Sergeant Bigglesworth C.I.D Read online

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I: CRIME À LA MODE

  CHAPTER II: PURELY TECHNICAL

  CHAPTER III: THE YELLOW SWAN

  CHAPTER IV: PREUSS PLAYS A CARD

  CHAPTER V: PREUSS TRIES AGAIN

  CHAPTER VI: GETTING WARMER

  CHAPTER VII: GLOVES OFF

  CHAPTER VIII: BIGGLES FOLLOWS ON

  CHAPTER IX: GONTERMANN MAKES A PROPOSAL

  CHAPTER X: GINGER TAKES A WALK

  CHAPTER XI: BIGGLES TAKES TO WATER

  CHAPTER XII: BERTIE FLIES ALONE

  CHAPTER XIII: EVENTS AT EL ZUFRA

  CHAPTER XIV: BACK TO THE TRAIL

  CHAPTER XV: THE SANSEVIERA

  CHAPTER XVI: THE POISON BELT

  CHAPTER XVII: GONTERMANN DOES IT AGAIN

  CHAPTER XVIII: THE LAST LAP

  CHAPTER I

  CRIME À LA MODE

  THE station headquarters of “Biggles’s Squadron,” R.A.F., wore an air of abandoned disorder, like a cinema when the last of the audience has gone and only the staff remain. Cupboard doors gaped, revealing bare shelves; the blackout blind sagged at one end; ashes of the last fire littered the grate; books and papers, tied in bundles with string, made an untidy pile in a corner.

  Squadron-Leader Bigglesworth, known throughout the R.A.F. as “Biggles,” tilted back in a chair with his legs on the desk from which the letter trays had been removed. Flying-Officer “Ginger” Hebblethwaite had perched himself on a corner of it, one leg swinging idly. Flight-Lieutenant Algy Lacey sat in reverse on a hard chair, elbows on the back, chin in his hands. Flight-Lieutenant Lord Bertie Lissie leaned out of the open window regarding the forsaken landing-ground with bored disapproval. Biggles took out his cigarette-case, selected a cigarette, and tapped it on the back of his left hand with pensive attention.

  “Well, chaps, I think that’s all,” he remarked. “The war’s over. We can either proceed on indefinite leave while the Air Ministry is sorting things out, or we can ask for our demobilisation papers, go home, and forget all about it. I must admit that this feeling of anti-climax is hard to take. There doesn’t seem to be any point in doing anything. I feel like a cheap alarm clock with a busted mainspring.”

  “We shall have to do something,” observed Ginger moodily.

  “You’ve said that before,” reminded Biggles, wearily.

  “There will be civil flying,” put in Algy.

  “The only excitement you’re likely to get out of that is dodging the ten thousand other blokes who’ll be doing the same thing,” sneered Biggles.

  “They’ve shot all the bally foxes, so there won’t be any huntin’ for a bit,” sighed Bertie from the window. He leaned forward, gazing up the deserted road. “I say, chaps, there’s a jolly old car coming,” he observed. “I can see a bloke in a bowler.”

  “Some poor sap got off the main road and lost his way,” suggested Algy without enthusiasm.

  “No, by jingo, you’re wrong old boy—absolutely wrong,” declared Bertie. “Strike me horizontal! If it isn’t the Air Commodore, Raymond himself, no less. Coming to see that we’re leaving everything shipshape and what-not, I suppose.”

  “If he’s in civvies he must be out of the service already,” said Biggles, with a flicker of interest.

  Air Commodore Raymond stopped the car, got out, and strode to the door of the squadron office. For a moment he stood on the threshold, smiling faintly as he regarded the officers in turn.

  “What’s this?” he inquired. “An undertaker’s parlour?”

  Biggles took his feet off the desk and pulled up a vacant chair. “Take a pew, sir,” he invited. “We’re all washed up and browned off. Apart from an N.C.O. and a small maintenance party, what you see is all that remains of the squadron. Nice of you to run down to say good-bye. We should have departed an hour ago had we been able to think of somewhere to go.”

  “Haven’t decided on anything yet, then?” murmured the Air Commodore as he sat down.

  “We’ve got to do something,” interposed Ginger.

  Biggles considered him with disfavour. “If you say that again I’ll knock your block off,” he promised.

  “Well, what are you going to do?” inquired the Air Commodore.

  “That,” returned Biggles slowly, “is a question that should baffle the Brains Trust.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there isn’t any answer—at any rate, not at present. No doubt something will turn up, sooner or later.”

  “I may have brought the answer,” suggested the Air Commodore softly.

  Biggles’s eyes narrowed. “Are you kidding?”

  “No,” answered the Air Commodore evenly. “By the way, you may be interested to know that I’m back at my old job at Scotland Yard— Assistant Commissioner.”

  “Congratulations,” offered Biggles. “You didn’t lose much time getting out of your war-paint.”

  “There wasn’t any time to lose,” was the terse reply. “My chief was shouting for me, so the Air Ministry let me go right away.”

  “Has this anything to do with your coming down here?”

  “I didn’t rush down to gaze at a row of empty hangars,” declared the Air Commodore. “I’ve got a proposition.”

  “We’re listening,” asserted Biggles. “Almost anything, bar directing the traffic in Trafalgar Square, will suit me.”

  “Good. I’ve got a job I think you can handle. Suppose I run over the main features?”

  “Go ahead, sir,” invited Biggles.

  “When I went to the Yard last Monday to resume my duties, I soon discovered why the Commissioner was shouting for me,” began the Air Commodore. “Before an hour was out I had taken over a case that is unique to the point of being startling. Naturally, even while the war was on I realised that as soon as it was over we should have flying crooks to contend with. With fifty thousand men—and women—of different nationalities, able to fly aeroplanes, that was pretty obvious; but I confess I didn’t expect a racket to start so soon; nor did I visualise anything on the scale that I shall presently narrate. In view of my air experience, the Commissioner hinted some time ago that he would ask me to undertake the formation of a flying squad—in the literal sense. The idea was to start with a few fully trained men and build up. We’ve some good officers at the Yard, but, of course, they’re not experts in technical aviation. We shall have to start with youngsters and teach them aviation as well as police procedure. But that’s by the way. My flying days are past, I’m afraid, so my position is really that of organiser.” The Air Commodore took one of Biggles’s cigarettes.

  “Obviously, the formation of such a force as we envisage will take time,” he continued. “In the meanwhile, a smart crook, or a gang, is gathering a nice harvest with comparative impunity. The thing is urgent, and serious—so serious that I have slipped down to ask you if you would co-operate with me until we can get properly organised, equipped to deal with the new menace. You had better hear the story before you commit yourselves.”

  “Let me get one point clear, sir,” interposed Biggles. “Should we handle this job as officers of the R.A.F., or as civilians, or police—or what?”

  “For pay and discipline you would come under the Yard, so it would mean leaving the Air Force. If you were willing I should enrol you in the Auxiliary Police, special service branch, attached to my department at the C.I.D.. It would mean a drop in rank, pro tem. The best I could do for you would be detective-sergeant.”

  Biggles smiled. “That would be fun,” he murmured. “Just think how my lads would laugh to see me sporting three stripes.”

  “You wouldn’t necessarily have to wear uniform,” the Air Commodore pointed out.

  “Plain-clothes men, w
hat-ho,” said Bertie softly.

  “You’ve been reading thrillers,” accused the Air Commodore. “You can call yourself what you like as far as I’m concerned if you’ll nab these winged highwaymen. But really, this is no joking matter. If you’re interested I’ll run briefly over the facts.” The Air Commodore settled back in his chair.

  “The thing started three weeks ago, before the ink on the peace papers was properly dry, so to speak,” he resumed. “From that fact alone we may assume that the scheme was already cut and dried. It began in the Persian Gulf—of all places; and here we see at once how aircraft are going to enable crooks to extend their range of operations. As you probably know, Bigglesworth, once a year the big Indian jewel buyers go up to the Persian Gulf ports to bid for the pearl harvest. Between them they buy all the best stuff. Having done so they return by steamship to India, handing their parcels of pearls to the purser for safe custody. The purser tags a number on each bag and puts it in his safe. Over many years this has become an established procedure, and up to the present there has never been any trouble. For that reason, precautions against theft may have got a bit slack. At any rate, such precautions as did exist were definitely obsolete. The run from Basra to India, in the Rajah, which is quite a small vessel, and very old—she has been doing the trip for years—takes ten days. When the Rajah docked at Bombay it was discovered that the back of the purser’s safe—an old-fashioned affair not much better than a tin box—had been cut out. The pearls had gone—the entire year’s catch, nearly half a million pounds’ worth.”

  Ginger whistled softly.

  “Nice going, by Jove!” murmured Bertie.

  “But surely no one could unload on the market such a quantity of pearls without the police hearing of it?” muttered Biggles. “I mean, with such a parcel of pearls adrift the big dealers would be on the watch for them?”

  “In the ordinary way, yes,” agreed the Air Commodore. “But not in this case. Not only were the pearls—except the outstanding ones—disposed of before the theft was discovered, but a check-up reveals the almost incredible fact that the pearls, without going through customs, were offered for sale in the United States a week before the Rajah docked. In other words, the pearls were in America within three days of the Rajah leaving Basra. The thieves had a clear week in front of them to dispose of the swag before the robbery was discovered.”

  “By gosh! That was quick work,” remarked Algy.

  “You can imagine what a shock the Bombay police had when the facts were ascertained,” went on the Air Commodore. “They were still searching the ship for the missing pearls, detaining the passengers, when it was learned that the gems had already been sold in America. The Rajah hadn’t touched anywhere, so the thief must have dropped overboard at a pre-arranged rendezvous, where presumably he was picked up by an accomplice, either in a boat or a marine aircraft. Obviously, an aircraft comes into the picture eventually, because the only way the pearls could have got to the States in the time was by air—and not by a regular air-liner. There was no public service running from the Middle East to Europe, and on to the States, in that time. Anyway, no commercial aircraft could have covered the distance so quickly. Moreover, all air-liners have to go through customs. It must have been a private plane—and no ordinary plane at that.”

  “You’re right there,” agreed Biggles, who was scribbling figures on a pad.

  “It was the slickest job ever pulled off,” declared the Air Commodore. “We rather felt that after such a nice haul the master-mind behind the robbery would lie low for a bit. But we were wrong—unless two crooks have had the same sort of brainwave. A week later, the South African Government plane that flies the diamonds—uncut stones—from Alexander Bay to Capetown, failed to show up. This also is a regular run, made only once or twice a year. The plane carries an armed guard and is escorted by a fighter. A search was made. The missing machines were found, crashed, within a few miles of each other. Judging by the line of flight the escort must have been disposed of first—riddled from behind. The pilot was shot through the back. It seems unlikely that he even saw his attacker. It had become a routine job and he may have been caught off his guard. The pilot and guards of the transport plane were also dead. The diamonds, three hundred and thirty thousand pounds’ worth, had vanished. We have no evidence that the job was done by the same gang that looted the pearls, but a similarity of methods suggest that it might have been. Here again the stones were sold before the loss was discovered. The South African Air Force was fifty hours finding the crashes. The diamonds had just been disposed of in Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro. An interesting point is that, as in the case of the pearls, the best gems were retained. Maybe the gangsters decided they would attract too much attention if they were sold in the open market.”

  “Suffering skylarks! Their plane must be something exceptional, both in speed and range!” exclaimed Biggles.

  The Air Commodore nodded. “You will begin to see what we’re up against,” he said grimly. “Here we have a crook who can transport himself, and his swag, to the other side of the world in a few hours. He could do a job in London to-night, and by dawn be six thousand miles away—in any direction. The police are on a spot. It looks as if we shall have to establish a network of radio-location observation posts all round the Empire to watch for this mystery plane. That will cost a tidy penny.”

  While the Air Commodore had been speaking the telephone had rung. Biggles picked up the receiver, listened, and passed it to the senior officer. “For you, sir,” he said.

  “I told the Yard they’d find me here if I was wanted,” remarked the Air Commodore. Then, in the phone, “Hello—yes, Raymond here,” He listened for two or three minutes. “All right, thanks,” he said quietly, and hung up. Turning to Biggles, he went on: “That was the Yard. Yesterday, the pilot who flies the pay-roll from Nairobi, in Kenya, to the Jaggersfontein Copper Mines, in Northern Rhodesia, was shot down and killed. The plane was burnt out. He carried forty-three thousand pounds, most of it in silver, to pay the native workmen. The silver may have melted in the heat—but it’s gone.”

  “Holy Icarus! This chap is certainly hot stuff,” averred Biggles. “But just a minute! To pick up the silver—and the diamonds, for that matter—the outlaw plane must have landed. That must have been a nasty risk, in wild country.”

  “In each case,” answered the Air Commodore bitterly, “the shooting occurred over open country, terrain on which an emergency landing would be possible. That wasn’t luck. This bandit knows his job. He chooses his spots.” The Air Commodore stubbed his cigarette viciously.

  “One thing puzzles me,” murmured Biggles. “You can’t operate a high-performance aircraft without a base, and you can’t run a motor without oil and petrol. Where’s this chap getting his fuel and lubricant? He must have used a devil of a lot already. Only the big operating companies, apart from the Air Force, carry supplies on that scale. What have the airports to say about this? Haven’t they seen the plane?”

  “We’ve checked up,” asserted the Air Commodore. “None of them has seen a strange plane. The queer thing is, oil and petrol are still under the control of the Allied Nations. A certificate is needed to buy a large quantity. None has been released to an unauthorised person. Certainly none has been sold.”

  “Hm. This gets curiouser and curiouser,” murmured Biggles. “Obviously, the chap is getting juice somewhere. If we could locate the spot we should be on his track.”

  “How are we going to locate it?” inquired the Air Commodore, a trifle sarcastically. “It might be anywhere between the North Pole and the South Sea Islands.”

  “It certainly isn’t easy to know where to start looking,” agreed Biggles.

  “Personally, I haven’t an idea,” confessed the Air Commodore.

  Biggles raised his eyebrows. “So you ask me? What do you think I can do about it? I’m no magician.”

  “You’re a technical expert on aviation as well as a pilot, and only a man with those qualific
ations has any hope of catching up with this bandit on wings,” declared the Air Commodore. “Moreover, when you set about a thing seriously you have a knack of getting to the gristle, sooner or later. With all your experience, if anyone can do the job, it’s you. As an inducement I can tell you that the insurance companies, who are getting worried, are offering a reward of ten thousand pounds for information leading to the conviction of this crook, plus ten per cent of the value of any gems or money recovered.”

  “Should we be eligible for that—as official policemen?” asked Biggles shrewdly.

  “I’ll put it in your contract if you like.”

  Biggles’s face broke into a smile. “That does make a difference,” he admitted. Turning to the others, “How do you feel about it?”

  “Top hole—absolutely top hole,” assented Bertie warmly.

  “I don’t think you need consult Algy and Ginger,” the Air Commodore told Biggles. “Where you go they’ll go. It’s up to you.”

  “All right, sir, I’ll have a shot at it,” decided Biggles. “Our enlistment into the police force will only be temporary, of course. There’s a question I’d like to ask—an obvious one. I assume no one has seen this mystery plane, otherwise you’d have mentioned it?”

  “We’ve made inquiries, but so far we’ve had only one report—and that isn’t very promising. Of course, several people must have seen the machine, unless it was flying at a tremendous height; but how could we contact them? With so many aircraft in the sky the average man barely troubles to glance up when one goes over. The report I spoke about reached us in a curious way. On a ship, a collier, outward bound from Cardiff to Montevideo, there happened to be a man who was interested in aircraft. He was the first officer. During the war he served in the R.N.V.R. as a plane spotter. On the day following the shooting down of the diamond plane—which, of course, this chap knew nothing about—he was on deck when the sound of an aircraft made him look up... sort of semi-professional interest, I suppose. He was just in time to see a plane, travelling at high speed, pass across a break in the clouds. He could not identify it, and this so worried him that to satisfy his curiosity he radioed the Air Ministry asking them to identify the aircraft. From his description the design must have been very unorthodox—so unusual that the Air Ministry couldn’t identify it either. According to this man’s description the machine had no fuselage. It was a twin-engined job, the two power eggs projecting far in front of the nacelle. This nacelle was tapered down aft to a single boom which carried the tail unit. The fin was exceptionally long, and narrow. It began half-way down the boom, and ended in a balanced rudder that was almost a perfect oval. That’s all. It might have been the mystery plane, or an experimental job that we know nothing about.”