Biggles - Air Commodore Read online

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: AN UNUSUAL ‘WHETHER’ REPORT

  CHAPTER 2: AN IMPORTANT CONFERENCE

  CHAPTER 3: IN THE NICK OF TIME

  CHAPTER 4: ‘REPORTED MISSING’

  CHAPTER 5: A DESPERATE COMBAT

  CHAPTER 6: JUNGLE-BOUND

  CHAPTER 7: A TERRIBLE NIGHT

  CHAPTER 8: SHADOWS ON THE SHORE

  CHAPTER 9: A NASTY CUSTOMER

  CHAPTER 10: A RISKY PLAN

  CHAPTER 11: HORRORS FROM THE DEEP

  CHAPTER 12: ELEPHANT ISLAND

  CHAPTER 13: A GRUESOME REFUGE

  CHAPTER 14: WHERE IS THE SEAFRET?

  CHAPTER 15: TRAPPED!

  CHAPTER 16: IN THE LION’S DEN

  CHAPTER 17: JUST RETRIBUTION

  CHAPTER 18: IN PASSING

  Chapter 1

  An Unusual ‘Whether’ Report

  ‘A penny for ‘em.’ Captain Algernon Lacey, late of the Royal Flying Corps1, looked across the room at his friend, Major James Bigglesworth —more often known as ‘Biggles’—with a twinkle in his eye.

  ‘A penny for what?’ inquired Biggles, starting out of his reverie.

  ‘Your thoughts, of course.’

  ‘You’re over generous; I don’t think they are worth as much,’ smiled Biggles.

  ‘You seemed to be cogitating with considerable concentration,’ observed Ginger Hebblethwaite, their protégé, who was passing a wet afternoon usefully by pasting up some photographs in an album.

  ‘Since you’re both so confoundedly inquisitive, I’ll tell you what I was thinking,’ growled Biggles. ‘I was thinking what a queer thing coincidence is. I mean, I was wondering if it really is, after all, coincidence—as we call it—or whether it is simply the wheel of destiny spinning for a definite purpose. From time to time it makes contact with two or more people, or events. If they have no connection with each other the incident passes unnoticed, but if they are in any way related the thing at once claims our attention and we call it coincidence.’

  ‘Why this sudden transit to the realms of philosophy?’ asked Algy casually. ‘Is there a reason for it?’

  ‘There is a reason for everything.’

  ‘I see. I thought perhaps this perishing weather was starting a sort of rot in your brain-box. If it goes on much longer mine will start sprouting fungus.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised at that,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘Fungus thrives on things that are soft and wet—steady with that cushion, you’ll knock Ginger’s paste over. As a matter of fact, you are quite right. Something has happened, and since we’ve nothing better to do I’ll tell you what it was. I’ve got a feeling—’

  Ginger shut his album abruptly. ‘Go ahead, Chief,’ he prompted. ‘When you get feelings it’s usually a sign that something’s going to happen.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘I don’t think anything will start from this,’ he murmured. ‘Still, you never know. But listen; I’ll tell you. This morning, when I was going to the bank, who should I barge into but Tom Lowery. You remember Tom, Algy? He came to 266 Squadron just before the Armistice. He stayed on in the service after it was all over, and I haven’t seen or heard anything of him for years. He’s a squadron leader now, stationed at Singapore, so he hasn’t done so badly. Naturally, we swapped salaams2, with the result that we ended up at Simpson’s for lunch. Now follow me closely because the sequence of events is important.

  ‘While we were disposing of our steak and kidney pudding he started to tell me about Ramsay who, you may remember, was an ack-emma3 in 266. He is now a sergeant wireless operator mechanic—still in the service, of course. Or perhaps it would be more correct to say that he was a sergeant, because he no longer wears three stripes. Apparently Tom thought a lot of Ramsay, for not only did he wangle him into his squadron, but he used to take him in the back seat of his machine during air operations. Now during one of these flights Ramsay picked up a wireless message out of the blue, and Tom had just got as far as that with his story when who should walk in through the door of the restaurant, looking for a seat, but Jerry Laidshaw, who is now in charge of sparks4 at the Air Ministry. Naturally, Jerry joined us, and after all the “well, fancy seeing you’s” had been exchanged, he invited Tom to proceed with his yarn while he studied the menu card. So Tom carried on telling me about Ramsay. Is that all clear?’

  ‘Perfectly.’

  ‘Good. Tom, then, proceeded with his tale. Why he made so much of it I don’t know, but I fancy he was feeling pangs of remorse on Ramsay’s account. However, that’s by the way. It appears that while they were in the air Ramsay picked up this message that I’ve already mentioned, and he handed it over to Tom as soon as they were back on the ground at Singapore. I can’t remember the exact words, but the message—which was really an SOS—was to this effect. It was from the steamship Queen of Olati, and the wireless operator was broadcasting for help because they were on fire. He gave the ship’s position, and concluded with the words “weather fine, sea slight”. Now you’ll observe that the word “weather” occurs in that sentence, and upon that single word hung a power of mischief. Ramsay, in taking down the message—which came through, of course, in Morse—had spelt it w-he-t-h-e-r. Tom looked at it and said to Ramsay, “You should be able to spell better than that; you mean we-a-t-h-e-r.” Said Ramsay, all hot and peeved, “No, sir. The word I took was w-h-e-t-h-e-r.” Whereupon Tom told him to alter the message before it was handed in at the pay-box . Ramsay refused. An argument then started which, I am sorry to say, ended with Ramsay losing his head and saying things which in turn resulted in his losing one of his stripes for insubordination.’

  ‘But I don’t see where there is any coincidence in this,’ put in Algy.

  ‘Wait a minute, I haven’t finished yet,’ replied Biggles impatiently. ‘The coincidence—we’ll call it that—is about to be introduced. This is it. As Tom finished telling me his story, Jerry, who had been listening to the last part of it with interest, blurted out, “But Ramsay was right! I picked up the Shanodah’s message at the Air Ministry, and the word weather was spelt w-h-e-t-h-e-r. I can vouch for it, because I made particular note of it.”

  ‘At that, Tom gave him a queer look and said, “What are you talking about? I never said anything about the Shanodah; in fact, I’ve never heard of such a ship. I was talking about the Queen of Olati that went down in the Indian Ocean about six months ago.” Jerry looked at him and looked at me. “Well, that’s odd,” he said. “I didn’t catch the name of the boat when you were telling your tale, but when you mentioned the way the word weather was spelt I thought naturally that you were referring to the Shanodah, which also—curiously enough—went down in the Indian Ocean, or the Bay of Bengal, which is practically the same thing. It would be—let me see—about five months ago. But she wasn’t burnt. She hit an uncharted reef and went down with all hands.”

  ‘“There were no survivors in the case of the Queen of Olati, either,” put in Tom casually, and with that the conversation turned to something else, and no more was said about it. That’s all.’

  ‘Strange,’ murmured Algy.

  ‘Strange!’ cried Biggles. ‘I think it’s more than strange when two mercantile wireless operators, both English and, presumably both educated men, misspell the same word—which, incidentally, is a word they must use more than any other. But when you add to that the fact that both ships foundered with all hands, in the same sea, within a month of each other, I should call it dashed extraordinary—too extraordinary to be either human or natural.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Hasn’t anything struck you?’

  ‘No, I can’t say that it has.’

  ‘Well, this is the way I figure it out. The chan
ces against two educated men misspelling the same word almost at the same time and place, and in practically similar circumstances, must be so remote as to leave one no alternative but to assume that they were both one and the same man.’

  ‘But how could that be possible? The operator on the Queen of Olati, which went down first, was drowned.’

  ‘He should have been, but there is something weak about that supposition.’

  ‘Why not approach the shipping company and find out?’

  ‘I have,’ Biggles smiled. ‘My confounded sense of curiosity was so intrigued that after I left Tom I went down to Tower Bridge and made a few inquiries.’

  Algy threw him a sidelong glance. ‘So that’s where you were all morning, is it?’ he growled. ‘Well, and what did you discover?’

  ‘That the name of the wireless operator was Giles, and that he was most certainly drowned. His next of kin was notified accordingly.’

  ‘Why “most certainly” drowned?’

  ‘Because his body was one of those picked up by one of the ships that raced to the rescue after the SOS went out.’

  ‘Then that knocks your argument on the head right away.’

  ‘It looks like that, I must admit.’

  ‘What happened to the wireless operator on the Shanodah?’

  ‘He was drowned, too; at least, he’s never turned up, so he has been presumed lost at sea.’

  ‘Then that must be the end of the story,’ suggested Ginger in a disappointed tone of voice.

  Biggles smiled mysteriously. ‘Not quite,’ he said. ‘I was so chagrined at my theory all coming unstuck that while I was by the river I pursued my inquiries a bit farther. You may be interested to know that since the Queen of Olati and the Shanodah went down, two other ships have been lost with all hands—also in the Indian Ocean. Both sent out SOS’s, but by the time rescuers were on the spot they had disappeared, leaving no trace behind—as the papers put it.’

  ‘Was the word weather misspelt in those cases, too?’

  ‘Ah, that I don’t know. In each case the SOS was picked up by one vessel only. One of them was on the way to Australia, where she now is, but the other was homeward bound and docked at the Port of London this morning. She wasn’t in when I came away, but she’ll have paid off by now, and the crew gone home. Her name is the Dundee Castle, and the name of the wireless operator is Fellowes. Under the pretence of being an old friend I managed to get his address and his home telephone number from a very charming girl in the company’s office.’

  ‘You don’t mean to say that you’ve got the infernal impudence to ring him up and ask him if the word weather occurred and, if so, how it was spelt?’

  ‘That’s just what I’m going to do—now. Pass me the telephone.’

  ‘You’re crazy.’

  ‘Maybe, but my curiosity won’t let me rest until I find out.’

  ‘But suppose the word weather did occur, and was incorrectly spelt; what would that tell you?’

  ‘A lot. It would be an amazing coincidence for two mercantile wireless operators to misspell the word they use most, but don’t ask me to believe that three, all in the same locality, could do it. That is straining credulity too far.’

  Biggles unhooked the telephone receiver and dialled a number. ‘Hello, is Mr. Fellowes at home, please?’ he asked. ‘What’s that? Oh, it is Mr. Fellowes. Splendid. Don’t think me presumptuous, Mr. Fellowes, but I believe you were the officer who picked up the SOS sent out by the Alice Clair about three months ago... yes... that’s right. My name is Bigglesworth. I’ve just been having an argument with a friend of mine about that SOS. The word weather... yes... quite... really!... Thanks very much. That’s just what I wanted to know—good-bye.’

  Biggles hung up the receiver, put the instrument on the table, and took out his cigarette case.

  ‘Well?’ inquired Algy impatiently. ‘Out with it. Not so much of the Sherlock Holmes stuff. What did he say?’

  Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘He said that now I mentioned it, it was rather odd that the wireless operator of the S.S. Alice Clair should spell the word weather, in a meteorological sense, W-H-E-T-H-E-R!’

  Algy thrust his hands deep into his trouser pockets and stared at Biggles for a moment in silence. ‘By the anti-clockwise propeller of Icarus! That certainly is a most amazing coincidence,’ he got out at last.

  ‘Coincidence my foot,’ snorted Biggles. ‘There’s no coincidence about it. It’s a bag of diamonds to a dud half-crown that those three messages were sent out by the same man.’

  ‘But that isn’t possible—’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. That’s what worries me. How can an impossibility become possible? There is only one answer to that. The impossible is not, in fact, impossible at all. Work that out for yourself.’

  ‘But how could three men, miles away from each other, and two of them dead, be one and the same?’

  Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘Don’t ask me,’ he murmured. ‘I’m no good at riddles. There’s just one more thing I should like to know, though.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Just what cargo those ships were carrying.’

  ‘Why not ask Colonel Raymond at Scotland Yard? I don’t suppose he’d know offhand, but he’d jolly soon find out for you if you asked him.’

  ‘That’s a good idea! Let’s try. What’s the time? Four o’clock. He won’t have left the office yet.’ Biggles reached for the phone again and dialled Police Headquarters at Scotland Yard.

  ‘Colonel Raymond, please,’ he told the operator at the Yard switchboard. ‘Name? Major Bigglesworth... that’s right.’

  ‘Ah! Is that you, sir?’ he went on a moment later. ‘Yes, it’s Bigglesworth here. I’ve an unusual question to ask, but I’ve a reason for it or I wouldn’t bother you. It is this. Within the last six months four ships have sunk with all hands in the Indian Ocean. One by fire, one by fouling a reef... what’s that? You know all about it! Fine! Then you can no doubt quench my curiosity. What was on their bills of lading?’

  The others saw his expression change suddenly. From casual curiosity it became deadly serious.

  ‘Really,’ he said at last. ‘What? No, I don’t know anything about it. Why did I ask? Oh, well, just a hunch, you know—no, perhaps it wasn’t a hunch. I — no, I’d better not say anything over the phone. What about slipping round here for a cup of tea; it’s only a few minutes... Good... that’s fine. See you presently, then.’

  Biggles hung up the receiver and eyed the others gravely. ‘It looks to me,’ he said slowly, ‘as if we may have hit a very grim nail somewhere very close to the top of its sinister head. The Queen of Olati was outward bound for Melbourne, loaded chock-a-block with military aeroplanes for the Australian government. With her went down one of our leading aircraft designers and a member of the Air Council. The Shanodah was bound for Singapore with twenty Rolls-Royce Kestrel engines, spare parts, machine-guns, and small arms ammunition. The Alice Clair was bound for Shanghai with munitions for the British volunteer forces there; and the other ship—the fourth, which we haven’t investigated—was coming home from Madras with a lot of bar gold. Raymond is on his way here now.’

  A low whistle escaped Algy’s lips. ‘By gosh! There’s a fishy smell about that,’ he said softly.

  ‘Fishy! It smells to me so strongly of fish, bad fish, too, that—but I believe that’s Raymond at the door. Ginger, slip down and ask Mrs. Symes to let us have tea for four right away.’

  A minute later Colonel Raymond walked into the room.

  ‘Nice to see you all again,’ he smiled, after shaking hands all round. Then he sat down and turned a questioning eye on Biggles. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘what do you know about this, eh?’

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘Nothing,’ he said simply. ‘I’ve been guessing, that’s all.’

  ‘And what have you guessed?’

  ‘I’ve guessed that it would suit some people remarkably well if all British ships bound for the Far East and the
Antipodes, with armament, never got there.’

  Raymond stared. ‘That’s not a bad guess, either,’ he said in a curious voice. ‘By heavens, Bigglesworth, I always said you should be on our Intelligence staff. You’re nearer the mark than you may suspect—a lot nearer; but how did you come to tumble on this?’

  ‘And how did you happen to know all about it when I rang up? Shipping isn’t in your department.’

  ‘I was dining with the Commissioner and the First Lord of the Admiralty the other night. The Sea Lords are worried to death. So is the Air Council. But they know nothing—that is, they only know that these ships have disappeared. The public know nothing about these ships carrying munitions; naturally, we daren’t let it get into the newspapers. But come on; this is very serious indeed. What strange chance led you to the trail?’

  ‘Merely the fact that I have reason to suspect that the SOS sent out by each of the doomed vessels was broadcast by the same man.’

  ‘Great heaven! How on earth did you work that out?’

  ‘By so small a thing as a spelling mistake.’

  Briefly, Biggles told his old war-time chief what he had told the others earlier in the afternoon.

  When he had finished Colonel Raymond got up and began pacing up and down the room. Suddenly he stopped and faced Biggles squarely. ‘Bigglesworth, if you’ll give up this free-lance roving and join our Intelligence staff, I’ll give you any rank you like within reason,’ he declared.

  Biggles shook his head. ‘It’s very nice of you, sir, but I should be absolutely useless in an official capacity,’ he said slowly. ‘I have my own way of doing things, and they are seldom the official way. If I got tangled up with your red tape I should never get anywhere. It is only because I’ve played a free hand that I’ve sometimes been—well, successful.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps you’re right,’ agreed Raymond despondently. ‘But tell me, have you formed any ideas about this business?’

  ‘I’ve hardly had time yet, but my first impression is that some foreign power is operating against our shipping from a base in or near the Indian Ocean. They are sinking every ship which their spies inform them is carrying munitions to our forces in the Far East. Knowing that it is improbable that these ships could disappear without sending out any sort of message, they take control of the wireless room before the captain or crew suspect what is going to happen, tap out a false SOS, and then sink her, taking care that there are no survivors.’