

  Ginger's torch flashed on a mixed collection of jewellery.

  'Looks like the swag of the Grosvenor Square raid last week,' observed Biggles. '

  Inspector Gaskin will be tickled to death to see this.' He looked up.

  `How much did you pay for this trip ?'

  'Five hundred,' grated the man.

  told me it was safe. I'll get him for this.'

  `Tell us who he was and we'll get him,' suggested Biggles.

  Inspector Gaskin and his men, who had been waiting in a police car on the road, bustled up. 'Well - well. If it isn't Carlo the Cat!' he exclaimed delightedly.

  'He's all yours,' murmured Biggles. I've more work to do. You can have the sparklers but I shall need the case.'

  'Where are you going?'

  France.' Biggles touched the aircraft. 'In this. See you later.'

  After Inspector Gaskin and his prisoner had gone, still standing by the captured Puss Moth Biggles spoke to Algy. 'Now give us the gen.' Algy complied. was picked up by a Rolls at ten o'clock outside the Aero Club as arranged and driven to a farm on the south side of Ashdown Forest.

  There couldn't be any secret about the place because after the trip to France I had to fly back.'

  'You could find it again - on the ground?'

  'Easily. The chap who had spoken to me in London was waiting. He wore a mask but I knew the voice. I'll tell you about him later. My orders were to fly a passenger to Beauvais. On the road that crosses the open country beyond the ridge where the R.101 crashed a car would be waiting, making a flare path with its headlights. I was to land my passenger, collect a parcel and come home. Three blips of the engine would be the signal for landing lights to be switched on for me. The Puss lives in a barn beside a grass field of about fifty acres - ideal for the job.'

  'I take it the machine's all right?'

  'Right as rain.'

  'Fine. Now, this is the drill. You'll take the car home. Bertie with you, because as the machine started with two up it had better not land with three - in case the gang are in touch by 'phone or radio. Stop at the first 'phone box and tell the Air Commodore what's happened. He said he'd wait. I want him to call Marcel Brissac of the Surete, who's standing by, and ask him to rush a car to Beauvais in case we need help. On his side of the Channel it's his pigeon, anyway. If all goes well there I shall fly straight back to this Ashdown Forest landing ground. You'll take the Chief there and wait handy to raid the place as soon as I'm on the ground. That's about all.'

  Algy nodded. 'Okay. We'll move off. Don't forget to blip your engine for the landing lights.' He went off, Bertie with him.

  'I'll have a cigarette,' Biggles told Ginger. 'We must give Marcel time to get to Beauvais.

  With any luck tonight we may land one of the big fish. The thing is to work fast before they realize what's happening. Tomorrow we'll see in whose name this Puss was registered.'

  Presently they took their places in the machine and headed south across the Channel, keeping clear of an occasional regular service aircraft. The flight was without incident.

  There was no difficulty in finding the rendezvous for Beauvais is a well-known landmark. Across the vast, flat hedgeless fields that are a feature of Northern France, the road to the south showed like a grey tape. Beside it, the headlights of a stationary car, at right-angles to the road, could be seen from a long way off — the only lights in the sleeping countryside.

  Biggles did not go straight down. He held on a little way until, far to the south, appeared the lights of a solitary vehicle racing nort
h. 'That should be Marcel,' he observed.

  Turning, he cut his engine and circled in a slow glide, keeping the objective car in the centre. In this way he was some minutes getting down, finishing his run in the flare path a hundred yards from the source of light. He taxied nearer, switched off, and with the suitcase in his hand, jumped down. Ginger followed. As they walked on to the car the headlights dimmed. Three men stood waiting.

  'Everything all right?' inquired a voice, in English. 'Why not?'

  'You were a long time getting down.'

  'No hurry, was there?'

  Where's the stuff?'

  'Here.' Biggles held up the case.

  'Hand it over.' The order was peremptory.

  Biggles' surprise was genuine. 'What's the idea?' 'This.'

  Biggles stared into the muzzle of an automatic. The bag was snatched from him. 'So that's it,' he said grimly.

  'You offer people a trip over and frame' em when they arrive. How do I get to Paris?'

  'You've got legs.'

  'I was told -'

  'We'd bring you over. Okay. So you're here. Quit bleating.'

  'Get the stuff, Alex,' said one of the others. 'We don't want the case.'

  The bag was opened. There was a brief brittle silence. 'Empty,' rasped Alex. He turned on Biggles. 'Where's the stuff?'

  'Looks as if we've both been double-crossed,' answered Biggles evenly.

  Ginger, playing for time, cut in. 'Leave me out of this. There's a parcel to go back. Hand it over and I'll leave you to it.'

  He was handed a brown paper bundle.

  'Wait for this car to go past before you start up,' ordered Alex.

  The car came on; but it didn't go past. With a screech of brakes it skidded to a stop, disgorging gendarmes, and before the smugglers could really have grasped what was happening they were seized. A gun cracked but no one was hit.

  'Voila! Beegles, old fox, we arrive on the dots,' greeted Marcel. 'What do we catch?'

  'A very dirty line in crooks.'

  'Bon. We clean them up. Do you come to Paris?'

  'I'd love to, but I haven't time. I want to get back to the other end of this little shuttle service right away. Before I go we'd better have a look at this.'

  Ginger's parcel was opened. Bundles of bank-notes fell out.

  'These must stay in France,' declared Marcel.

  'As you say,' agreed Biggles. 'It's your country. Ring me tomorrow at the Yard and we'll check the details. Take care of Alex. So long. Come on, Ginger.'

  The run back from France to the Sussex depot of the secret air operators provided Biggles with an opportunity to discuss with Ginger the information gained from the night's work. The picture, he averred, was still not clear. He had not been surprised to find the man Alex at Beauvais. What had confused the issue was the double-crossing of their customers by the gang. That didn't fit. How long, he asked Ginger, could they hope to get away with that sort of treachery? The transportation of international jewel thieves was understandable; but once word leaked out in the underworld that the air service was a racket to relieve them of their ill-gotten gains, not only would that source of revenue dry up but retribution would follow.

  Another point. It seemed that there was nothing permanent about the landing arrangements in France, probably because there were so many districts where it would be possible for a small aircraft to get down.

  The location could be changed constantly, setting the police the impossible task of guessing the next. There would, of course, have to be a base somewhere for servicing and maintenance. The Ashdown Forest site might be one. 'We shall see,' concluded Biggles, as he &led across the south coast and headed for their objective.

  There were not many lights about, for it was now the dark hour before the dawn.

  Visibility remained good, and the Forest, cut into jig-saw sections by roads, lay like a stain across the face of rural Sussex. Taking a course along the southern fringe Biggles blipped his engine three times.

  Instantly four orange lights, in the form of a letter L, marked the landing strip.

  'That was easier than I expected,' murmured Biggles, cutting his engine and S turning to drop off height without losing sight of the markers. He pointed to twin red lights moving slowly along a road a mile away.

  'There's the Air Commodore,' he remarked. 'That big house near the landing strip must be part of the set-up. We may have a hot few minutes before the Chief arrives. When the operator below sees me instead of Algy he'll know something's wrong. It should take him a few seconds to get over the shock. That'll be our chance to catch him on one foot. When I get out, you lie doggo ready to take a hand should anyone reach for a gun. Okay. Here we go.'

  Biggles glided in to an easy landing on a fair surface. The landing lights died at once. A torch blinked. Behind it loomed a big modern field barn. The double doors gaped open.

  Lights inside revealed benches, tools, oil drums. A man, beckoning, retired into it.

  Biggles followed and switched off. Without haste he got down, moved clear of the machine, then turned sharply to face a masked operator.

  The shock that he had predicted caused the man to stiffen, staring, mute.

  Recovering, his right hand flashed to a side pocket.

  'Don't do anything silly,' advised Biggles calmly. 'I'm not alone.'

  Instinctively the man snatched a glance over his shoulder and looked into Ginger's gun.

  Turning back he stammered: 'Who - who are you?'

  'Police. The game's up. Don't make matters worse by losing your head.'

  'But where's my pilot?'

  'He's all right. Actually, he's one of mine. Take that mask off. You don't need it now.'

  When the man obeyed it was Biggles' turn to stare. 'I know you,' he said slowly. 'Group Captain - Brail! Are you out of your mind?'

  'Probably. I remember you, too, now. Bigglesworth. I heard you were something to do with the police.'

  'How did you get mixed up in a show like this?'

  'The old story. After I retired I started gambling. When I went broke a man came along and offered me a job in a private air concern. It sounded interesting - and easy money.'

  'Too easy,' murmured Biggles. 'What exactly have you been doing?'

  'Acting as station commander here. I guessed there was a little quiet smuggling going on - nothing serious.'

  'If nothing serious why reach for a gun?'

  'We've had a spot of bother with an opposition concern run by an American tough named Alex. I thought you might be him.'

  'Alex met the 'plane at Beauvais. Gave me a parcel of notes to bring back.'

  Brail started. 'Where is it?'

  'The French police have got it.'

  Brail spoke earnestly. 'If Alex gave you notes they'd be duds, with a time bomb in one of the packets. He's already killed one of our pilots that way.'

  'But how could he know of your arrangements?' 'He's got spies everywhere.'

  Biggles turned to Ginger. 'Go to the house and 'phone the Yard. Ask them to put you through to the Surete on the private line and warn them about a possible bomb in that parcel. Hurry.'

  Ginger dashed off.

  To Brail, Biggles said, 'You know the man you sent to France last night?'

  'No. I don't ask questions.'

  'He was a cracksman with a load of stolen jewellery.'

  Brail made a gesture of resignation. 'In that case it looks as if I've had it. All right. I may have been a dupe but I won't be a scapegoat. I'm ready to talk any time you like.'

  The Air Commodore, with Algy and Bertie, strode in.

  'Here's my Chief,' said Biggles. 'Talk to him.'

  Ten minutes later Ginger came back. 'Marcel's all right,' he reported.

  'There was a bomb in the parcel. When Alex found himself in the same car with it he had to open up.'

  'Let's get along,' said the Air Commodore. 'Inspector Gaskin can look after things here.'

  Group Captain Brail, arrested while in charge of the unautho
rized landing strip in Sussex, angry at being duped and no doubt hoping to get off lightly by turning Queen's Evidence (which, his service record being taken into account, he did), had plenty to say.

  Incidentally, his male staff in the house (he was a bachelor) were ex-service mechanics, but they knew nothing about what was really going on.

  At one time the man for whom he worked, an international adventurer who called himself Luftmann, had the sky to himself. With headquarters in Switzerland, his business was smuggling light-weight, high-duty met-chandise, and currency. This, obviously, had developed into something more ambitious.

  Alex had been one of his men, but having been sacked for pilfering had started on his own account, working from Paris. Naturally, the two gangs had clashed.

  There was no dearth of war-trained pilots in Europe. The pay was high and the work was regarded as safe, for these airmen knew better than anyone that it was practically impossible for any country to mount an adequate guard on every field on which an aircraft might land, or on which non-fragile goods could be dropped by parachute, as sometimes happened.

  Brail stated that outside these two smuggling enterprises there was reason to believe that a more sinister service was at work moving personnel; for Luftmann's pilots, night-flying without lights, had reported near-collisions with another unlighted aircraft. In fact, one of these pilots had been shot at when he nearly rammed this aircraft standing on the sands of The Wash at low tide — for which reason Luftmann no longer used that particular landing ground.

  Of particular interest to Biggles was the information that Luftmann gave his orders to Brail over the 'phone. But this form of communication was one way only. If Brail had anything to report he had to send a cable to an address in Geneva. Luftinann would then phone him, all conversations beginning with an exchange of passwords. These Brail revealed. Luftmann rarely came to England. When he did he came over on the regular service and motored down from London.

  Biggles summed up with the Air Commodore. Now that Alex was out of it the surviving members of his gang would probably take fright and disperse.

  The next man to get was Luftmann. The address in Geneva was probably an accommodation one. The thing was to get the man to England. A cable could be sent. When Luftmann 'phoned he could be told that serious trouble was brewing and he had better come over.