Biggles and the Little Green God Read online

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: NOT LOST BUT FAR FROM HOME

  CHAPTER 2: THE AIR COMMODORE’S TALE

  CHAPTER 3: THE AIR COMMODORE CONCLUDES

  CHAPTER 4: BIGGLES ASKS SOME QUESTIONS

  CHAPTER 5: A THANKLESS ASSIGNMENT

  CHAPTER 6: BIGGLES MAKES A CALL

  CHAPTER 7: A WARNING AND A DECISION

  CHAPTER 8: BARRENDO GIVES HIS VERSION

  CHAPTER 9: DANGEROUS FLYING

  CHAPTER 10: ASTONISHING NEWS

  CHAPTER 11: THE CRASH

  CHAPTER 12: DISTURBING EVENTS

  CHAPTER 13: REVELATIONS

  CHAPTER 14: BIGGLES TAKES A CHANCE

  CHAPTER 15: A STRANGER INTERVENES

  CHAPTER 16: A TAKE-OFF TO REMEMBER

  CHAPTER 17: BIGGLES PLAYS THE LAST CARD

  CHAPTER 1

  NOT LOST BUT FAR FROM HOME

  BENEATH the intense blue sky of illimitable space only one thing moved. With the world to itself it appeared to dawdle so slowly across the face of heaven that it might have been a microscopic insect that had set itself the impossible task of crawling across the roof of outer space. Alone in a universe from which all life had vanished it was as conspicuous as a fly on a whitewashed ceiling.

  In fact, it was an aircraft. To be specific, a twin-engined Merlin on the establishment of the Air Police at Scotland Yard, London, England. With its altimeter registering 24,000 feet it was droning its solitary way due west.

  Below, rolling away in a shimmering heat-haze to the eastern horizon was a flat plain, a grim landscape of low shrub, rock and sand, that comprises much of the hinterland of Argentina. Ahead, looking across the aircraft’s course like the end of the earth was the formidable chain of snow-capped giants that form the mighty Andes, their icy flanks glittering like broken glass, blue, green and crystal white, their lower slopes merging into a purple fantasy of deep shadows marked here and there by the vertical stripe of a torrent of melting snow that plunged down from the frozen world above.

  At one point a volcano announced its presence in solemn but spectacular majesty. Every twenty seconds, with the punctuality of a chronometer it belched a plume of yellow sulphurous smoke towards the stratosphere, there to lose itself and disperse slowly in the direction of the unseen stars.

  Beyond the mountains, as yet concealed from the eyes of the two men in the cockpit of the plane, Air Detective-Inspector ‘Biggles’ Bigglesworth and Sergeant-Pilot Algy Lacy, lay the machine’s destination, the long, narrow strip of the Republic of Chile, nearly three thousand miles from north to south yet only just over a hundred miles wide, with the Pacific Ocean stretching away beyond to the lost horizons of far distant shores.

  Somewhere below the plane, although the pilots could not hope or expect to see it, was a notice board, painted red, on one side the word Argentina and on the other side, Chile. This was the official boundary mark of the two countries.

  Somewhere, too, still a long way ahead, beyond the mountains, lay the Merlin’s ultimate objective, the airport of Los Cerrilos that serves Santiago, the capital of Chile, seven miles from the city and perched seventeen hundred feet above sea level.

  From the altitude to which the Merlin had climbed to clear the tremendous obstacle that lay across its course nothing on the ground could be seen in any detail. There was no outstanding landmark, except the erupting volcano which, being one of many perhaps normally dormant, could not be identified by name and therefore served no useful purpose even though it may have been noted on the map of the country. There was no sign or indication of human life. The pilots might have been looking down on a section of the moon’s surface. Indeed, it seemed almost impossible that a land so apparently inhospitable could support a population, and this, to some extent, was true: but both knew that in the high tops of this remote region still dwelt the descendants of the original native inhabitants, never really conquered, wild yet dignified, their expressions revealing nothing of their thoughts after centuries of being governed — and in the early days maltreated — by white men from what was to them another world; Europe, a world of which they knew nothing and in which they had no interest.

  The plane droned on through an atmosphere that was becoming more and more unstable as it neared the mountains. Both pilots looked often and long at the ground below as if they were searching for something, as in fact they were. So far they had seen no sign of what they sought, although this, in the circumstances, did not surprise them. An aircraft, particularly a broken one, is a very small mark indeed in open country, much less in a world as vast and chaotic as the one below. But Biggles, his eyes for ever going to his compass, knew they were on course and was satisfied that his navigational ability was reliable.

  Presently, noticing Algy staring down with a look of concentration on his face he said: ‘What are you looking at?’

  ‘Nothing in particular. Just looking,’ Algy answered simply.

  ‘See anything?’

  ‘Nothing of the remotest interest to us in our search.’

  Biggles went on. ‘I thought there was just a chance we might spot something as we crossed the plains, before I started climbing. I wouldn’t hold out much hope for the rest of the trip even if it’s there. What isn’t virgin forest on the lower ground will I imagine be nothing but broken rock. I’m going to climb a little higher to take plenty of room between those two peaks dead ahead. If I know anything the air near them will be turbulent and we’re likely to hit some stinking bumps. Feel as if you need a sniff of oxygen? It might freshen you up in more ways than one.’

  ‘No thanks. I’m okay, though it was decent of you to think of it.’

  The Merlin rocked on through the rarefied atmosphere towards the eternally ice-capped peaks that towered in its path like sentinels guarding the entrance to the polar regions of a dead planet.

  By this time the reader will no doubt be wondering for what possible reason an aircraft of the British Air Police could be operating over foreign territory so far from its base. To discover this it will be necessary to turn back the clock for six weeks and begin the operation where it really started, in London, at Police Headquarters, Scotland Yard.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE AIR COMMODORE’S TALE

  ‘YOU’VE proved yourself singularly adept at solving mysteries, Bigglesworth, I wonder what you could make of the one that has just been handed to me?’ Air Commodore Raymond, chief of the Special Aviation Section at Scotland Yard, sat back in the chair behind his desk and considered his senior operational pilot with a suspicion of a twinkle in his eyes. In a mildly bantering voice he went on: ‘I have a feeling that you like being confronted with a Chinese puzzle which nobody else seems able to solve.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more wrong, sir,’ replied Biggles, a trifle coldly. ‘It has been my fate to scramble through life jumping from one problem to another. They give me sleepless nights, and the only reason I have anything to do with them is because in my youth I was taught to obey orders; and here you give the orders. One of these days I shall come to my senses, buy a little plot of land in Cornwall and grow violets for a living.’

  ‘When that day comes, Bigglesworth, if it ever does, I shall know you’re about ripe for a mental home,’ rejoined the Air Commodore, sadly. ‘I hope it won’t happen yet because I’ve been presented with as pretty a little riddle as you ever heard, and I thought it might amuse you to help me out with it. Still, never mind, if you don’t feel like it.’

  ‘You’re deliberately provoking my curiosity,’ protested Biggles. ‘I’ve fallen for that line before, but now, like an old cock sparrow, I look hard at a trip before I take a peck at it. However, I can listen.’

  ‘That’s better,’
the Air Commodore said, approvingly.

  ‘When, just now, you mentioned a Chinese puzzle, I trust you were not speaking literally?’ Biggles said.

  ‘Could be.’

  ‘In that case, let me say at once, sir, that if there’s any idea of my aviating a flying machine to China, my pulses are not exactly throbbing with impatience to set a course for the Far East.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to hear the story? It’s an interesting one, if not entirely original.’

  ‘If you have time to tell it, sir, I should be able to find time to listen.’

  ‘Good. It’s a long one. I’ll begin at the beginning.’

  ‘That’s always a good place to start,’ agreed Biggles.

  ‘No doubt you will have heard a well-known piece of poetry, a regular party piece, entitled The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God?’

  ‘And a crazy ass known as Mad Carew who tried to pinch it. Oh yes, I know it. Too well. A fellow in my squadron, after a few drinks on guest night, used to climb on the piano and recite it between hiccups. He was slightly madder than Mad Carew, so I needn’t tell you what finally happened to him. Don’t say someone else has tried his hand at snatching a little yellow god?’

  ‘You’re on the beam, but in this case the god happens to be green, with a single big red eye.’

  Biggles shrugged a shoulder. ‘The colours are immaterial. People who fiddle about with other people’s gods, no matter what colour they may be, usually get what they deserve. Which particular god was this one?’

  ‘Nobody seems to be quite sure; but he must have been somebody very important.’

  ‘Gods usually are important to the people who create them. What was so special about this one?’

  ‘His eye, only one, set in the middle of his forehead, was a ruby of exceptional dimensions.’

  Biggles sighed. ‘The old story. When will people learn that if they want their gods left alone they should make them of brass with glass eyes? Then there’d be no temptation to lift them off their pedestals. What was this one made of — gold, I suppose?’

  ‘No. Jade. An exquisite piece of work carved from a solid lump of green jade. Weighs about 2lb.’

  ‘Where did it start life?’

  ‘The experts can’t agree on that.’

  ‘I get the drift. It’s been lost and you’ve been asked to find it.’

  ‘As usual, you’ve hit the nail right on the head.’

  ‘And nobody knows where it might have gone?’

  ‘Right again. By now it could be almost anywhere in the world.’

  Biggles smiled lugubriously. ‘That’s charming. I begin to understand what you mean by a conundrum. With the whole world to play in someone’s in for a nice long game of hunt the needle. What a hope! And you say you don’t even know where it came from in the first place.’

  ‘That’s right. But there is a theory. I’ll tell you the entire story and you can form your own opinion. As far as we’re concerned it begins in London. In the East End. A strange place, you may think, for an idol to start its career. This is how it happened. You’ve heard of Petticoat Lane?’

  ‘Of course. The junk market near Aldgate East, open on Sundays, where, they say, you can have your watch pinched at one end of the street and sold back to you at the other end.’

  ‘It isn’t quite as bad as that nowadays. However... one Sunday morning, some time ago, a man named Sam Bates, a cockney, just an ordinary fellow, was strolling through the market looking for a little birthday present for his wife, when his eye fell on a curious object, a sort of ornament, on a stall mixed up with a lot of other odds and ends. He thought it was rather pretty and would look well on the mantelpiece at home. To make the story short he bought it for twelve shillings, took it home and stuck it on the shelf. There it remained for I don’t know how long. Years. He hadn’t a clue as to what it really was. To him it was just a lump of polished stone carved into the shape of an ugly little man sitting cross-legged on his bottom with his hands on his knees. A piece of red glass had been stuck in his forehead. It was hollow behind so that the light shone through it. This gave it a rather sinister expression. That didn’t worry the Bates family, to whom the image became known as Old Joe. Sometimes it was given to the kids to play with, to keep them quiet. They used to stand it on the cake at Christmas.’

  ‘I’ve heard of this sort of thing happening before,’ Biggles said. ‘I remember, some little time ago, a man buying for his wife what was thought to be a string of black beads. He paid thirty bob for it, and it was knocking about the house for years till someone discovered the beads were black pearls.1 Not surprisingly, for a whole string of black pearls is practically unknown, this lucky man got thirty thousand pounds for it from a West-End jeweller.’

  ‘Those pearls may have come from the same place as the green god,’ said the Air Commodore. ‘I told you the story was not entirely original. But let me go on. This is where Fate takes a hand. One day Sam Bates brought in a friend for a drink. The friend noticed Old Joe squatting there on the shelf, and picking it up remarked, as a joke, that it would be funny if the red eye turned out to be a ruby. That was all. Nothing more was said, but after his friend had gone Bates kept thinking about the possibility. Once the seed had been sown he couldn’t get it out of his head. He was a poor man, but he wasn’t a fool. For the first time he had a long hard look at the quality of the carving and realized the thing might be worth more than the twelve bob he’d paid for it. He was out of work and could do with some money; so one day he put Old Joe in a shopping bag, took a bus to Regent Street and went into one of the leading jewellers.’

  ‘And asked what Old Joe was worth?’ suggested Biggles, who was now following the story with mounting interest.

  ‘Don’t jump the gun,’ requested the Air Commodore. ‘He was a cockney, and cockneys have a reputation for being shrewd. No. He showed his one-eyed little god to an assistant and asked how much it would cost to have it cleaned. When the assistant could get his breath he said he would have to ask the manager and took it into the office. Presently the manager came out with a queer expression on his face and asked Bates where he had got the idol. Maybe it was the look in the manager’s eyes that gave our cockney friend an inkling of the truth. He said: “That’s my business.”

  ‘“Would you like to sell it?” inquired the manager.

  ‘Bates said he might if the price was right. The manager said he would have to think about it and suggested Bates came back the next day when he would make him an offer. It was left like that. Bates went home but was back the following day. The manager said he could offer ten thousand pounds for Old Joe, although he didn’t call it that. As I have said, Bates was no fool. He said it was worth more so he wasn’t selling at that price. The manager raised the offer to twelve thousand, and finally the sale was made at twelve thousand five hundred. Bates went home walking on air, as the saying is, with a cheque for that amount in his pocket. The story got into the newspapers. Later they reported that the idol had been sold to a private collector for a sum that was not disclosed, but no doubt gave the jeweller a handsome margin of profit.’

  ‘So everybody was happy,’ murmured Biggles.

  ‘For the time being,’ agreed the Air Commodore. ‘But the story doesn’t end there, not by a long shot. Naturally, following the publicity, the question arose, how did this jewel find its way to Petticoat Lane, of all places? There’s a theory, now generally accepted, about that. In fact, it’s hard to find another.’

  ‘What’s the theory?’ inquired Biggles, reaching for a cigarette.

  ‘This is where we have to delve into history,’ informed the Air Commodore. ‘You may, or may not, know, that in the eighteenth century the Chinese invaded Burma from the north. Having grabbed the country they made war on India. That, of course, led to trouble with us, and without going into details a war started that went on for years. The man responsible for the hostilities was Theebaw, King of Burma. However, it all ended in 1886 when British troops marched i
nto Mandalay, the capital, and a treaty was signed. Now, for a long time there had been a legend that in the king’s palace in Mandalay there was a fabulous treasure.’

  Biggles groaned. ‘Not another treasure!’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to look for it,’ the Air Commodore said quickly. ‘There was no treasure. When the troops entered the palace they found nothing — so they said. If there ever had been a treasure it had vanished. So it was reported officially; but not everyone believed this. An ugly rumour was started that the treasure had been looted and, of course, the British troops were blamed. The story was denied, but by now you’ll see what I’m driving at.’

  ‘Was the treasure ever found?’

  ‘Never. But let’s face it. The rumour may not have been without foundation. Troops have been known to help themselves to souvenirs. It used to be a fairly common practice; but not so much nowadays. We’re talking of a long time ago, and there is a chance that the little green god may have gone into a soldier’s knapsack. Mind you, this is only theory. There’s no proof that anything of the sort happened, but we must admit it could have happened. That, some people believe, was how this particular idol, with a whacking great ruby stuck in its forehead, found its way to England — bearing in mind that Burma has always been famous for its rubies, and the Chinese have always been masters in the art of carving jade. The little green god may be very old indeed.’

  Biggles agreed that the theory sounded reasonable.

  The Air Commodore went on: ‘If it’s the correct one we can assume that the soldier who brought the thing home had no idea of its value, and if he had he wouldn’t be likely to talk about it, looting being a crime for which he could have been shot. What happened to the thing over the years that followed the campaign we don’t know, and are never likely to know. All we know for certain is, it eventually found its way to Petticoat Lane and was offered for sale in a tray of junk without anyone realizing what it was or what it was worth. Actually, Bates, the man who stumbled on the truth, didn’t live long enough to enjoy his good fortune. Within a week he had been knocked down by a car and killed. He was out on a spree, spending some of his new-found wealth, so it might be said that the idol was indirectly responsible for his death. Queer, isn’t it, how often these outstanding jewels leave a trail of death and disaster behind them. The famous Hope Diamond, for example.’2