by W E Johns
As Biggles admitted to Ginger, it was an ideal place for a sinister assignation. On one side the land lay flat and deserted to Strathspey, a haunt for wild fowl. To the south rose the mountains. To the north, the rising ground that fringed the marsh was occupied by a forest of Scots pines. So much could be discerned in the waning light of a dying moon. Going on to the shadows of the trees they sat down to wait.
As a matter of detail the aircraft was a little overdue; and they were unaware of its presence until it suddenly came gliding low over them—the result, as Ginger realised, of the pilot coming over very high with his power cut off. A black, twin-engined, low-wing monoplane, landed almost without a sound. Only the engines, whispering as they idled, revealed its presence. It came to a standstill about a hundred yards away.
Biggles was already running towards it, followed by the others, when a man jumped down and looked about him. For a moment or two he did not see Biggles’s party but when he did, apparently scenting danger, he moved fast. Thereafter things happened in less time than they take to tell.
The man shouted something in a foreign language, obviously a warning to somebody in the machine—the first indication that he was not alone. And had he concentrated his efforts entirely on getting back into the plane he might have got away with it. Instead, quite unnecessarily, on the way he turned; his hand went to a pocket and an automatic spat twice, one of the shots whistling unpleasantly close to Ginger’s head. Biggles fired back, missed the man but hit the machine.
The man made a dash for safety, but in his haste forgot to look where he was going. Biggles, perceiving what was likely to happen, shouted a warning; but it was too late. The man ran too close to one of the low-set airscrews. There was a vicious smack and a shower of splinters as one of the whirling blades struck his skull. He went down as if he had been shot through the heart.
By this time, the man in the aircraft—the pilot, it is to be supposed— had of course realised that he was in a trap. He may have seen his partner fall, apparently to Biggles’ shot, which would account for, and perhaps justify, the course he took.
But the fact remains, that he was prepared to abandon his companion in order to save himself was made clear when the engines roared, as the first move in taking off. What he could not have realised was, one airscrew was shattered. The result may be imagined.
Biggles and his party flung themselves clear as the aircraft charged past them and raced on with swiftly increasing speed; but being unbalanced it immediately started a wild swerve. A cry of horror broke from Ginger’s lips as the machine, continuing its swerve, rushed headlong at the pine wood.
Whether the pilot lost his head, or whether he still hoped to get airborne, will never be known. At the last moment the machine did manage to get off the ground, but there was never the slightest chance of it clearing the trees. At the last moment the pilot must have known this, for the engines died abruptly, as if the ignition had been cut to minimise the risk of fire when the inevitable crash occurred. There came the horrible, tearing, splintering noise of a crashing aircraft. It was followed by a silence just as awful. The only sound was the drip of petrol escaping from a fractured tank.
Biggles rapped out an order to Bertie to attend to the man who had collided with the airscrew, and then raced to the crash. Ginger went with him, and at the sight that met his eyes something inside him seemed to go cold. A couple of minutes answered their unspoken question. The pilot was dead. They could only leave him lying beside the wrecked machine while they went back to Bertie.
“He’s had it,” reported Bertie briefly. “The blade took the top of his head off, poor devil.”
“All right,” said Biggles, in an expressionless voice. “We’ll get to the phone and put a police guard over this mess until I’ve had a word with the Chief.”
Little remains to be told. At the subsequent enquiry, held behind locked doors, it was revealed that the plane that had crashed on the mountain, a new secret prototype, and its cargo, had been stolen in America. The pilot, presumably in the hope of escaping pursuit, had made a wide sweep to the north before heading for a European destination. What this was to have been was suggested by the type of machine that had crashed in the trees, and the nationality of its occupants.
Perhaps the most important outcome of the affair was what followed the arrival at the London Post Office of the foreign agent who had given Lowenski orders to recover the uranium. A telegram was waiting for him, ostensibly from Lowenski, but, in fact, one that had been planted by the police. The man collected it and was afterwards followed to what turned out to be the London headquarters of a nest of international spies. A police raid on the building yielded information that had been sought for a long time.
For security reasons, not a word of the story appeared in the newspapers, so it is unlikely that those who sent the machine to fetch the uranium ever knew what became of it and its crew. To save Lowenski from possible reprisals, he was officially sent to prison. Unofficially, he was compensated for the loss of his business and given facilities to emigrate to a British colony, where, some time later, his parents, whose release had been secured by political negotiation, joined him. So, on the whole, he came out of the business better than he could have hoped. As far as Biggles was concerned, it was just another job of work buttoned up.
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THE RENEGADE
“I’VE a sticky job here I shall have to ask you to look at.” Air Commodore Raymond pushed the cigarette box on his desk to within Biggles’ reach. “Strictly speaking,” he went on, “it’s not our affair—but you know how these things happen. The docket has been passed to me and I shall have to deal with it.”
Biggles lit a cigarette. “Who’s being a nuisance now?”
“A fellow by the name of Vandor. Captain Langley Vandor. The captain part of it, I may say, he supplied himself. It flatters his vanity to pretend that he’s been in military service. He lives in Malaya, where, as you know, the administration is having trouble in large doses.”
“What’s this fellow Vandor done?”
“It isn’t so much what he’s done as what he’s doing.” The Air Commodore’s voice became tinctured with acid. “This rascal has been under suspicion for some time, but we now have definite information that he’s supplying the bandits with arms and ammunition.”
“What nationality is this unpleasant piece of work?”
“By registration, and in appearance, British. By blood he’s a Eurasian—or at any rate, a quarter Asiatic. His grandfather was a Merchant Navy skipper, a good type of the old school. When he retired from the sea he married, in Singapore, a girl of mixed breed, became a planter, and made a fortune in the rubber boom. With his money he established a big estate at a place called Marapang, in the north-east corner of Malaya. He had a son, apparently quite a decent fellow, who married an Irish girl, and when the old man died, inherited everything. Captain Langley Vandor was the result of that union, and he soon revealed himself to be a throwback of the worst possible type. His parents are dead now and he has the estate.” The Air Commodore stubbed his cigarette.
“When this boy was old enough,” he continued, “he was sent to a public school in England, and it was there that his crooked streak first showed itself—at least, as far as we know. We don’t know what his behaviour was like at home, but he had obviously been thoroughly spoiled. He was expelled from school for theft. Apparently he was a thief by nature because he didn’t need the money: his people gave him an ample allowance. When the father heard of this he ordered the boy home. Not a bit of it. Instead, the young rascal drifted to the Port of London where he got in with the worst types of Oriental seamen. He was often in trouble. We know now that he was in an opium-smuggling racket. There is also reason to suppose that he killed a Chinese sailor by stabbing him. When he was twenty-one his father died, officially from snakebite, although native rumour has it that this young devil actually bribed a Malay seaman to put a cobra in his father’s bed. His mother was alre
ady dead. She died of heartbreak, they say. However that may be, Vandor went back to Malaya and took over the estate, to which he was of course entitled. We were glad to see him go. If he didn’t like us, and he made it clear that he didn’t, we certainly didn’t like him.
“We heard little of him for a couple of years because Marapang lies away back in the jungle. Moreover, he let it be known that British visitors were not welcome. According to native report he boasted of his white blood but behaved like a coloured tyrant. He came to Singapore occasionally. He learned to fly at the club at Kuala Lumpur, bought his own light plane, and laid down an airstrip through the paddy fields at Marapang. Nobody at Singapore wanted to know him which probably infuriated him, and his visits became less frequent. That’s how matters stood when the war broke out.”
Biggles tapped the ash off his cigarette. “One so-called Britisher of that sort can undo all the good work of a decent administration.”
“Exactly. What Vandor did during the Japanese occupation we don’t know, but we can imagine he was a useful collaborator. Anyway, he stayed in the country. When the Japs went he was still at Marapang, and that brings us to the present trouble.
“When the bandits started their murder campaign they used a variety of weapons, which was only to be expected; but among them was a large sprinkling of German Spandau rifles. These, we can suppose, were supplied to the Japs by their German allies during the war. We thought the ammunition for these rifles would soon run out. It didn’t. The supply seemed inexhaustible. We tried to find out where these cartridges were coming from. I should explain that when we returned to Malaya after the occupation we ordered all these firearms and ammunition to be brought in. Some were, some were not. The Japs had left a lot of stuff behind, grenades and war material of all sorts; much of it just disappeared. We know now that Vandor had sent out word that he was prepared to buy this stuff; and a good many natives, instead of turning in what they found, did sell it to Vandor.”
“And now the murder gangs are at work I suppose Vandor is selling the stuff to them?”
“That’s it—at an enormous profit, of course.”
“This murder business must have suited him?”
“So well that if he didn’t set it going he was soon supporting it.”
“How did you get this information?” asked Biggles curiously.
“In a roundabout way, and as a result of Vandor’s own disgraceful behaviour. In one of his frequent fits of passion he had beaten to death one of his plantation managers, a Chinaman by the name of Mr. Wong Loo, who had behaved very decently to our fellows who were taken prisoner in the war. Wong Loo had a son, an educated boy who didn’t lack for courage. He had a pretty good idea of what Vandor was doing, and for a time he actually worked in Vandor’s big house to confirm it. He had seen his father killed and was out for revenge. Having got all the gen on the place he bolted and made his way to British Headquarters in Singapore, where he told his story. Vandor, he says, still has a big stock of stuff, stored in what used to be a coach-house at the east end of the house. It seems that not content with making a fortune he hopes to see the British pushed out so that he can become the big noise in Malaya.”
“And this is still going on?”
“Presumably. We’ve only just heard about it.”
“Why not winkle this scoundrel out of his lair?”
The Air Commodore shook his head. “An obvious question, and the answer is just as obvious. It couldn’t be done. Marapang always was a difficult place to get to; with the country swarming with bandits it would be a stiff job for an army. Vandor would hear about such an expedition long before it got there and retire into the jungle, taking his stuff with him. You’ve seen the Malay jungle so there’s no need for me to tell you what it’s like. Another snag is, the north-east monsoon is due to break shortly.”
“If you want to destroy this dump how about a stick of bombs?”
“The Higher Authority says no. Such drastic action which might kill innocent people, can’t be justified on the unsubstantiated word of a single Chinese boy.”
“So what?”
“There’s only one way to make absolutely certain of mopping up this infernal arsenal, and you know what it is. With Vandor himself we’re not particularly concerned, but every one of his cartridges may mean the loss of a British life.” The Air Commodore caught Biggles’ eyes for a moment. “Someone pretty high up has suggested that the Air Police have just the personnel and equipment for the job.”
“Meaning me?”
“Meaning you.” The Air Commodore lit another cigarette. “There’s a landing-ground,” he suggested meaningly.
“What about roads?”
“There aren’t any. There’s a jungle track, about sixty miles of it, bristling with cut-throats. You can forget about roads. No doubt Vandor has that particular approach well covered.”
“I take it you’ve got air photos of this place, Marapang?”
“Of course. We got the Air Force to take a series, both vertical and oblique.”
“I’d like to have a look at them.”
The Air Commodore took a batch of prints from the docket and passed them over. “The stuff is stored at the end of the east wing. Young Wong, the Chinese boy, helped us to draw a sketch plan of the place. I have it here.”
Biggles picked up a magnifying glass and studied the photographs thoughtfully. “The only flat patch for miles seems to be the paddy fields and the airstrip that runs through them,” he observed. “The paddy fields will be under water so they’re no use to us. The rest is plantation and jungle.” He picked up a pencil and pointed. “Do you know anything about this sheet of water?”
“That’s an artificial reservoir made by damming a stream. It’s in hilly country, a thousand feet above the house. A track leads up to it. The reservoir provides the estate with water and hydro-electric power.”
“I see.” Biggles pointed again. “And this, I imagine, is the hangar?”
“Yes. It’s a primitive, palm-thatched, frame building.”
“Does Vandor still run an aircraft?”
“Yes, but we don’t know where he goes in it, or how he gets his petrol. The boy says the machine is kept in order by a Tamil mechanic who once served in the Burmese Air Force.”
“What’s the machine?”
“A Gipsy Moth.”
Biggles nodded. “All right, sir,” he said. “I’ll keep this stuff and memorise it while I’m getting organised. Before I go I’ll let you have the general scheme. The fewer people who know about it the better, but you’d better warn the Commander-in-Chief, Singapore, that I’m on the way, and ask him to give me the usual facilities.”
“I’ll do that. Is there anything else you want?”
“I’d like one of those velvet-lined pocket cases holding demolition and incendiary bombs that were issued to Special Air Service operators in the war.”
“I’ll see to it,” promised the Air Commodore.
Biggles got up. “The main objective, I take it, is the destruction of the war material?”
“Yes. If you can get hold of Vandor at the same time so well and good, but don’t take too many chances to do that. Kill the ammunition.”
“I’ll see what I can do about it,” promised Biggles.
A week after the conversation in the Air Commodore’s office a “Skud” amphibious aircraft of the Air Police Flight droned its way northward from Singapore through a cloudless sky under stars that were being dimmed by a rising moon, nearly full. The altimeter registered ten thousand feet, but still the Skud climbed slowly as it crossed the mighty bowl between horizon and horizon. Far away to the east the moonlight glimmered faintly on the waters of the South China Sea. Below and to the west, an inky void was all that could be seen of the vast Malayan jungles, although here and there a point of light occurred to mark an uneasy human habitation. Ahead there was nothing but darkness. Through it the machine droned on, a shadowy shape in that lonely world between earth and sky that only
airmen know.
At the controls, with Ginger beside him, sat Biggles, his face expressionless, eyes brooding on the sombre emptiness beyond the windscreen or roving the luminous dials of the instrument panel that filled the cockpit with a pallid glow. He sat a little higher in his seat than usual, but this was only because he was sitting on a parachute.
After a silence that had lasted for some time he said to Ginger: “You’re quite clear about what I want you to do?”
“Absolutely. But I still think it’s taking a frightful risk to drop in by brolly. If you miss the open area—”
“If you’ll hold the machine steady I shan’t miss it,” broke in Biggles. “There’s no wind. If I hit the trees—well it wouldn’t be the first time.”
“It would be safer to let me put you down on the reservoir.”
“A safe way is not always the best way. You’d be heard getting off again.”
“I could wait.”
“I may be some time, and you might be seen, in which case you’d have to abandon the machine or take it off. Either way the place would be on the alert and that would make things more difficult for me.”
“Algy and Bertie are in reserve to cover that contingency.”
“I prefer it my way. The fewer people there are on the ground the less risk will there be of discovery. This job must be done before Vandor can get a whiff of what’s in the wind.”
Ginger said no more. He knew it was not much use arguing with Biggles once his mind was made up.
The aircraft droned on through the tropic night, still climbing, Biggles keeping the coastline in sight to check his position. The moon soared higher, its reflected light turning occasional rivers and lakes to shapeless blobs of quicksilver, which by contrast only accentuated the density of the jungle background.
It was nearly three o’clock in the morning when Biggles, after checking the configuration of the coast with the map that lay on his knees, turned inland, his eyes probing the sombre world below. The engines died as he throttled back, easing the control column forward, so that the only sound was the melancholy sighing of air over the outer surfaces of the machine.