by W E Johns
“Queer arrangement,” murmured Biggles. “I’ll bear it in mind. By the way, what are we going to do for aircraft?”
“The Air Force has more machines than it needs at the moment, so you can help yourself. I’ve already fixed that up with the Air Minister. He will provide us with documents that will enable you to refuel at any R.A.F. station, and call on service personnel for maintenance. That’s a temporary arrangement. The police will need an air force of their own. I’m busy on that now. For the moment we have been allocated a hangar at Croydon, so you’d better regard that as your base. I don’t suppose I shall see much of you, but officially, your headquarters will be at the Yard, so I’ll fix you up with an office.”
Ginger grinned. “Imagine me, a copper!”
The Air Commodore rose. “Go and see what you can cop,” he invited. “Now I must be getting back. I’d like you to make a start as soon as possible, otherwise the regular operating companies will set up a scream. The public may jib at flying in machines that are liable to be shot down, and if they did we could hardly blame them. Good-bye for the present. Come and see me when you check in at the Yard.”
The Air Commodore went out to his car.
CHAPTER II
PURELY TECHNICAL
BIGGLES sat for some minutes deep in thought, watching the grey thread of smoke that rose from his cigarette to the ceiling.
“There’s one point about this Raymond didn’t mention,” he said slowly. “You’ll notice that all these jobs were directed against British concerns. The Rajah is a British ship, so the pearls would be insured with a British company. The diamonds were the property of the South African Government. Jaggersfontein Mining Concession, Limited, is a British company. Why pick on Britain?— or was that just a fluke? After all, other countries fly valuable freight, but apparently they have had no trouble. That these are no ordinary crooks we can judge by the size of the stuff they go for. They think in millions, and they’ve hit us a tidy crack already.”
“You mean, the bloke behind the scheme may have his knife into us, so that apart from the swag he has the satisfaction of revenge?” suggested Algy.
“It was just an idea,” returned Biggles thoughtfully. “But let us for a start tackle the thing from the technical angle. That’s our only advantage over the regular police. I can well understand that they don’t know where to begin on a case like this. Normally, they rely largely on the type and method of the crime to give them a slant on the cracksman. But the man pulling these jobs doesn’t come into the category of common thief. He may not even have a police record. After all, think of the qualifications he must hold. He must be a first-class pilot, navigator, and mechanic.”
“A lot of fellows hold those qualifications today,” reminded Ginger.
“True enough,” agreed Biggles. “But they do at least limit the possibilities. Men with those qualifications can earn good money. Most men turn crook when they can’t pick up cash any other way. Why should this chap go off the rails? It comes back to the point I made just now. There is more behind this than mere money. The chap made a fortune out of his first crack—the pearls. Why does he go on?” Biggles lit another cigarette.
“We can line up one or two facts right away,” he resumed. “One. This bloke has a base aerodrome. Two, it is hidden away in some remote place beyond the view of possible spectators. Remember, after a machine has taken off, while it is climbing for height, it can be seen from a long way round. Three, the chap has access to a considerable quantity of petrol and oil. He isn’t getting it from a public airport, so he must have a private dump. We may assume that the landing-ground is near the dump or vice versa.”
“And the dump might be anywhere on the face of the globe,” put in Algy cynically.
“I don’t altogether agree with you there,” argued Biggles. “Here again there are certain limitations—but we’ll come back to that presently. I’m most interested in the aircraft. Forget the description of the unidentified plane reported by that sailor and run over those you know; by a process of elimination you’ll soon see that there aren’t many machines with the speed, range, and adaptability, of this particular kite, which can hop from the Middle East to North America and from South Africa to South America. The plane may, or may not, have landed in America. It might have dropped the swag to an accomplice and flown straight back to its base. Much would depend, of course, on where it started from, but I can only think of two machines with such a performance.”
Algy stepped in. “Our latest long-distance fighter, the Spur, which was just going into production when the war ended, has an outstanding range, so they say.”
“That’s one of the two I had in mind,” acknowledged Biggles. “But there is only one Spur, and that’s still under test. Had it been pinched we should have heard about it. Apart from that, I visualise something larger, because there is reason to suppose that at least two or three men are engaged in this racket.”
“The Spur is a two-seater,” Algy pointed out.
“I know,” answered Biggles, “but in this racket several specialised jobs are involved. First, there is the crew, although I admit that the pilot, navigator, and mechanic might be one man. It takes more than one to handle a heavy engine, though; I should say there are at least two airmen. Then there must be someone who knows the jewel trade pretty well. Not only would such a man be needed to dispose of the gems, but only a fellow who has had some association with the precious stone business would know about the pearl harvest in the Persian Gulf, and the times and method of transporting diamonds from Alexander Bay to Capetown. Then what about the safe in the Rajah? The back was cut out. It may have been an old safe, but that job couldn’t have been done with a pair of pliers. It sounds more like the work of a professional crook, one who has handled safes before.”
“These people may be using more than one aircraft,” suggested Ginger. “There is certainly a fighter, or a machine fitted with guns, in the party. Having done a job, say, in Africa, there would be no point in carrying guns and ammunition all the way to America. A transport plane could do that—unless the fighter returned to its base and dismantled its military equipment before going on to the States.”
Biggles nodded. “There may be something in that,” he assented. “In fact, that theory hooks up with the other machine—or rather, machines—I had in mind. Just before the war ended there was a rumour in the service—it must have leaked out from Intelligence, as these things do— that a new German designer named Renkell, Ludwig Renkell I think it was, had two red-hot jobs under test. From all accounts they were something super. One was a twin-engined two-seat fighter with some novel features that gave it an extraordinary turn of speed—both fast and slow. The other was a modification of the same type, also a twin-engined job, in the light bomber class, on the lines of our Mosquito, but slightly larger. They didn’t get into production, but both prototypes whizzed through their tests—at least, so our agents reported. I wonder what happened to those machines? I should have thought our people would have taken them over, but come to think of it I haven’t heard a word about them.”
“‘Why not ring old Freddie Lavers at Air Intelligence?” suggested Bertie. “He might know something about them.”
“I think I will.” Biggles reached for the phone and put the call through on the private wire.
“Is that you, Freddie?” he began. “Biggles here. I want a spot of pukka gen about those two super prototypes that rumour alleged were under test at Augsburg... a new bloke named Renkell designed them... yes... yes. Well, I’ll go hopping?” Biggles fell silent, listening. Twice he threw a curious glance at the others. Occasionally he murmured, “Ah-huh.” Finally, he said, “Many thanks, Freddie. See you sometime. So long.” He hung up with irritating deliberation and turned slowly in his chair.
“What do you know about that?” he said softly. “Both machines have disappeared. At any rate, our people haven’t been able to lay hands on them. They say they can’t be found. They had gone when our people
arrived to take over the aerodrome. When questioned, the workmen just looked blank and said they knew nothing about such machines.”
“Something fishy about that, by Jove!” swore Bertie. “Dirty work at the cross-roads, and so on. What about the blue-prints?”
“They can’t be found, either.” Biggles smiled, a peculiar smile. “Neither can Renkell be found, or his test pilot, a chap named Baumer. Of course,” he went on quickly, “it would be silly to jump to conclusions. Several machines disappeared from Germany after the last war before we could get hold of them. One designer had the brass face to admit, some time afterwards, that he took his machines away because he considered that they were his personal property.”
“Absolute poppycock,” declared Bertie, polishing his eyeglass. “They belonged to the German Government, so they should have been handed over to us.”
“Of course—but the Germans are like that,” murmured Biggles dryly. “To get back to the point, Freddie said that as far as he knew, Renkell was a genuine designer. He also said he knew nothing about Baumer except that before he became a test pilot he was with Rommel in North Africa, and that he was pally with Julius Gontermann, the Nazi liaison officer between Hitler and the Luftwaffe.”
“Surely Gontermann is one of the Nazis our people are still looking for?” said Algy quickly. “He’s wanted for crimes in Poland and Czechoslovakia. I read something about it in the paper within the last day or two.”
“I believe you’re right,” returned Biggles quickly. “Gontermann would know, or guess, that he was on our black list, so he was pretty certain to bolt when Germany cracked. If Baumer was a pal of his he might well ask him to fly him out of the country. If Baumer agreed, nothing would be more natural than for him to pinch the best machine in his charge—with or without Renkell’s permission. They might have taken Renkell along with them.” Biggles shrugged. “Of course, we may be barking up the wrong tree, but this is worth following up. I wonder where we could get particulars of Gontermann’s history and private life? Raymond would know, but he can’t have got back to his office yet.”
“There was quite a piece about Gontermann in the paper I mentioned,” said Algy.
“What paper was it?”
“The Times.”
“Can you remember what it said?”
“I didn’t read it,” admitted Algy. “I just saw the headline, that’s all.”
“The paper should be in the salvage bag, if it hasn’t been collected. See if you can find it.”
Algy went off, and presently returned dragging a sack. “I saw the notice within the last two or three days, so the paper should be near the top,” he announced. He picked up several newspapers and glanced at the dates. “This should be it,” he went on, spreading a crumpled copy of The Times on the desk. He glanced through the pages. “Here we are!” he cried. “I’ll read what it says:
“No news has yet been received concerning the whereabouts of the Nazi party chief, Gontermann, against whom there is a long list of indictments. Julius Hans Gontermann was born at Garlin, Mecklenburg, in 1902. He was destined for a military career, but as a cadet he was dismissed for some misdemeanour and went into politics. In this he was also unsuccessful, and was next heard of as an associate of Max Grindler, German-born Public Enemy No. 1 in the U.S.A. When Grindler was run down by G-men Gontermann turned State’s evidence and got off with a light sentence. On his release from prison he took up crime on his own account, specialising as a jewel smuggler between Europe and America. For this, in 1930, he served a three years’ sentence and was then deported. Returning to Germany he joined the Nazi party, and his subsequent advancement may have been due to a streak of ruthless cruelty which first manifested itself during the Spanish Civil War, when he was attached to the Condor Legion, and later, in Czechoslovakia and Poland. In March 1942 he was decorated by Hitler with the Knight’s Insignia of the Iron Cross for his work in the First Air Fleet under Generaloberst Keller, and was shortly afterwards promoted to Hitler’s personal staff. Gontermann is good-looking, but tends to ostentation in his dress and manners.”
Algy looked up from the paper. “That’s all.”
“Well—well,” murmured Biggles. “How very interesting. So Gontermann was a crook. There’s an old tag, ‘once a crook always a crook’. If he was attached to the Condor Legion in Spain he must know quite a bit about flying.”
“A pukka jail-bird, by jingo!” chuckled Bertie.
Biggles nodded. “Baumer must have known about his murky record, which tars him with the same brush—otherwise he wouldn’t have associated with him. Of course, there is still no hook-up between this bunch and the gang we’re after, but we’ve got to start somewhere, and the Gontermann-Baumer alliance offers possibilities, if only on account of their combined qualifications. Even if they are not our birds we can safely assume that they’re up to no good.”
“Where do we start looking for them, old warrior?” inquired Bertie.
“Suppose we start by eliminating the countries where they are not likely to be,” answered Biggles. “If they’ve bolted out of Germany, and presumably they have, there aren’t many countries where they’d be safe—certainly not in Europe. Gontermann would hardly dare to show his face in Spain, or any of the late occupied countries. Nazis are not popular even in Italy. Yet they would certainly have a definite objective, a parking-place, in mind, when they bolted, and it would not be unreasonable to suppose that it is a place where one of them has been before. In fact, the existence of a suitable hide-out may have led to the flight. They could only know of it from personal experience. But we may be going a bit too fast. I’ll think this over while we’re getting organised. Let’s go to town. In the morning I’ll go to the Air Ministry about equipment. We’ll also inspect the new office Raymond has promised us. Then I think we’ll take a trip.”
Ginger opened his eyes wide. “A trip? To where?”
“To Germany,” replied Biggles. “I think we’ll start at Augsburg. That’s where the Renkell prototypes started from. We might strike what, as policemen, we should call a clue.”
“Ha! Finger-prints and what-not?” murmured Bertie.
“Not exactly,” returned Biggles, smiling. “Nowadays, even second-class crooks know better than to make such elementary blunders. Aside from that, it would hardly be surprising to find Renkell’s finger-prints in his own works. But we may find something— and when I say that I’m still thinking on technical lines. We’ve done enough guessing. Let’s get along.”
CHAPTER III
THE YELLOW SWAN
THE following afternoon two aeroplanes glided down to land on the aerodrome at Augsburg. Both were obviously military machines, although the identification markings were British civil registration letters. The faint outline of red and blue concentric rings could just be followed under a new coat of sombre grey. One machine was a Mosquito, a type that had become famous during the war for its daylight “skip-bombing” raids. The other was the Spur, a twin-engined, two-seat, high-performance fighter that was only prevented from making history by the termination of the war. Together, the two aircraft taxied to the control building. From the Spur emerged Biggles and Ginger. Algy and Bertie dropped from the Mosquito and joined them. All wore civilian clothes. There had been some discussion as to whether they should all go to Germany. Biggles had pointed out that four made a large party, but in the end he had decided to take the two machines, the Mosquito being in the nature of a “spare” should one be needed.
On the way to the office he paused for a moment to indicate a group of buildings on the right. “Those are Willy Messerschmitt’s works,” he observed. “Those on the left must be the new Renkell outfit. They weren’t here the last time I came over.” He walked on until he was halted by an R.A.F. sergeant who inquired his business.
“Detective-sergeant Bigglesworth, of the C.I.D., to see Wing Commander Howath,” answered Biggles.
“This way, sir,” said the sergeant. “The Wing Commander is expecting you.”
He led the way to a room where an officer in R.A.F. blue, wearing the badges of rank of a wing commander, was sorting out some papers.
Smiling, the wing commander held out his hand in greeting. “Hello, Biggles. What the devil’s all this about?” he asked. “I got a signal from the Air House to say you were on the way. They tell me you’ve gone over to the police force, to try to recover some jewels or something. It should be rather fun, if they pay you well—”
“The bloke at the Air House who told you that has got the wrong idea,” interrupted Biggles coldly. “At the moment my new job is neither funny or profitable; but if I am successful I shall get more out of it than amusement and cash. You see, some people have been murdered, two pilots among them. I didn’t know these chaps, but as they were in the same line of business as ourselves something ought to be done about it. I know that murder, to most people who like to read about it, means a gory body in a dismal cellar. Being shot down in an aircraft may lack the blood-curdling thrill of throat-cutting on a dark night, but it’s murder just the same. In this case the murderer shot his unsuspecting victims through the back, which makes it worse. I aim to catch this skunk. That’s all. Now let’s get on.”