Biggles Takes The Case

by W E Johns

  CONTENTS

  SKYWAY ROBBERY

  THE CASE OF THE UNKNOWN AIRCRAFT

  THE RENEGADE

  BIGGLES BAITS THE TRAP

  AFRICAN ASSIGNMENT

  ALL IN THE DAY’S WORK

  THE CASE OF THE SECRET AEROFOIL

  THE CASE OF THE MYSTERIOUS GUNSHOTS

  THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE

  SKYWAY ROBBERY

  “I’LL come right down, Sir.” Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth, of the Special Air Section, New Scotland Yard, replaced the receiver of his departmental telephone, and leaving the work on which he had been engaged with his assistants, walked down a corridor to the office of his chief, Air Commodore Raymond. He knocked and, without waiting for a reply, entered.

  The Air Commodore was not alone. He had a visitor, and, as Biggles saw at a glance, an unusual one. It was a slim, brown-skinned boy of about fifteen or sixteen years of age.

  His dress was that of an ordinary British schoolboy, but there was in his deportment none of the nervousness that might have been expected in the circumstances. From the chair in which he sat his dark eyes explored Biggles’s face with a calm, thoughtful confidence.

  The Air Commodore rose from his desk. “This, Your Highness, is Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth, the officer who may be able to help you.”

  Turning to Biggles the Air Commodore completed the introduction. “This is His Highness, Prince Agra Khan, son and heir of the late Rajah of Malliapore.”

  Biggles inclined his head. “This is a pleasure, Your Highness.”

  The boy rose and held out a hand. “The pleasure is mine, Sir,” he replied in faultless English. “May I suggest that we forget about titles. I would rather you called me by my Christian name, as everyone does at school.”

  Biggles smiled faintly. “As you wish.”

  “Sit down, Bigglesworth,” invited the Air Commodore. He turned to the Prince. “I suggest that you tell Detective Bigglesworth your story as you first told it to me the other day. I’ll conclude with my part.”

  Agra nodded assent, and turning to Biggles, began: “As you will have guessed, I am from India, but I have been at school in England for three years. My father, the head of one of the smaller Indian States, was a friend of the British, and anxious for me to have a British education; which is why I am here. Now as you know, there have recently been great changes in India following the withdrawal of British control. It was rather sudden, and not knowing quite what was going to happen next, some of the Indian Princes took the precaution of sending their most valuable heirlooms, those that were portable, to England for safe custody. For the most part these consisted of jewels collected over many years, sometimes centuries. With the country all upset it was not always easy to know how to transport such objects in safety, but as you may have heard, most people hired aeroplanes if they were available.”

  Biggles nodded. “I remember reading about it.”

  “That was the course taken by my father,” continued Agra. “He was a sick man at the time; in fact, he was dying, and for that reason perhaps did not exercise as much discretion in the choice of the pilot as the circumstances demanded. It may be that he thought he was safe in employing a British Air Transport Company that was operating in India at the time, advertising itself under the name of Transjungle Airways. Anyhow, he got in touch with them and a plane was sent down. Five boxes of jewels were put on board with instructions that they were to be flown straight to England where arrangements had been made for their reception. They did not arrive. The plane took off and has not been seen since—at least, not on the ground. I think the shock of this hastened my father’s end, because the jewels represented his entire fortune.”

  “Were they insured?” put in Biggles.

  “Unfortunately, no. There was no time for that. Of course, everything possible was done in India to find the plane, but so far these efforts have produced no result. For me it is a serious matter because, although I might remain a Prince, I should be a pauper. I should have to leave the school where I am happy. In my anxiety, as soon as school broke up for the summer holidays I came here to see if the police could help. I first saw a gentleman upstairs and he sent me to Air Commodore Raymond.”

  “Why did you come to the police?” asked Biggles curiously.

  “Because I think the jewels were stolen.”

  “The plane might have developed trouble and crashed somewhere in the jungle.”

  Agra shook his head. “That is what they say in India, and it may be so. But in that case, why didn’t the pilot use his radio?”

  “I think I’d better take up the story from here,” interrupted the Air Commodore. “As it turned out, His Highness’s suspicions have had some confirmation. During the week that has elapsed since this matter was brought to my notice my enquiries have produced rather sinister results. It seems that this concern which called itself Transjungle Airways only came into being during the temporary chaos caused by the British withdrawal. It was registered in the name of Humphrey Kelly, and possessed, as far as we know, only one aircraft, a Lancaster which was bought from surplus stores in India. There is a significance about that which won’t take you long to see.”

  “You mean, a Lancaster, not being a commercial type, would be almost impossible to operate at a profit?”

  “Exactly. It leads to the supposition that ordinary charter work was not the purpose for which it was acquired; that, in fact, it might have been bought for the very purpose for which it was used—the transportation of treasure, bearing in mind that a lot of this was going on at the time. It seems that when Kelly bought the Lancaster he asked for a week’s trial to test it, which was agreed on payment of a deposit. His cheque came back dishonoured. The same with the rest of his equipment, which he got from private traders.”

  “Which means that even then he had every intention of disappearing once he had got what he wanted?”

  “It looks that way,” admitted the Air Commodore. “But let us get back to facts. The Lancaster, with a crew of two, the pilot and a mechanic, arrived at Malliapore where a landing-ground had been prepared. The boxes containing the treasure were put on board. But before the plane could take off there occurred one of those little incidents which the cleverest of crooks could not be expected to take into account. It so happened that a member of the palace staff possessed a camera, and, quite naturally, he decided to take some snapshots of an event so unusual. One of the pictures shows the pilot and his mechanic facing the camera as they waved good-bye just prior to going on board. Thus, we were able to have a good look at these gentlemen. They have been identified. I’ll deal with the pilot first. You’ll remember that he was running the charter company under the name of Kelly, but when we last knew him he was a flight-lieutenant in the R.A.F. using the name of Eustace Braunton. His last station was with the Army of Occupation in Germany, but his career ended abruptly when a court-martial found him guilty of black-market and currency activities. He was cashiered and narrowly escaped a prison sentence. On trial with him was his fitter-rigger, a certain Corporal Mailings. He was discharged with ignominy. The fitter that Braunton, alias Kelly, took with him to Malliapore, was none other than his previous partner in crime, ex-Corporal Mailings. Braunton, I may say, seems to have been a good pilot, and Mailings was a mechanic of exceptional ability. The pattern of the set-up begins to take shape.”

  “I’ll go along to the Air Ministry and have a look at their dockets,” said Biggles.

  “There’s no need. I have their records here, also some photographs. You had better have a look at them.” The Air Commodore picked up some papers that lay on his desk.

  “Would I be right if I guessed that Braunton had flown Lancasters in the R.A.F.?” enquired Bi
ggles.

  “You would. He was flying Lankies for three years, and Corporal Mailings was on the same type. Not only did he work on the same type but he actually served in the same squadron as Braunton.”

  “Did this squadron serve in India by any chance?”

  “Yes,” replied the Air Commodore slowly. “Braunton and Mailings were on the R.A.F. station at Browshera, which is about four hundred miles north of Malliapore.”

  “Fits like a glove,” murmured Biggles. “Is Browshera still used as an airfield?”

  “I don’t think so. At any rate it was abandoned when we left India.”

  “Still, now we know why Braunton bought a Lancaster and chose India for his operations,” observed Biggles. “He had had flying experience of both.”

  “Precisely.”

  Biggles thought for a moment. “How long is it since the Lancaster disappeared?”

  “Getting on for six months.”

  “And the jewels haven’t turned up anywhere? I mean, they haven’t been offered for sale?”

  “No. Every big buyer of precious stones knows about them. The trade wouldn’t touch them with a barge pole. Sooner or later someone would recognise them—unless, of course, they were cut up.”

  “Then they are probably still in India,” opined Biggles. “One thing is certain. They haven’t been flown to Europe because in whatever country the machine had to land to refuel it would have to go through the Customs and Customs’ Officers, with so much smuggling going on, are pretty hot these days. Where did Braunton base his machine?”

  “Calcutta.”

  “And he has never been back there?”

  “No. Everything there is just as he left it.”

  “Then we may assume, I think, that he has no intention of ever going back.” Biggles thought again for a little while. “Braunton may be a crook,” he resumed, “but that still doesn’t make him immune from forced landings. In spite of all this evidence there is still a chance that he cracked up in the jungle somewhere. I’ll admit that Lankies are not given to forced landings, but there is one thing about this case that strikes me as odd, to say the least of it. Let us assume that Braunton got away with the jewels. What has he done with them? To be any use he must turn them into cash. No private individual would be able to afford to buy the lot, so they are bound to come into the market. As you said just now, that couldn’t be done without someone spotting and recognising them. Suppose Braunton has hidden them—is sitting on them somewhere. What can he hope to gain by that?”

  The Air Commodore shrugged. “I’ve asked myself that question. Ruling out the crash theory it certainly looks as if Braunton has still got the stuff. Maybe he’s waiting for the fuss to die down.”

  Biggles drew a deep breath. “Well, what do you want me to do about it, Sir?”

  “I want you to find these jewels,” replied the Air Commodore. “There is nothing more I can do here.”

  Biggles smiled sadly. “I’m not a man to make difficulties, but that sounds like a tall order,” he said. “India is a big place to start playing hide-and-seek.”

  “Very well. Find Braunton and Mailings and bring them to me. Maybe I can induce them to tell me where they have hidden the swag.”

  “You mean—you want me to fly out to India?”

  “Yes. You can have any equipment you need.”

  “Not being able to speak Hindustani, Urdu, or any other Indian dialect, I shall need an interpreter. Can you recommend one I can trust?”

  “I’ll go with you,” offered Agra promptly. “You can trust me. I’m on holiday and I should recognise the jewels if I saw them.”

  “There’s something in that,” put in the Air Commodore dryly.

  Biggles looked doubtful. “True enough. But you’re a bit young for this sort of thing. If these two men are cornered they may be dangerous.”

  “No more dangerous than a cornered tiger, and I’ve faced more than one,” argued the Prince.

  Biggles’s eyes twinkled. “All right,” he agreed. “Keep in touch with me and I’ll tell you when I’m ready to start.”

  Agra’s face became all smiles. “That’s the best news I’ve heard since the jewels were lost,” he declared.

  Ten days later, a Wellington aircraft on loan from the Air Ministry, landed on the sun-parched surface of Dum-Dum aerodrome, Calcutta, and taxied ponderously to the control office. The engines died, and pilot and passengers stepped down. They were Biggles and his three assistants, Air Constables “Ginger” Hebblethwaite, Algy Lacey and Bertie Lissie—and Prince Agra.

  A middle-aged man in white ducks, who had evidently been waiting, stepped forward. “You’re Bigglesworth, I think,” he said holding out a hand. “I’ve had a signal from home to say you were on the way out and would I pass on to you all the gen about this Malliapore business that I’ve been able to collect. My name’s Crane, of the central control room. Come into my quarters; it’s cooler and we can talk there.”

  “Thanks,” answered Biggles, and introduced his companions.

  A few minutes later, with iced drinks to hand, Crane continued: “Now, what do you want to know? I’ve done all I can do here. You ask the questions and I’ll answer them as far as I’m able to.”

  “As he was based here, I suppose you knew this man Braunton, alias Kelly?” questioned Biggles.

  “Well, I saw him about, but I can’t say I got to know him at all well,” replied Crane. “Frankly I didn’t like the man. Struck me as a bit of a bounder. Thought a sight too much of himself.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “The day he took off for Malliapore.”

  “And you have heard nothing of his Lancaster since then?”

  “I wouldn’t say that exactly,” returned Crane. “You see, as soon as the Lancaster was reported missing, we put out the usual broadcast to the public for information; and, as usual, we got replies from all over the country, most of which could be discarded right away, because, as it happened, Braunton’s machine was the only Lancaster in the air that day, and he couldn’t be in ten places at once. Having weeded out the duds I sorted the most promising replies that remained. Here they are.” Crane held up a sheet of paper. “An Indian pilot, home on leave, reports that he saw a Lanky flying at about five thousand over his home at Lardoli. It was on a course slightly west of north. That’s important, because if this officer says he saw the Lanky he probably did see one. As a pilot he wouldn’t be likely to make a mistake.”

  Biggles nodded. “I agree. Where exactly is Lardoli?”

  Crane got up, and with a pointer indicated a spot on a large-scale map that almost covered one wall. “Here it is,” said he. “And I’m pretty certain that’s the way the Lanky went, because a Forestry Officer reported seeing a big machine at Gorrior, which is here, on the same line of flight. Further confirmation came from a Colonel Barstow who was shooting tiger a little farther to the north. He states that he heard a big plane pass over him very low, but couldn’t see it on account of the trees. He says he formed the opinion that it was in difficulties, otherwise it would hardly be flying so low over such country.”

  Biggles held the pointer on the line of flight thus revealed. “If that was Braunton’s machine, one thing’s certain,” he said. “He had no idea of going to Europe.”

  “That’s what puzzles me,” declared Crane. “Where could he have been going?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” returned Biggles. “You’ll notice that a continuation of that line would cut across Browshera.”

  “What of it? There’s nothing there now.”

  A ghost of a smile crossed Biggles’ face. “That may be a reason why he was making for it.”

  “But why Browshera?”

  “He served there once—in Lankies too. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “He must know every yard of that airfield, the country around it, and perhaps some of the natives in the district,” asserted Biggles. “What’s happened to the airfield?”


  “There’s nothing much there now. It was abandoned twelve months ago when the R.A.F. pulled out. They took everything worth taking with them. There were three temporary canvas hangars and they were sold to an Indian contractor, who, I imagine, took them away. I haven’t been there to see. The administrative buildings were permanent but they’d be left because it wouldn’t pay to pull them down. They were pretty dilapidated anyhow. They’re probably occupied by natives by this time.”

  “I take it no one has landed there lately?” queried Biggles.

  “There wouldn’t be any point in it. It’s not on any regular civil air route. In fact, it never was much more than an advance post built for operations against Waziristan.”

  “I think it’s time someone had a look at it,” observed Biggles thoughtfully.

  “I hope you don’t want me to go.”

  “Of course not. I’ll just waffle along and give the place the once over.”

  Crane nodded. “I see. And what are you going to do if you find Braunton there?”

  “That,” answered Biggles slowly, “depends on what else I find.”

  “You really think he may be there?”

  “I think probably he went there in the first place, although, frankly, I can’t imagine what would keep him there until now. Still, we may learn something from the local people.”

  “When are you going?”

  “If you’ll top up my machine while I’m having a spot of food in your canteen we’ll drift along right away,” decided Biggles. “It’s only about a three hours’ run.”

  “Good enough,” agreed Crane.

  There are few spectacles more depressing than an aerodrome after it has been abandoned for several months. Sun and storm, as well as human beings looking for anything worth taking, work their will on what is left behind, and the result, devoid of life, presents a dreary picture to the occasional visitor.

  Browshera, ransacked by natives, hammered by the monsoon rains and then flayed by a torrid Indian sun, was no exception. Thus thought Ginger when he got his first glimpse of it through a side window of the Wellington.