Biggles Sees Too Much

  CONTENTS

  PREFACE

  CHAPTER 1: A SMELL OF FISH

  CHAPTER 2: A WAITING GAME

  CHAPTER 3: LUCK WORKS TWO WAYS

  CHAPTER 4: BIGGLES MAKES SOME ENQUIRIES

  CHAPTER 5: COMPLICATIONS

  CHAPTER 6: SHOCKS

  CHAPTER 7: WHY GINGER WAS LATE

  CHAPTER 8: PROBLEMS

  CHAPTER 9: A LONG WAIT

  CHAPTER 10: ACTION IS PLANNED

  CHAPTER 11: ALGY REPORTS

  CHAPTER 12: BACK TO POLCARRON

  CHAPTER 13: BIGGLES SHOWS HIS HAND

  CHAPTER 14: THE SEA TAKES CONTROL

  CHAPTER 15: COLE MAKES A SUGGESTION

  CHAPTER 16: GRUESOME DISCOVERIES

  CHAPTER 17: HOW IT ALL ENDED

  PREFACE

  It will often be found that the most important events in human life had their beginnings in an incident so trivial that not by the widest stretch of imagination could the ultimate result have been foreseen. Thus with the story recorded in the following pages. Had Biggles not taken a few days off duty on the Cornish coast it would not have happened. But this sort of thing goes on all through life, although the end may not always be tragedy.

  The story now told may not be as dramatic as some of the Air Police records, if for no other reason than small islands in British home waters can never have the romantic background of the tropics, with blue seas and waving palms. But that does not mean they are without their dangers. The case in which Biggles later criticized himself ‘for seeing too much’ involved a lot of difficult investigation for the Air Police, so it is only right that it should be put on record.

  CHAPTER 1

  A SMELL OF FISH

  AIR-DETECTIVE INSPECTOR BIGGLESWORTH, better known to his friends as Biggles, senior operational pilot of the Special Air Squad at Scotland Yard, tapped lightly on the door of the private office of his chief, Air Commodore Raymond, and without waiting for an answer looked in. ‘Just to let you know I’m back, sir,’ he announced.

  The Air Commodore looked up. ‘Come in — come in,’ he said quickly. ‘Don’t run away. What’s the hurry? How did you get on? Had a good rest?’

  Biggles entered.

  ‘How did you find that little place I recommended at Polcarron?’ went on the Air Commodore. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Just the job, sir,’ replied Biggles. ‘Exactly as you described it. Quiet, comfortable, plenty of good home cooking.’

  ‘From the colour of your face you seem to have found a spot of sunshine, too. I hope you followed my advice and gave your brain a rest.’

  Biggles smiled wanly. ‘Matter of fact I found that a bit difficult.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve been running at full revs for so long, that I find it difficult to throttle back to dead slow.’

  ‘I told you to forget everything to do with the office and anything to do with work,’ chided the Air Commodore.

  ‘So you did, sir,’ agreed Biggles. ‘But, as I say, that’s easier said than done. I can’t help thinking. It’s become a habit.’

  ‘What could you find to think about at an off-the-map spot like Polcarron, where nothing ever happens?’

  Biggles cocked an eye. ‘Doesn’t it? I wouldn’t care to bet on it. There may be other people who find a quiet spot has its uses. More may be happening on that pleasant strip of Cornish coast than one might imagine.’

  ‘Such as what, exactly?’

  ‘Possibly the answer to a problem that has had the Yard worried for some time. I said possibly. I can’t produce concrete evidence to support that assertion. Well, practically none. But I did notice something that started my brain ticking over; and, as I say, once started I couldn’t stop.’

  ‘Go on,’ requested the Air Commodore. ‘What did you notice?’

  ‘Purely by chance I saw some men going fishing.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘On the face of it, nothing. But again, purely by chance, I saw them come back.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Simply this. The men who went to sea fishing were not the same men who came back. At any rate, not all of them. The number of fishers was the same, but something peculiar had happened to one of them. Naturally, from force of habit, I suppose, I began to wonder how this could have happened while the boat was on the water.’

  ‘Come to the point,’ ordered the Air Commodore.

  ‘It suddenly struck me that there might be more to this fishing lark than meets the eye. It may have been the spot of bother that was giving the Press something to talk about when I went away that put my brain into gear for this particular train of thought.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘There had been cases of illegal entry into the country. You may remember on one notable occasion some coloured gentlemen, without papers of any sort, were found wandering inland from the south coast. They were unable, or refused, to give any account of themselves, where they came from or how they had got ashore. They were popped in the nick, and subsequently deported. Naturally, certain newspapers raised the question, how long had this sort of thing been going on and how many unwanted immigrants had slipped into the country by the same method? It was pointed out that this could be a danger to everyone.’

  ‘Of course. They could have been refused legal entry on medical grounds, having got, or been in contact with, some killing disease like smallpox. I remember the case. Did you see any of these dark-skinned gentry in Cornwall?’

  ‘No. But the thought occurred to me that sauce for the goose could be sauce for the gander, and illegal entry might not be confined to men with dark skins. Now I’m pretty sure of it. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say that a full scale racket, in this particular line of crookery, might be going on under the noses of the police, coastguards and Excise men. As you know, I’ve had quite a bit to do with smuggling in one form or another, but this transport of human freight would be something new. And there could be a lot of money in it for the organizers.’

  The Air Commodore was frowning. He sat back in his chair. ‘I take your point,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘It could be very profitable. But how is it being done?’

  ‘As I see it now, nothing could be easier.’

  ‘I asked you how.’

  ‘By these fishing trips out to mid-Channel. I’m talking in particular of these shark-fishing exercises that apparently have become quite big business on the south-west coast. But don’t get me wrong. I have no doubt that the majority of people in the game are absolutely genuine, honest and above board; but if one, just one, was a wrong ‘un, he could do a lot of mischief.’

  ‘You’re dead right,’ returned the Air Commodore grimly. ‘Strange; that nobody seems to have thought of it. What put the notion into your head in the first place?’

  Biggles hesitated. ‘It’s rather a long story.’

  ‘Never mind. You might as well get the whole thing off your chest while we’re at it.’

  ‘If you say so, sir,’ answered Biggles. ‘It all came about like this. You know Polcarron, so that makes it easier. It’s not much more than a hamlet; a dozen or so cottages occupied by men who for generations have managed to get a living from the sea; inshore fishing, a few lobster pots in the season and a little boat building when the weather is bad. The harbour itself is nothing to shout about; a stone quayside and a short mole built out to provide protection for a few small craft. The people don’t bother, or haven’t the equipment, for this shark-fishing pastime. That’s mostly done from the larger places farther along the coast, St Mawes, Falmouth, and so on. I, personally, hadn’t the slightest interest in it. I’ve seen all the sharks I ever want to see.’ Biggles broke off to reach for a c
igarette.

  He continued. ‘Having had my breakfast, with nothing to do, I made it a practice to stroll down to the quay and make myself comfortable on a wooden bench where the old salts sometimes forgathered to talk about the good old days when life was easier — or so they seemed to think. It amused me to listen to them. One old man would always drift along, so I got to know him quite well. His name was Sam. Sam Pretty. Once in a while a coastguard would roll up to join in the conversation. Where he came from I don’t know; some nearby station, I suppose. As it was of no importance to me I didn’t ask him.’ Biggles paused to flick the ash off his cigarette.

  ‘One fine morning I was sunning myself on the seat listening to old Sam — he always did most of the talking — when a powerful-looking motor-boat came in and tied up to the wharf. I suppose one could call it a launch — a sort of cabin cruiser. It was the first time I’d seen it. Sam, who knew most things, informed me it was one of these shark-fishing outfits. It came in from time to time to pick up clients who presumably found Polcarron a handy place for embarkation. There was a crew of three on board. They didn’t come ashore. They sat on deck and smoked, apparently waiting for someone. Sure enough, presently a chauffeur-driven Daimler came along and four men got out. They went aboard the boat, which then cast off and headed out to sea. The car also disappeared. I had no real interest in all this, but after things had returned to normal Sam opened up on this new shark-fishing sport.’ Biggles stubbed his cigarette.

  He resumed. ‘I gather it is fairly expensive. It isn’t necessary to provide your own tackle. You simply book a boat that specializes in this sort of pastime and the skipper does the rest. That is, he brings the rods and the bait and heads out to where he knows sharks are most likely to be found, which Sam said was about twenty miles out in the Channel. You pay by the hour. Having seen sharks fairly close in, I asked why it was necessary to go so far. Whereupon Sam informed me these sharks I’d seen were common basking sharks, quite harmless and no good for sport. The real fighters stay farther out. Sam went on and I listened. I still wasn’t really interested. Frankly, I couldn’t have cared less. In fact I found it somewhat boring, but once my salty old chum got under way on a subject there was no holding him. I learned that quite a ceremony has grown up around this sharking industry. When the boat comes back, if a fish has been caught, it flies a signal to mark the event. Two fish, two signals and so on.’

  ‘So now you know all about it,’ put in the Air Commodore. ‘What do they do with the fish they catch?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ confessed Biggles. ‘I didn’t bother to ask. As I say, all this was no concern of mine. If people can get a kick out of hooking a shark they can have it. That’s all right with me. Every man to his taste. Anyhow, that’s how I got my education on the new sport of shark-fishing. I went back to my pub and forgot all about it.’

  ‘You seem to have picked up quite a lot,’ remarked the Air Commodore.

  ‘You’ll think so by the time I’ve finished,’ promised Biggles. ‘You’ve only heard the half of it.’

  ‘Carry on, then, and let’s hear the rest,’ suggested the Air Commodore.

  Biggles obliged. ‘After lunch, as the sun was still shining and I had nothing better to do, I went back to my seat. Sam, who had told me he always took a nap about this time, wasn’t there. I sat, and smoked, and looked at the sea, and nearly went to sleep myself. However, I pulled myself together when I saw the shark fishers coming back. I noticed the signal to show someone had been lucky. A shark had been caught. I watched the boat come in and tie up at the same spot against the wharf. Four men came off. At the same time the Daimler cruised in to pick them up. It all went like clockwork. The four men got into the car and off it went. That was the last I saw of it. The boat cast off, and that, too, disappeared round the headland to the west. That was the end of the entertainment.’

  The Air Commodore looked disappointed. ‘So that’s all there was to it?’

  ‘Not quite. Indeed, far from it. It was about now that I caught my first smell of something fishy. And it wasn’t shark I could smell.’

  ‘What caused the aroma?’

  ‘I told you that four men got out of the car and went on the boat. I didn’t pay any particular attention to them, but I’m sure they were all clean shaven. Had it been otherwise I would have noticed it. Four men went fishing and four came back.’

  ‘Is there anything remarkable in that?’

  ‘Yes. They were not the same men. At least one was different; that I’m prepared to swear. He had a beard. How did that happen? The fellow could hardly have grown whiskers in the five or six hours the boat had been at sea. Pondering the matter I could arrive, at only one conclusion, Somewhere in the Channel there had been a switch; a swop with a man from another boat.’

  The Air Commodore, with his eyes on Biggles’ face, was looking more and more serious. ‘Did you get the number of the car?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘When it was there I hadn’t the slightest interest in it. My brain only got weaving after it had gone and I had time to think. I don’t go around taking the number of every car I see.’

  ‘All right — all right. There’s no need to get snooty,’ admonished the Air Commodore. ‘Did you get the name of the boat?’

  ‘No. For the same reason. I only woke up after it had gone. Later I did ask Sam where it came from. He didn’t know. He could only point vaguely along the coast, which might mean any one of the score of harbours, large or small, between where we were sitting and Land’s End.’

  ‘Would you recognize the boat if you saw it again?’ asked the Air Commodore.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘I doubt it. There are probably hundreds like it round the coast. I’m no sailor, having spent more time over the ocean than on it. All I can say is, it was a well-built job looking as if it was intended for salt water.’

  The Air Commodore nodded. ‘I can see what’s on your mind. You think someone is using a small boat to bring in people who, for one reason or another, realize they couldn’t get in any other way.’

  ‘Why not, if they have the money to pay for it? Somebody could be making a nice thing out of it. When you come to think about it, what could be easier? A boat goes out, ostensibly shark-fishing, so nobody takes any notice of it. Well clear of the coast it makes contact, probably by appointment, with another craft from the French side. The switch is made and the shark outfit returns to England. I don’t see what’s to stop it.’

  ‘There are such people as coastguards.’

  ‘I doubt if there are enough to cover our two thousand miles of foreshore, all day and all night throughout the year. The crooks would know where they were, we may be sure of that; their regular beats and when they come on and off duty. In any case there must be a limit to what can be expected of a coastguard or Excise man. He sees four men go fishing. That must be going on all the time. He sees four men come back. He might search the boat. What does he find? Fish. What other check has he? You can’t expect him to photograph all these parties, or take their fingerprints, to make sure that the men who went out are the same as those who come back, even if the thought occurred to him. It wouldn’t be practicable.’

  ‘Are you suggesting all this shark-fishing is a blind? A cover to engage in smuggling unwanted immigrants into the country?’

  ‘Of course not. One crooked outfit would be enough to cause a lot of trouble. A fish or two could be brought home once in a while to make the trip look genuine.’ Biggles lit another cigarette.

  ‘This boat you saw. Did it bring home a shark?’

  ‘It was making a signal to show that it had caught one.’

  ‘Did you see it?’

  ‘No. I didn’t look for it. One wasn’t brought ashore, so presumably the anglers didn’t want it. What can you do with a dead shark, anyway? This shark-fishing is supposed to be a sport, not fishmongery.’

  ‘Why are you so sure that a racket is going on?’ inquired the Air Commodore c
uriously. ‘From what you’ve told me I can see the possibilities, but that’s a long way from proof. Why are you so convinced?’

  ‘I thought I recognized one of the men who came ashore. It hit me suddenly, after he’d gone. The fellow with the beard. There was something vaguely familiar about him. I felt sure I’d seen him before somewhere. It wasn’t the beard that gave him away. That would disguise his face, but it couldn’t hide an infirmity. A limp. He dragged one foot. I’ve just checked up with the records and now I’m sure I wasn’t mistaken.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  ‘Logan. Known to his gangster pals as Limpy. Limpy Logan. A gunman. You must remember him. He was shot in the leg in a night-club brawl, in Soho, years ago. He once ran a protection racket. Later he specialized in hijacking commercial lorries on the main motorways. Eventually the police caught up with him and he got a stretch of five years. Eighteen months ago he escaped from Wormwood Scrubs and was never caught. It’s my guess he got abroad and has been there ever since. Now, deciding it’s safe, the fuss having died down, he’s come home to rejoin his associates or perhaps collect some money he had tucked away somewhere. He wouldn’t be so daft as to risk recognition at any regular port of entry, sea or airport. But you can take it from me he’s here. Limpy Logan is back in circulation. The underworld will soon get to hear of it.’

  The Air Commodore was frowning. ‘I don’t like the sound of this,’ he muttered.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t,’ returned Biggles. ‘Naturally, one begins to wonder how long this has been going on; how many villains have got in and out of the country the same way. It’s a safe bet that this is a two-way traffic.’ Biggles shrugged. ‘Well, sir, there it is. You asked me what was on my mind. Now you know.’

  ‘Something will have to be done to stop this racket,’ declared the Air Commodore.

  Biggles ghosted a smile as he scrubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. ‘That’s what I expected you to say, sir. Now perhaps you’ll do the talking and tell me how you propose to spot one particular boat among the thousands that now jam every mooring between Land’s End and John o’ Groats. Sailing has become a national pastime.’