by W E Johns
“I wouldn’t,” drawled the American.
“Why not?” inquired Biggles.
“It’s bad country—bad for the ‘ealth,” was the cold reply.
Ginger was conscious of a dryness in the mouth. He heard the conversation, as it were, from a distance. For his eyes were on the American’s left hand The little finger was missing.
CHAPTER VII
GLOVES OFF
To Ginger, certain things were now clear. The American was Grindler. Of that there was no doubt. The description tallied. And Grindler knew who they were. He had not known when he returned to the room, but Scaroni had known. Naturally, he being a pilot, would recognise the aircraft, a description of which had evidently been furnished by Preuss. To Grindler, a layman, one aircraft was much as another, but Scaroni had lost no time in making him acquainted with the true state of affairs. There was no need to wonder what Grindler carried under his left arm, that he should so automatically reach for it.
When the shock of this disconcerting discovery had passed, and Ginger’s nerves returned more or less to normal, Biggles was ordering coffee from a slatternly Italian waitress. Except for a ghost of a smile Biggles’s expression was unchanged; but as soon as the waitress had gone he said softly, “Okay, I’ve seen it. We’re on thin ice, but take it easy.”
Grindler and Scaroni were also engaged in low and earnest conversation. Grindler—his hand was still under his jacket—appeared to be emphatic about something. The Italian looked nervous.
“I fancy Grindler is advocating a little gun-play, to settle any further argument,” murmured Biggles.
“What if he has his way?”
Biggles shrugged. “I’m afraid there would be casualties. In America a gangster doesn’t climb to the top of the tree unless he’s pretty snappy with a gun. It only needs a spark to set things alight.”
“That’s comforting,” grunted Ginger sarcastically.
At this juncture Scaroni left the room abruptly. Through the window Ginger could see him in serious conversation with the airport manager. The gangster lolled in his chair, picking his teeth nonchalantly with a match-stalk; but his eyes never left Biggles.
The waitress brought the coffee. She, too, was obviously nervous. Then Scaroni, after a glance at the sky, hurried back to the restaurant. The drone of an aircraft became audible. The airport manager came in and presented Biggles with a bill for the petrol, which he paid in English money rather than display his official carnet.
The plane, a Caproni bomber adapted for commercial use, landed, and this broke the tension. Scaroni and Grindler picked up their luggage—two small suit-cases—and walked to the door, where the American turned.
“Remember what I said about your ‘ealth,” he said, and followed the Italian to the Caproni. No passengers alighted, so they went straight on board. The aircraft took off again, heading east.
Ginger drew a deep breath. “Phew! When we barged in here we bit off plenty,” he asserted. “I didn’t like that atmosphere at all. What’s the programme? Not much use staying here, is it?”
“No use at all,” returned Biggles. “What in thunder are Scaroni and Grindler up to, going to Egypt in a civil plane? That’s a poser. We may as well push along that way ourselves. We’ll keep an eye on them, and make contact with Algy and Bertie.”
“It looks to me as if we’ve sort of stirred things up,” opined Ginger. “As I see it, Preuss came here to meet the gang. Baumer must have been flying the Renkell. Scaroni obviously recognised our machine, which means that Preuss must have told him about our arrival at Augsburg. As the Swan and the Renkell were here together, Baumer, as well as Scaroni, must have heard what Preuss had to say. Scaroni put Grindler wise when he came in. In short, the whole bunch now knows about us. What puzzles me is, why did the Renkell bring Scaroni and Grindler here, when it might as well have taken them to Egypt—presumably to Alexandria.”
“The probable answer to that is, it wouldn’t do to have the Renkell seen flying over Egypt, where it could hardly fail to attract attention. Scaroni and Grindler prefer to arrive at Alex in a manner less conspicuous. As far as the police are concerned they are two ordinary, well-behaved, passengers. We know they’re crooks, but knowing isn’t enough; we’ve got to prove it, and that’s something we can’t do—yet. They made this the rendezvous because the manager here is on their pay-roll. He made that clear by the way he argued about petrol until the two machines were well on their way. Well, we shan’t find out what Scaroni and Grindler are up to in Alex by sitting here. Let’s push on. We shall be there long before they are.”
They paid the bill for the coffee, went out to the Spur, and took off. Biggles headed west.
“Here, you’re going the wrong way!” cried Ginger.
“For the moment,” replied Biggles. “I don’t want that airport manager sending word along to Scaroni and Grindler that we’re following them.”
Biggles edged towards the sea, but as soon as the landing-ground had dropped below the horizon he swung round and raced east in the track of the Caproni. Flying high, they passed Benghazi at sunset, giving the aerodrome a wide berth in order not to be seen should the Caproni be there. They went on and landed at Alexandria in the light of the brilliant Egyptian moon. Having checked in and parked the machine they made their way to the aerodrome hotel, where they found Algy and Bertie, looking extremely bored, waiting for a message.
Without delay Biggles gave them a concise résumé of events.
“I’ve got a job for you two,” he concluded. “In a few minutes the Caproni will land. This isn’t the time to start a rumpus, so Ginger and I will keep out of the way; but neither Scaroni nor Grindler knows you, so you should be able to keep an eye on them without arousing suspicion. I want to know what they do. You’ve taken rooms here, I suppose?”
“Of course,” confirmed Algy.
“All right. Ginger and I will do the same. Let us know what happens. You’ll find us in our rooms. I’ve done enough flying for one day, so I shan’t move unless something startling occurs. This tearing round the world is hard work.” Crossing to to the office, finding that there were no single rooms available, he booked a double room for Ginger and himself.
Half an hour later they were lying on their beds discussing the situation, when Bertie entered hurriedly.
“You’re soon back,” remarked Biggles, looking surprised.
“Back? We haven’t been anywhere, old boy,” declared Bertie. “No need. Scaroni and Grindler are staying right here in the hotel—and when I say staying I mean staying. They’re in their rooms now. We heard them giving orders that they were not to be disturbed. They’re to be called at eight-thirty in the morning, to catch the nine o’clock plane.”
Biggles sat up. “Catch what plane?”
Bertie rubbed his eyeglass briskly. “I know it sounds silly, and all that, but they’ve booked passages to London.”
“The deuce they have!” ejaculated Biggles. “By what line?”
“Our own—British Overseas Airways, or whatever they call it now. They travel in the Calpurnia, the Empire flying-boat that leaves at nine.”
Biggles thrust his hands into his pockets. “That beats cock-fighting,” he declared. “What on earth can they be going to do in London? I should have made a thousand guesses as to where they were bound for—and been wrong every time. Bertie, you and Algy will have to go with them. Slip down and book two seats.”
“I say, what fun,” murmured Bertie, and departed.
In five minutes he was back. Algy came with him. “Nothing doing,” he informed them. “The boat’s full. Every seat has been booked.”
Biggles lit a cigarette. “This has got me completely cheesed,” he confessed. “All right. There’s only one thing to do. You’ll have to follow them right through to London in the Mosquito. Find Raymond, and tell him I want these two men shadowed. Cable me any news. Ginger and I will hang on here, in case they come back.”
“Okay,” agreed Algy.
“You’d better
go and get some sleep,” advised Biggles. “Tell the office we all want calling at eight o’clock sharp. We’ll have breakfast in our rooms.”
Biggles had a restless night, and he was up, dressed, at eight o’clock, when breakfast was brought in. Shortly afterwards Algy and Bertie arrived.
“The more I think of this development the less I like it,” averred Biggles, walking about with his coffee in his hand. “I swear there’s a trick in it somewhere, but I’m dashed if I can see it.”
“Is this trip to London a red herring, to lure us off the scent?” suggested Algy.
“I’ve considered that, but I don’t see how it can be,” answered Biggles. “This trip must have been planned before we arrived on the scene. At any rate, Scaroni and Grindler had arranged to come to Alex. They booked to London the moment they got here, so that must have been part of the plan. No, I’m convinced that this was all fixed up some time ago. Scaroni and Grindler don’t know we’re here, so they’re going on with their scheme— whatever that may be. We’ll come down with you and watch the machine out, to make sure they actually travel in it. If they do, you Algy, and Bertie, can waffle along to England. You needn’t hurry. In the Mosquito you’ll be there before they are.”
“Right you are,” agreed Algy.
At a few minutes to nine, from a safe distance, they watched Scaroni and Grindler join the Calpurnia and take their places. At nine-five the flying-boat had still not taken off, and there appeared to be a consultation between the officials.
“What’s the argument about, I wonder?” murmured Ginger.
“Some of the passengers haven’t turned up,” answered Biggles. “I’ve seen only six people get into that machine, not counting the crew. Ah! It looks as if they’ve decided to go without them,” he concluded, as the Calpurnia was cast off.
The engines came to life; the big aircraft taxied majestically into position for its take-off, and in a few minutes was in the air, heading west.
“Well, they’re on board, that’s certain, so we may as well be getting along, too,” suggested Algy, and Biggles agreed.
“I still don’t understand it,” Biggles told Ginger, some little while later, after the Mosquito had taken off. “Even if a few of the passengers had been on board before we arrived, that flying-boat took off with half its seats empty. Yet when we tried to book we were told that every seat had been taken. It’s not an unusual thing for one, or perhaps two, passengers, to cancel, but that a dozen should do so strikes me as being too odd to be reasonable. I’m going to have a word with the traffic manager. Come on.”
In a few minutes they were in the traffic manager’s office. Biggles showed his credentials.
“What can I do for you?” queried the official.
“Last night we were told that the nine o’clock plane for London had been booked to capacity,” asserted Biggles. “It took off half empty. What went wrong?”
The traffic manager looked nonplussed. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Occcasionally we get a cancellation, but these bookings didn’t trouble to cancel. The passengers just didn’t turn up, so they won’t get a refund on their tickets. In the end we had to go without them. We can’t hold up the air mail.”
A peculiar expression came over Biggles’s face. “Do you mean you carry the London mail?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Was there anything particularly valuable in it?”
“Not as far as I know,” answered the official. “There was the usual bag of registered letters, of course. Why do you ask?”
“Because,” replied Biggles, “there happens to be an expert jewel thief among the passengers. He has a partner with him, too.”
The manager sprang to his feet in agitation. “Good God! You don’t tell me such a thing!”
“That’s what I am telling you,” rapped out Biggles. “What’s wrong?”
The colour had drained from the official’s face. “I must get to the signals-room and get in touch with the radio operator at once,” he said in a voice hoarse with alarm. He started for the door.
“Just a minute,” snapped Biggles. “Why the sudden anxiety?”
“Because,” answered the traffic manager, “there are jewels in that aircraft worth a king’s ransom. It’s the regalia of the Rajah of Mysalore. His Highness is already in London for the Empire Conference. He offered to lend his regalia to some exhibition in aid of the Red Cross.”
“How were these jewels being carried?” asked Biggles, in a brittle voice.
“By special courier. The little man in the dark overcoat was carrying them in an attaché-case. Look out of my way, I must radio—”
“I’m afraid anything you can do will be too late,” broke in Biggles. “I see the scheme, now. Those seats were never intended to be occupied. They were booked by the crooks to keep the machine empty. We’ll do what we can. The best thing you can do is to try to get in touch with that Mosquito that followed the Calpurnia out. It’s flown by one of my men. Tell him to try to pick up the Calpurnia and keep it in sight. Come on, Ginger.”
Biggles ran to the hangar and ordered the Spur out. He was still panting when he climbed into his seat, and sent the machine roaring into the air.
“I’m losing my grip,” he told Ginger furiously. “I should have suspected something of the sort. It was all so simple.”
“But I don’t see what the crooks can do,” demurred Ginger. “Suppose they get the attaché-case? How can they get away with it? The Renkell isn’t an amphibian. It can’t land on the water to pick them up.”
“You haven’t by any chance forgotten that Scaroni is a pilot?” grated Biggles. “Once Grindler has disposed of the crew, Scaroni can take the Calpurnia anywhere. I’m going to gamble that he’ll head for the beach on the African side in order to make contact with the Renkell at some pre-arranged spot. We’ll chance it, and follow the coast. We couldn’t do anything over the sea, even if we picked up the Calpurnia.”
For nearly an hour, flying on full throttle, Biggles followed the flat sandy beach of the North African coast. On the right hand lay the Mediterranean, an expanse of colour representing every shade of blue and green, according to the depth of the water. To the left, the barren earth, still littered with the debris of war, rolled back until it merged into the haze of the far horizon. The haze was unusual, but the weather had deteriorated somewhat; banks of fleecy cloud were drifting up from the west. The shattered remains of Mersa Matruh, Sidi Barrani, and Sollum, villages of poignant memory, flashed past below, and Biggles had just remarked that Tobruk came next when he moved suddenly, leaning forward in his seat.
“There they are!” he exclaimed. “Both machines are on the beach. I’m afraid we’re going to be just too late.”
Looking ahead, Ginger saw the great flying-boat on its side in shallow water. It appeared to have been driven ashore at high speed regardless of damage. A short distance away, on the smooth, dry sand, just beyond the reach of the foam that made a lacy pattern on the beach, stood the Renkell transport, its idling airscrews flashing in the sparkling atmosphere. Even as Ginger watched he saw two men jump from the flying-boat and run towards the Renkell. One carried a small, black attaché-case. He threw a glance at the approaching aircraft and then raced on, and Ginger knew they had been seen.
In the Middle East distance is deceptive, and the Spur was still a mile away when the Renkell took off. The instant its wheels were clear of the ground, it banked steeply and sped away towards the south, racing low over the wilderness.
“We’ve got the height; we ought to be able to catch him,” said Biggles tersely.
“You’ll use your guns?” queried Ginger.
“You bet I will, if he won’t go down,” answered Biggles. “This is a better chance than I dared to hope for—to catch them red-handed, with the swag on them.” His thumb covered the firing button on the control column. “Keep your eyes on the sky,” he ordered. “The other Renkell, the Wolf, may be prowling about in th
ose clouds.”
The words had hardly died on his lips, and Ginger had started to turn, to man the gun-turret, when above the roar of the engines came the harsh grunting of machine-guns. In a flash Biggles had dragged the control column back into his right thigh, sending the Spur up in a wild zoom; but quick though he had been, several bullets struck the machine. Ginger felt the vibration of their impact. As he grabbed for his guns the Wolf tore past, pulling up at the bottom of its dive, so close that Ginger flinched, thinking they had collided. He heard Biggles’s guns snarling, and then a douche of ice-cold spirit on his legs wrung from him a cry of dismay. He clawed his way to Biggles. It was necessary to claw, literally, for not or an instant was the Spur on even keel.
“He got us!” he yelled. “The tank’s holed. There’s petrol all over the place. Hold your fire, or we shall go up in a sheet of flame.1” He dropped into his seat, and through the windscreen saw the Wolf vanishing into the cloud. The transport had already disappeared.
Biggles cut his engines and turned back towards the beach. His face was pale with anger and chagrin.
“I’m game to go on if you are,” offered Ginger.
“There’s no sense in committing suicide,” rasped Biggles. “I should have guessed that the Wolf would act as escort to the transport. I took a look round, but it must have been in those infernal clouds. He got the first crack at us. Baumer knows his job all right.”
Biggles glided down towards the area of beach off which the flying-boat lay.
“But just a minute!” exclaimed Ginger. “This means they’ve got three pilots. Scaroni was in the Calpurnia. Baumer could have flown the transport or the Wolf, but not both.”
“That’s pretty obvious,” agreed Biggles, as he went on down and landed on the sand.
Another machine, flying high, was just coming in from the sea. It was the Mosquito.
* * *
1 In air combat, petrol vapour can easily be ignited by the flashes from the muzzles of the guns.