Biggles Hunts Big Game Read online

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: BIGGLES STATES THE CASE

  CHAPTER 2: THE VELVET GLOVE

  CHAPTER 3: TUG TAXIS IN

  CHAPTER 4: STELLAR SKYWAYS INCORPORATED

  CHAPTER 5: HUNTERS’ TOUR

  CHAPTER 6: RECONNAISSANCE

  CHAPTER 7: GINGER CLIMBS A TREE

  CHAPTER 8: DEATH IN THE FOREST

  CHAPTER 9: TUG FINDS A JOB

  CHAPTER 10: MELANCHOLY NEWS

  CHAPTER 11: GINGER CLIMBS DOWN

  CHAPTER 12: BIGGLES TAKES A TURN

  CHAPTER 13: A THIEF TO CATCH A THIEF

  CHAPTER 14: EVENTS AT KUDINGA

  CHAPTER 15: BIGGLES TAKES CHARGE

  CHAPTER 16: A TIGHT CORNER

  CHAPTER 17: BUTTONED UP

  Chapter 1

  Biggles States The Case

  “WHAT’S the idea? Don’t tell me that you’ve started collecting stamps!”

  The question was asked by Constable Hebblethwaite (more often known as “Ginger” to his comrades of the Special Air Police Department of Scotland Yard) from the sitting-room door of the Mount Street apartments which he shared with his chief, Sergeant Bigglesworth, D.S.O., D.F.C., M.C., one time of the Royal Air Force. It was prompted by the spectacle which greeted his eyes as he entered the room after a spell of duty at the Yard—a spectacle which nearly caused his voice to crack with incredulity.

  The scene would not by ordinary standards have been judged remarkable. It was remarkable only in that Ginger, in all the years that he had known his chief, had never seen him reveal more interest in a postage stamp than was required to stick it on an envelope. Yet now, from a number that lay on the table, he had selected one which, held by a pair of tweezers, was the subject of close scrutiny through a magnifying glass.

  Ginger turned to Constables Algy Lacey and Lord Bertie Lissie who, having come home with him were hanging their hats on the rack in the hall. “Take a look at this,” he invited, with an inclination of his head to what was going on at the table.

  Bertie, still limping from the bullet wound in the thigh sustained in the affair of the stolen German proto-type,1 screwed a monocle in his eye and regarded the picture with wonder and affected alarm. “Well, blow me down!” he exclaimed. Advancing into the room he continued, “Here, I say, old boy, go easy. If that bally stamp collecting bug gets its teeth into you our happy days of fun and frolic will be over—absolutely finished. You’ll spend the rest of your life trotting round looking for little bits of paper in the hope that one of them might turn out to be a tuppenny Blue Mauritius.”

  “Did you say days of fun and frolic?” inquired Biggles with biting sarcasm.

  “Well—er—fun, anyway—if you see what I mean?”

  Biggles laid the magnifying glass on the table. “It may interest you to know that I’ve always wanted to collect stamps. As a kid at school it was a secret passsion with me. I was saving up my pocket-money to start collecting when some perisher started a war, and I haven’t had a chance since. Stamps are more interesting than most pieces of paper ten times their size. Besides teaching you more geography than an atlas they’re pretty to look at. I’m getting browned off rushing round the world without getting anywhere, particularly since we got roped into this detective business; one day, when the brass-hats turf me out to graze on a pension, I’m going in for stamps in a big way.”

  “Then you haven’t started yet?” Algy asked the question.

  Biggles sighed. “Not yet.”

  “Then what’s all this? “ Algy pointed to the stamps that lay on the table.

  “Oh, that’s another story,” said Biggles sadly.

  “When did it happen?”

  “This morning. Shut the door and pull up some chairs. I shall have to tell you about it sometime so it might as well be now. It’s a depressing tale.” Biggles lit a cigarette while he was waiting.

  When the others had gathered round, selecting a stamp from those on the table he held it up and continued, “This stamp, valued at one franc fifty centimes, was issued by the government of France.” He dropped the stamp and picked up another. “This one, to all appearances identical, is an imposter. It was fabricated by unauthorised persons at some place unknown.”

  “In other words, it’s a fudge,” put in Ginger.

  “It is, and yet it isn’t,” returned Biggles. “A fudge is an imperfect copy of an original, imperfect because, as the materials of which official issues are composed are kept secret, there is a difference, even though it is not apparent at first glance. In this case there is no difference. The paper is the same as that on which the government issues are printed. The design is the same; the chemical constituents of the gum and the ink are the same. In short, if a number of these stamps, genuine and spurious, were mixed, no one could sort them out again—unless he had a keen sense of smell. The bogus stamps have a queer odour hanging to them—a sort of musty smell mixed up with moth-balls. To the stamp collector this may be a matter of small importance, but for the French government it is very serious. It means that the Post Office is being swindled out of its revenues, the sum lost being in proportion to the number of dud stamps put into circulation. Such perfect reproductions as these would certainly be put out in large numbers, which means that France is every day losing a considerable sum of money. And that state of affairs will go on until the illegal printing press is discovered.”

  “In other words, a gang of clever counterfeiters are at work in France?” put in Algy.

  “Counterfeiters are certainly at work, but where the work is being done is a question not so easy to answer,” replied Biggles. “Forget the stamps for a moment and look at this.” Emptying the contents of an envelope on the table he selected a small piece of paper almost entirely covered with a design printed in mauve ink. “You probably know what this is.”

  Ginger grinned. “It’s a ten bob note. I had one once.”

  “The Treasury would be happy to give you quite a lot if you could tell them who produced that particular specimen. Like the stamps it is spurious. Yet such a perfect copy is it of the real thing that even the experts at the Bank of England are not infallible when they try to separate the false from the true. The paper is perfect. So is the ink. Of course, all governments that issue notes know perfectly well that they will be counterfeited to a more or less extent. There are always a number of dud notes in circulation, even in this country. Most of them come from abroad, where people are not so familiar with their appearance. They are passed in this country at places where large numbers of notes are constantly changing hands—race meetings and so on. The majority of these forgeries are easy to detect, and when they reach the banks they are of course destroyed. This is a menace that has long been accepted. They are an irritation rather than a danger to the monetary system. But when counterfeit notes reach the perfection of this example that I have here on the table it can only mean that forgery is being practised in a big way, and that is a serious matter. A country must know, and be able to state at any time, just how many notes it has in circulation. If it can’t, then it’s on the road to inflation and bankruptcy. Its trade begins to decline, because other countries, naturally, would view its transactions with suspicion. Confidence is lost. Presently shopkeepers get chary of accepting notes. The result is chaos.” Biggles stubbed his cigarette.

  “This morning I was called to a special meeting in Whitehall,” he resumed. “Every government department of importance was represented. I went with Air Commodore Raymond, Assistant Commissioner of Police, representing Scotland Yard. The conference was convened to discuss a situation which has been developing slowly since the First World War. A lot of people have seen the trouble coming, although the newsspapers have kept the soft pedal on it for security
reasons.”

  “You mean the Black Market?” suggested Algy.

  “Pah! That’s merely a side issue.”

  “Tell us what it was about,” invited Bertie. “It sounds exciting.”

  “So exciting that, unless the trouble is checked, it will bust civilization as effectively as would indiscriminate bombing with atomic bombs,” declared Biggles seriously. “Some years ago, when certain writers of fiction first introduced into their crime novels a sort of king crook, a paramount chief of the underworld, the plots were generally regarded as entertaining but improbable flights of fancy. Yet that very thing has not only come to pass, but has far outstripped in scale and scope anything that these far-seeing writers visualized. Of course, petty crime still exists, as it always has existed and no doubt always will; but that is something that can be kept within reasonable limits by the police.”

  “There are people who assert that modern science will ultimately wipe out crime,” put in Ginger.

  Biggles shook his head. “Forget it. Such observatlons are wishful thinking. What those who make them overlook is this: modern science helps the up-to-date criminal just as much as it does the police. Devices that can be used by one can be used by the other. There is nothing to prevent crime from keeping pace wIth police methods. Indeed, there are signs that the crooks are ahead of the police.”

  “Why should that be?” demanded Algy.

  “It doesn’t take much working out,” answered Biggles gloomily. “In the first place, modern conditions are responsible for the trouble. What with one thing and another a lot of people are getting browned off, with the result that an increasing number are not as honest as they were—to put it nicely. Two world wars have nearly caused the earth to seize up on its axis. We were talking of science. What have scientists done to help matters? They’ve been so busy producing lethal weapons that they’ve forgotten how to do the simple things—like providing food to feed the people. The man in the street doesn’t want atomic bombs. He wants bread and butter. The world has gone cockeyed and he knows it. He also knows there is nothing he can do about it. Tomorrow, he says, some clueless2 sabre-rattler will start another war, or, maybe, set loose a bunch of irritated atoms that will send the whole universe up in a cloud of dust and small pebbles. Result? He shrugs his shoulders and says. ‘What’s the use of working? What’s the use of doing anything? Let’s go out and play games.’”

  Bertie nodded. “What you mean is, the whole bally world is round the bend?”3

  Biggles smiled faintly. “That’s what it’s coming to. The trouble is, people in the frame of mind I have described are easily steered into crooked practices by sharpers with an eye to the main chance.” He glanced round the faces of his listeners. “Sorry if I appear to moralise, but you asked for it. As representatives of law and order, and particularly in view of the job now in front of us, we’ve got to face these murky facts.” He lit another cigarette and continued.

  “Apart from the ordinary people you have all the loose ends of society cut off by the wars—people, big people some of them, who have lost everything in the flare-up that has just swept this ball of mud on which we are living. No matter whose fault it was, these people are resentful of the disasters that have brought them to the gutter. They have no intention of playing at paupers while there is a hope of recovering the way of life to which they have been accustomed. They don’t care how they get money as long as they get it. Then there are hundreds of Nazis, Fascists and Japanese warrmongers who, apart from material gain, are out for revenge. On top of all these, if the papers are to be believed, there are thousands of deserters from military service, of all nationalities, floating loose. These people are not—or were not—professional crooks; but they are now ready for a career of swindling—anything if it means easy money. From the police angle, to deal with professional crooks is one thing, but this new problem is a very different matter. Take these notes as a case in point. At the top of the tree behind that racket is no tuppenny-hapenny sharper. He’s a big man. The small fry can’t give him away for it’s unlikely that they know him by sight or by name. If one of them gets caught it doesn’t matter two hoots to the Big Boss, who is the brains behind the organization. Expert legal advice would be available: in any case, who is going to convict a man for uttering false notes when they are as perfect as this? Anybody could be fooled. Suppose I was caught changing such a note? I should plead ignorance—that I did not know it was a dud; which would be true. Yet the profits of this racket must be enormous. Yes, it’s certainly a sticky problem for the police. Sorry to be so long-winded, but if we’re to have a hand in the business we might as well get the picture clear from the start.”

  “It isn’t a very pretty one, if you get my meaning,” murmured Bertie.

  “Our business is to see things as they are, not blink at them through rose-tinted glasses,” answered Biggles evenly. “Look at the facilities that are open to the crooks. There was a time when crooks were mere footpads, cheap swindlers, house-breakers and the like, each man working for himself in the hope of picking up a little easy money. They still exist, but they don’t matter; the police can take care of them. In the end they hurt themselves most of all. But the conditions which I have been at pains to describe have brought into being a new type of crook—men with brains and capital to back their projects. They do not think in pounds, or even hundreds of pounds. They start with thousands and their goal is millions, and the power that millions brings. There’s no limit. And once embarked on such a programme there’s no stopping. They can’t stop even if they want to, for around them are their lieutenants and the rank and file of their organizations, all dependent on them for a livelihood. As the bank balances grow so does the organization grow. The bribes they are able to offer are such that men normally honest are tempted to leave the decent ways of life which, by the machinations of the crooks, are made ever more difficult to follow. Play with us and grow rich, say the crooks. Play against us and we will bust you wide open. And that is no idle threat. The gang becomes an octopus with arms radiating out from the central brain. To cut off one arm does little good. The others continue to flourish and nourish the creature. The only way such a beast can be killed is by giving it the iron straight between the eyes. To destroy the thing you must destroy the brain. But how is that to be done when not even the arms know where the brain is hidden? Be sure that the brain keeps well in the background. It knows how to protect itself. An organizaation such as the one we must now try to visualize has its spies everywhere, in the highest places as well as the lowest. They warn the brain of danger every time the law moves in the right direction. As I said just now, once this state of affairs comes into being any discoveries that science may make are at once available to the crooks as well as to the forces of law and order.” Again Biggles stubbed his cigarette with thoughtful deliberaation.

  “Take, for example, our own line of business—aviation,” he continued. “There was a time, not so long ago, when a rogue was bound to confine his activities to one area because fast transportation did not exist. If he was in a hurry he had to ride a horse. In the last generation he might charter a special train, but even then there was little chance of his getting out of the country. Then came the motor car. Did that make things easier for the police? To some extent perhaps, but the real advantage lay with the crook. It took him swiftly to the scene of operations and got him away afterwards. Fast transportation has always been the crook’s best friend. Today, in an aircraft, he can get anywhere in the world in a few hours. There are no frontiers in the sky, no barricades, nothing to stop him from hitting the breeze in any direction, with practically no limit to range or speed. With this power in his hands it is inevitable that the modern master-crook should think on international rather than on national lines. He can make his headquarters where he likes, and from there strike in any direction. He needs no passport, any more than we needed passports when we were dropping into enemy territory during the war; and the crook is, after all, at war with civ
ilization. Consider these stamps and notes for example. The printing presses might be anywhere; on a Pacific island or deep in the heart of the Amazon jungle; on an oasis in the Sahara or within the Arctic Circle. With air transportation the lines of communication to and from such places wouldn’t mean a thing. The more you think about it the more you will realize what sort of job the police are going to have to track them down.”

  “If every country co-operated, Radar would spot a strange machine, or a machine flying over a course for which no commercial purpose could be found,” opined Algy.

  “Perhaps. Then what? The gangsters would hardly be so foolish as to fly direct between their hideout and the objective. These fake notes, for instance, might have been printed in Borneo, flown to Arabia, taken by camel caravan to Persia, and then flown again to some lonely spot in the Highlands of Scotland. Their ultimate distribution would of course be handled by a different organization. On the other hand, the whole racket might be done by a concern that is apparently a genuine air operating company. Where big money is concerned anything is possible. It is of course on account of the aviation angle that we have been put on the job. The modern crook spends big money, and must therefore play for big stakes. Private bank balances do not interest him—they are mere chicken feed. The bigger the organization gets the more money it must have. The more money it has the bigger it grows, so we get a vicious circle.”

  “Like the booze racketeers in America in prohibition days?” put in Ginger.

  “They were perhaps a milestone in the development of wholesale crime, but at the best they were only gangs of rough-and-tumble thugs who did their work through terrorism at the pistol point. Where such gangs might commit a single murder the criminal brains trusts of today would destroy a thousand lives in a revolution if it suited them.”

  “You think these super-crooks do really exist, then?” asked Algy.

  “The government has decided that there must be at least one such gang,” replied Biggles. “These counterfeit notes and stamps, they say, are proof of it. Such perfect workmanship could only have been arrived at by an enormous outlay of money. The paper, the ink and the gums, are secret, guarded by state officials. How did the crooks get them? By bribery. Officials —in this country at least—are not easily bribed. A threat, one which the Nazis were fond of using, might have done the trick. Blackmail. The business of introducing the faked notes and stamps into the respective countries could have been no easy matter either, yet it has been done. Doubtless there are other rackets, emanating from the same source, although so far they haven’t been spotted. Obviously, if this gang can turn out postage stamps and Treasury notes it can produce other things—clothing coupons, food cards, and so on. The whole world is open to it. There’s an interesting paragraph in today’s paper that might have a bearing on our case. Listen to this.” Biggles reached for the Daily Express and read: