Biggles in the Underworld

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: AN UNUSUAL BRIEFING

  CHAPTER 2: A MEETING AND A WARNING

  CHAPTER 3: ROUTINE INQUIRIES

  CHAPTER 4: PROBLEMS FOR BERTIE

  CHAPTER 5: WHAT HAPPENED AT THE CLUB

  CHAPTER 6: A SHOCKING DISCOVERY

  CHAPTER 7: WHAT BECAME OF BERTIE

  CHAPTER 8: PAUSE FOR SPECULATION

  CHAPTER 9: A SLENDER CLUE?

  CHAPTER 10: STILL ON THE TRAIL

  CHAPTER 11: BIGGLES GETS TOUGH

  CHAPTER 12: THE TRUTH COMES OUT

  CHAPTER 13: MORE MYSTERY

  CHAPTER 14: THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS

  CHAPTER 15: HOT WORK IN COLD BLOOD

  CHAPTER 16: MORE QUESTIONS WITHOUT ANSWERS

  CHAPTER 17: HOW IT ALL ENDED

  CHAPTER 1

  AN UNUSUAL BRIEFING

  Air Commodore Raymond, head of the Special Air Police at Scotland Yard, picked up a document that lay on his desk and placed it in front of his senior operational pilot who had just entered the room and seated himself opposite. ‘Does that face mean anything to you?’ he asked.

  Biggles looked at a photograph, or rather, two photographs, one full face and the other profile, and observed that it was the usual police record of a man who had passed through their hands. He shook his head. ‘Not a thing,’ he answered. ‘I can’t recall ever having seen him. Nice-looking fellow. Who is he?’

  A ghost of a smile flickered briefly across the Air Commodore’s face. ‘Yes, he’s a good looker,’ he agreed. ‘And if you met him in certain circumstances you might think his charm of manner was in keeping with his appearance. As a matter of fact he’s the most venomous little viper that ever slithered a crooked course through a civilized society. He is, or was, known to some of his associates in the underworld as Nick the Sheikh. Others called him Lazor the Razor, from his habit of carrying an old-fashioned cut-throat razor, his favourite weapon, in his breast pocket.’

  ‘Oh, delightful,’ murmured Biggles.

  ‘We aren’t sure about his real name, but there’s reason to think that he was christened Nicholas Lazor,’ went on the Air Commodore. ‘Actually he’s a British subject. He must be, as you’ll understand presently, although he might be one of these queer crossbreed types that can be thrown up almost anywhere between Liverpool and the Middle East. But wherever he started life he was taught to speak English by the right people. Just the merest trace of accent that’s hard to place. He also has more than his fair share of brains, and what’s more, he knows how to use them.’

  ‘Okay, sir. So this is Nick the Sheikh. What’s his usual line of crookery?’

  ‘He hasn’t a usual line. He’s tried everything. One might suppose he’d been educated at some college of crime, if there was such a thing, and passed out with top honours. Had he cared to go straight he could have made his mark in any line of business or profession; but apparently he’s one of these men who think they get more out of life by going off the rails. They seem to find ordinary life too dull.’

  ‘There are such people,’ murmured Biggles, lighting a cigarette and studying the photograph. He saw an alert, clean-shaven face, swarthy, with smooth, shining jet-black hair brushed back without a parting. At the sides it had been allowed to grow to just below the ears in what are sometimes called ‘sideboards’. In all there was something about the man that did not look truly Western European. His age might have been anything between thirty and forty.

  ‘Well, what do you make of him?’ inquired the Air Commodore.

  ‘As you say, sir, he’s a nice-looking piece of work, but to me he’d be improved if his eyes weren’t quite so close together. I know the type. In some curious way they remind me of the cold, calculating glint you see in the eyes of a bird of prey. He looks that slick sort of charmer that women go for. If I’m any judge of the human species I’d say he fancies himself more than a little.’

  ‘How right you are,’ confirmed the Air Commodore.

  ‘What’s he done?’

  ‘Almost everything there is to do that’s crooked. Forgery, blackmail, safe-breaking, the lot. He speaks five or six languages, which makes it easy for him to get around. One of his accomplishments is plausibility. He seems to be able to make anybody believe anything, and that puts him in the front rank of confidence tricksters. In Australia he sold land that didn’t exist to immigrants just out from England. He’s utterly without scruple. Not one redeeming feature. He’d take pennies from a blind man’s cap.’

  ‘If you know so much about him why isn’t he inside?’ queried Biggles, looking surprised.

  ‘He was,’ replied the Air Commodore bitterly. ‘But he broke out of Dartmoor where he was doing a seven-year stretch for felony and causing grievous bodily harm. For once he had made a mistake. He had found lodgings with an old lady of nearly eighty who was foolish enough to keep her life savings under her bed. He had them, of course. He thought she was so infatuated with him that she wouldn’t go to the police; but he was wrong. She did.’

  ‘What a dirty little swine the fellow must be,’ muttered Biggles.

  ‘He’s all that, and more. We found him. One of our plain-clothes men, an officer named Rigby, spotted him, and was bringing him in for questioning when the Sheikh turned on him and laid his face open with his razor. There’s more than one man in London with a scar from his cheek to his chin. It’s known as the Sheikh’s initials. Watch out he doesn’t write his name on you.’

  ‘Let him try it,’ growled Biggles.

  ‘Well, we got him,’ continued the Air Commodore. ‘That was seven years ago. Two years ago he broke gaol and might have gone into outer space for all the sign we could find of him. We know now where he was hiding. You’d never guess.’

  ‘To save time I won’t try.’

  ‘In the R.A.F.’

  Biggles stared. ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘It’s true. So he could only be a British subject or he wouldn’t have been accepted. He enlisted in the ordinary way, with forged references, of course, and turned out such a brilliant hand on aero engines that he was selected for flying training, and having got his wings was promoted to sergeant-pilot. Then, when he was warned that he was on a detachment for the Far East he deserted — did his disappearing act. So now, with his other accomplishments, he’s a pilot. Which is why I’ve brought you into the picture.’

  ‘Well stiffen the crows!’ breathed Biggles.

  ‘Let me finish,’ requested the Air Commodore. ‘There’s still some more to come. Two days ago he was spotted in London by Rigby, the officer whose face he slashed. He’s retired now, but he still has a memory for faces. The Sheikh wouldn’t recognize him because he has now grown a beard to hide the scar on his face. Rigby tipped us off. He says the Sheikh was immaculately dressed and obviously not short of money. Apart from anything else we’d like to know where he’s getting the money.’

  ‘Hadn’t the Sheikh disguised himself in any way?’

  ‘Rigby says no. He looked just the same; a shade older, that’s all. That again would be his vanity, no doubt. He liked himself as he was, and was always meticulous about his appearance.’

  ‘Where did Rigby see this smart little rat?’

  ‘Walking down Park Lane. He appeared to have just come out of the Barchester Hotel.’

  ‘What did Rigby do?’

  ‘What could he do? He realized he couldn’t phone us and trail the Sheikh. He couldn’t do both. So he followed him and watched him go into a smart joint in Soho called the Icarian Club. Does the name mean anything to you? It’s a private club and only members are allowed in. A big Negro keeps guard at the door.’

  Biggles answered: ‘I’ve heard of the place, but I’ve never been in it
. As, according to the ancient Greeks, Icarus was one of the first men who tried to fly, I’ve always imagined that the name was intended to attract flying men, mostly civil pilots. I’ve never heard anything against the place except that it’s a bit pricey. I’m not much for night clubs, anyway.’

  ‘That may have been the idea, but as we’ve had no complaints we’ve had no cause to go near the place. At all events, that’s where the Sheikh went. Hanging about near the door was a young chap who apparently had been waiting for him. They went in together. That’s when Rigby went to a phone box and called the Yard. Inspector Gaskin dashed round with some men, but by the time he got there the Sheikh and his young friend had gone.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Well, what could Gaskin do? To have asked questions might have done more harm than good by warning the Sheikh that he’d been spotted, in which case he wouldn’t be likely to go near the place again. Hoping the club might be one of the Sheikh’s regular haunts, we’ve kept an eye on the place ever since, but so far he hasn’t shown up.’

  ‘What about the fellow he met there?’

  ‘We haven’t seen him, either. We don’t know his name, but we have a description of him. Now I must tell you something else, the real reason why I decided it was time you took a hand. About the time Rigby thought he saw the Sheikh come out of the Barchester Hotel the pearls of a certain Lady Crantonby, worth a small fortune and normally kept in the hotel safe, disappeared from the bedroom where her maid had put them out for her to wear that night at the opera. What does that suggest to you?’

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘It suggests to me that the Sheikh had been on the job.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘With the pearls in his pocket he went to the Icarian Club to hand them over to a pal, who happens to be a pilot, who was standing by to receive them and fly them out of the country. He may have flown the Sheikh out at the same time. The Sheikh would know he’d be crazy to try to sell the pearls here, so the usual problem would arise of how to get them abroad — Paris probably, as that’s the big market for pearls.’

  ‘Good. We’re thinking on the same lines. Anything else?’

  ‘One little point. Assuming he has them, the Sheikh must have known just when the pearls would be taken from the safe to Lady Crantonby’s bedroom. That wasn’t guesswork. How did he know? It looks as if he may have turned his charm on the maid and got the information from her.’

  ‘The possibility did not escape us. The woman has been questioned, of course, but she swears she knows nothing. She’s about forty. She’s been with her ladyship for ten years and has an unblemished record. She’s terribly upset.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Biggles said dryly. ‘When a woman falls for a man, particularly a woman of that age, she’ll say anything to protect him. But let’s be fair. Supposing the Sheikh has been making love to her, if he’s as plausible as you say she’d have no reason to suppose he was a crook, in which case the whole thing must have come as a shock to her. She may not have told the Sheikh when she was putting out the pearls in order that he could help himself to them. Suspecting nothing, prompted by his crafty tongue, she may have let the information he wanted slip out by accident, as it were.’

  ‘That’s what may have happened. While she insists she doesn’t know the Sheikh we can’t touch her. We haven’t enough evidence to arrest her even on suspicion of being an accomplice.’

  ‘Given time she may change her mind. If in fact she knows more than she’s prepared to tell, when she’s had time to think things over and realizes how she was led up the garden path, and that she’s never likely to see her charming boy-friend again, her affection is likely to turn to hate. Even so, that isn’t likely to help you find this slick crook, so where do we go from here?’

  ‘It struck me that if the chap the Sheikh met at the Icarian Club is a pilot, you might be able to get a line on him. He must almost certainly know the answers to our questions. For instance, where the Sheikh is hiding. He’s the man we want. The pearls are a secondary consideration. While he’s at large this little scoundrel is a menace.’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘I’ll see what I can do, but there isn’t much to work on and this sort of sleuthing isn’t really in my line. I’ll have a look round in my own way.’

  ‘Do that. You know what the Sheikh looks like from this photograph and we have a pretty good description of his young pal of the Icarian Club. This is what Rigby says.’ The Air Commodore picked up a sheet of paper.

  ‘He’s about six feet tall, fair, with flaxen hair and sandy eyelashes and conspicuously bright, pale blue eyes. When Rigby saw him he was wearing a yellow, polo-necked pullover, sports jacket and putty-coloured corduroy trousers. That’s as much as I can tell you, but it should be enough. Remember, we’ve nothing against him — yet; but the fact that he associates with the Sheikh gives us an interest in him. Rigby didn’t know him, and he knows most of the regulars by sight. He’s been through our Rogues’ Gallery, but he couldn’t find him there, either. So it rather looks as if he isn’t a professional criminal; and being seen once with the Sheikh doesn’t necessarily make him one. So let’s not jump to conclusions. It’s just possible he’s unaware of the type of man he’s got himself mixed up with.’

  Biggles got up. ‘Okay, sir. If that’s all. I’ll see what I can do. From what you’ve told me it would be a pleasure to lay this sneaking Sheikh by the heels. I suppose he couldn’t actually be a sheikh in his own country?’

  ‘I think that’s most unlikely. I’d say he gets his name either from the dark colour of his skin or because of his way with women. Don’t forget he has another name.’

  ‘You mean, the Razor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can be sure I shall bear it in mind, sir,’ were Biggles’ last words as he left the room.

  He made his way back to his own office where he found his police pilots waiting to hear the purpose of his interview with the Chief.

  ‘What’s the drill, old boy?’ inquired Bertie Lissie.

  ‘Ever tried looking for a needle in a haystack?’ asked Biggles, seating himself at his desk.

  ‘Never. It has always struck me as a daft way of wasting one’s time.’

  ‘Then prepare yourself, because that’s what we’ve been asked to do.’

  ‘What fun.’ Bertie polished his monocle. ‘How big is this bally haystack?’

  ‘Pretty big.’

  ‘About the size of London?’

  ‘Larger.’

  ‘England?’

  ‘It might,’ Biggles said sombrely, ‘turn out to be the size of the world.’

  ‘In that case, old boy, we shall have to find ourselves a mighty big sieve.’

  ‘How big is the needle?’ asked Algy Lacey.

  ‘Man size. A nasty little crook known as Nick the Sheikh. Sometimes he’s called Lazor the Razor from his trick of pulling a razor blade across the face of anyone who gets in his way.’

  ‘Charming,’ murmured Bertie. ‘I’m glad you warned me.’

  ‘There’s nothing funny about this,’ Biggles said seriously. ‘This little gentleman can fly aeroplanes. That’s where we come in. Now if you’ll pipe down, I’ll tell you more about it.’

  Biggles repeated the briefing he had received from the Air Commodore. When he had finished there was silence for a moment. Then Algy said: ‘How do you suppose we tackle a job which could as well be done by any constable on the beat?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, although no doubt the usual routine has already been put into operation and every police officer in the country will have his eyes open for a glimpse of this little gentleman who swings a razor. In fact, that must have been going on since the Sheikh broke gaol two years ago. That he has only recently been spotted suggests he has a snug little hole in which he can lie low.’

  ‘Why has he suddenly come into the open?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Maybe he was running short of money. Maybe he feels that now the hue and cry has d
ied down he’s been forgotten. Or perhaps he’s getting bored, or careless. I wouldn’t know. It’s this clue of the fellow he met at the Icarian Club, who may be a pilot, that has brought us into the picture. He’s the man we’ve got to find, and for that we have the organization and facilities which the ordinary copper hasn’t got. It isn’t much use standing at the street corner waiting for him to appear. We’ve got to nose round the places where such a man is most likely to be.’

  ‘And where’s that, old boy?’ queried Bertie.

  ‘I haven’t had much time to think about it, but at first sight I think our best plan would be this. For a start I shall check the Air Force List for Short Service Officers who have recently gone back to civvy street. These fellows will go on flying if they can find a way. I shall also join the Icarian Club and have a look at the members. Bertie, you can check the register of all private owners and waffle round the flying clubs for sight of this blue-eyed lad we’re looking for. Ginger, you can do the same thing round Service stations. There’s a chance he may still be a serving officer — perhaps someone the Sheikh met when he was in the service. You can also try the R.A.F. Club. Algy will keep in contact with us from here. I’m afraid this is going to be a bit of a bind, but there’s nothing else we can do — unless you have any suggestion.’

  No one had, so there the matter was left.

  ‘Right,’ said Biggles. ‘Let’s get on with it.’

  CHAPTER 2

  A MEETING AND A WARNING

  Biggles, now a member of the Icarian Club, sat in the lounge and without much interest regarded the little crowd of both sexes that lined the bar, talking loudly above the clatter of a fruit machine and ‘hot’ music coming over the radio. The time was 8.0 p.m. and the club was beginning to get busy.

  He had been sitting there, on and off, for nearly a week, and for all the good he had done he might as well have stayed at home. This sort of establishment made no appeal to him. He knew no one and he was getting bored. He couldn’t just sit there doing nothing. He was expected to have a drink occasionally for this was the purpose of the club, one of a thousand others within a mile of Piccadilly Circus, the centre of night life in London, their purpose being a meeting-place where alcoholic drinks could be had outside the usual licensing hours — at something like double the normal price, of course. To drink merely for the sake of drinking was to Biggles a waste of time and money.