Biggles - Air Detective Read online

  CONTENTS

  THE CASE OF THE BLACK SHEEP

  THE CASE OF THE VISITING SULTAN

  THE CASE OF THE UNREGISTERED OPERATOR

  THE CASE OF THE WOUNDED AGENT

  THE CASE OF THE BRILLIANT PUPIL

  THE CASE OF THE MURDERED APPRENTICE

  THE CASE OF THE STOLEN AIRCRAFT

  THE CASE OF THE BLACK SHEEP

  As Detective Air-Inspector Bigglesworth, better known as “Biggles”, entered the office of the chief of his department, Air Commodore Raymond, Assistant Commissioner of New Scotland Yard, waved him to a chair and at the same time introduced a black-coated gentleman with whom he had been in conversation.

  “Bigglesworth, this is Mr. Videll, Liaison Officer between the Board of Trade and His Majesty’s Office of Customs and Excise,” he said. “He has come here hoping that—well, if we can’t give him any information you might give him the benefit of your expert opinion.”

  Biggles sat down. “What’s the trouble?”

  Mr. Videll answered. “The trouble, in a word, is nylons.”

  Biggles looked incredulous. “Nylons? Do you mean women’s stockings?”

  “Yes.”

  Biggles threw at his Chief a glance in which indignation and reproach were present. “For heaven’s sake!” he exclaimed. “Don’t tell me that we’re expected to—”

  The Air Commodore held up a hand. “Don’t jump to conclusions. Hear what Mr. Videll has to say. Nylons may be bigger business than you suppose. Go ahead, Videll.”

  The Liaison Officer explained. “We’re worried by a serious leakage through our Customs barriers. American nylons are coming into this country in numbers far beyond the official quota. They’re affecting the home market. The hosiery trade is complaining, and we’ve got to stop it.”

  “What are a few pairs of stockings, more or less?” murmured Biggles, looking slightly amused.

  “Somebody is making a packet of money out of them, anyway,” asserted Mr. Videll with asperity. “We’re wondering if they’re being smuggled in by aircraft. That’s why I’m here.”

  “But surely if anyone was going seriously into the smuggling racket they’d choose a more profitable line than stockings,” opined Biggles. “I doubt if an aircraft capable of doing the transatlantic run could be operated to make a profit out of them. Can you give me any figures? What do nylons weigh?’

  “A pair of real Du Pont Crystal nylon stockings weigh less than half an ounce,” stated the Liaison Officer. “Say three pairs to an ounce, or forty-eight pairs to a pound. A parcel weighing a mere fifty pounds would contain two thousand pairs of hose. They could probably be bought in America, wholesale for less than ten shillings a pair. Here, they are retailing in the black market at anything from twenty-five to thirty shillings a pair, which means that a fifty-pound parcel would show a profit of something in the order of £2,000. Work that out in quantities and you’ll see that nylons are by no means mere chicken-feed.”

  “You surprise me,” admitted Biggles. “Are you sure the stuff isn’t trickling through in the kit-bags of foreign merchant sailors?”

  “A number were being brought in that way at one time, but since we got the big stick out it has pretty well dried up. No, these consignments are coming through in bulk. While they last they nearly flood the market. Then there’s a gap until the next consignment arrives. That’s been happening at the rate of four times a year for the past twenty months.”

  “And you’ve no clue as to how this racket is being worked?”

  “We thought we had, but somehow we can’t make it fit. Intensive investigation revealed that the appearance of the nylons invariably coincided with the arrival of a certain cargo boat—the Sirocco—which, flying the Panama flag, takes the north route to Liverpool. It must have been coincidence, because the last time the Sirocco came in we were waiting for her. We searched the ship and every man on her—and that’s a job we know how to do. The nylons weren’t there. We checked every parcel leaving the dock, yet within a couple of days a fresh lot of nylons were on sale in the London black market.”

  Biggles took a cigarette from his case and tapped it thoughtfully on the back of his hand before lighting it. “Hm! Coincidence is always interesting. In my experience there’s usually something more to it than just coincidence. Where’s the Sirocco now?”

  “Two hundred miles out in the Atlantic, heading for Liverpool.”

  “Which means that you’re expecting another load of nylons to arrive pretty soon?”

  Mr. Videll shrugged. “Another consignment is about due, but I don’t see how the Sirocco can have anything to do with it. Personally, I believe the stuff is being flown over, but I couldn’t guess how.”

  Biggles shook his head. “I doubt it.”

  “Why?”

  “To start with, we’re watching the sky pretty closely. Of course, I couldn’t swear that there isn’t an unlicensed machine about, but I’m pretty sure it couldn’t operate regularly without being spotted sooner or later. Apart from that, it’s a matter of simple mathematics. I doubt if it would be possible to operate an aircraft, capable of crossing the Atlantic, for the sole purpose of importing nylons—I mean, to show a profit and make the risks worth while. Aircraft are expensive toys. Or put it this way. If such a machine was operating the pilot would choose a more profitable line of goods than nylons. Again, if an aircraft was being used surely the nylons would arrive in a steady stream instead of only four times a year. That’s the rate of a tramp steamer. An aircraft could easily make the trip forty times in the same period. Then, what about petrol? You can’t buy petrol by the thousand gallons without somebody getting inquisitive.” Biggles looked at the Air Commodore. “That’s my opinion, sir, but we can go into the thing more closely if you like.”

  “I wish you would—just covering the air angle, of course,” answered the Air Commodore.

  Biggles got up. “Very well, sir.” He turned to the Liaison Officer. “If aviation does come into this, it shouldn’t take us long to pick up the scent. I’ll get cracking on it right away.” He left the room and returned to his own office, where Air Constable Ginger Hebblethwaite was on duty. “What’s the weather report for sea area Rockall, Malin and the North Channel?” he asked.

  Ginger went over to a flag-labelled map that covered most of one wall. “Fine and warm. Wind moderate, north to north-east. Sea calm. Conditions likely to persist.”

  “Good enough,” returned Biggles. “Get your hat. We’re going to have a look at it. I aim to be there about dawn. I’ll tell you why on the way.”

  “That looks like her.”

  The speaker was Ginger, and he spoke from the second pilot’s seat of an Air Police Service Saro amphibian, which, as indicated by the instruments, was cruising on a westerly course at an altitude of a thousand feet. Biggles was at the controls. Dawn was just breaking. Below lay the Atlantic, cold, dreary and monotonous, in the half light, rolling away to the edge of the world on all sides except to the east, where dark smudges marked the coastlines of Northern Ireland and the Western Isles of Scotland. In all that vast expanse of ocean only two ships could be seen. Far to the north a destroyer was outward bound on the King’s business. Several miles to the south a typical salt-water tramp was ploughing her way westward with a wisp of grimy smoke hanging like a feather from her funnel. Behind her, as far as the eye could see but fading in the distance, was her track, a broad line of oily water sprinkled at intervals with garbage.

  “Yes, that must be the Sirocco,” said Biggles. “Keep your eyes skinned. I’m going to back-track her.” He altered his course slightly, and throttled back, losing a little height. Ginger, with powerful binoculars to his eyes, studied the track, as Biggles, still heading seaward, took
up a course a little to the right of it.

  It was ten minutes before Ginger spoke. “I can see something I can’t identify,” he reported. “Go down a bit.”

  The aircraft slipped off more height.

  “Looks as if it might be a barrel, painted orange on top, with a black cross,” went on Ginger. “It might be a mine.”

  “We’ll have a look at it,” decided Biggles. “Watch the sky now; I don’t want anyone to arrive while we’re on the surface.” He cut the engine, and air sang over the planes as he side-slipped steeply towards his objective. In five minutes he had landed beside it.

  “All clear topsides,” announced Ginger.

  Biggles taxied to the object that had engaged their attention and, climbing out on a wing, examined it closely. Another minute and he was back in his seat.

  “Two motor tyres, inflated and lashed together to make flotation gear for an hermetically sealed tin box,” he muttered. “I’d say that’s what we’re looking for. We shall soon know.” The engine roared as he opened the throttle. The aircraft raced across the water, unstuck and climbed steeply. “It won’t do to be seen,” he went on. “Frankly, I reckoned we should find a fishing boat or a small yacht of some sort hanging about, but as there’s nothing of the sort in sight it begins to look as if the rescue party will come the way we came. If I’m right it won’t be long, either. In half an hour that track will have disappeared. Don’t take your eyes off the mark.” Not until the altimeter registered ten thousand feet did he level out and begin a wide circle.

  Five minutes passed. Then, “Tally-ho!” he called sharply. “Here he comes.”

  Ginger looked round and, following the direction of Biggle’s eyes, saw what appeared to be a white water-beetle skimming low over the water, following the wake of the steamer. He turned his glasses on it. “Moth seaplane,” he reported.

  “Not many of that type about,” murmured Biggles. “It shouldn’t take us long to trace the owner from the Civil Register. Ah-ha! He’s going down.”

  “If he looks up he’ll spot us,” warned Ginger.

  Biggles smiled grimly. “I’d wager the last thing he suspects is that he’s being watched. It doesn’t matter, anyway. He couldn’t shake us off if he tried.”

  There was no more talking. Together they watched the seaplane taxi to the orange object. The pilot climbed out on a float, and presently the two tyres were seen floating away. The box was put in the back seat of the machine, which then took off again and headed in the direction from which it had come.

  Biggles, maintaining his height, followed. The distant coasts hardened. Hills appeared. For a little while it looked as if the Moth might be making for Northern Ireland, but at the finish it swung round towards the many islands that stand like sentinels along the west coast of Scotland.

  “Get your chart handy,” ordered Biggles. Ginger unfolded an Admiralty chart on his knees.

  “He’s going in,” said Biggles, his eyes still on the Moth. “He seems to be making for that longish island with a piece bitten out of the middle.”

  “I’ve got it,” announced Ginger. “The name is Lagganmalloch Island.”

  “Good! For the moment that’s all we want to know,” returned Biggles. “That name rings a bell in my memory. I believe the island was a temporary marine aircraft base for submarine-spotting during the war. No doubt it has since been abandoned.” He turned away. “We’ll run home and see what the records have to tell us.”

  Three hours later, in his office at the Yard, with Ginger watching, Biggles was turning over the pages of the official Register of Civil Aircraft and private landing-grounds, to which he had added his own notes. It did not take him long to find what he was looking for. “Here we are,” he said. “Lagganmalloch. Temporary Service Seaplane Base, now relinquished. Island bought in 1946 by Flight-Lieutenant R. Q. Paullson, D.F.C., for farming. Specialises in black St. Kilda sheep. Applied for private owner’s licence as communications between island and mainland bad, and impossible sometimes in winter. MacRowdens coastal steamer service calls weekly, Wednesdays at three-thirty, for mail and freight. Licence granted. Type, Moth seaplane. Maker’s number R.1247. Wool is shipped to Louis Vanberger & Co., Glasgow, via Baltroonie. That’s all.” Biggles sighed, closed the book, looked up and shook his head sadly.

  “What a fool Paullson must be to think he could get away with that, although no doubt the idea must have looked all right. Apparently the black sheep didn’t pay. Pity. Stout pilot, Paullson. I remember meeting him once. But there, I suppose of the tens of thousands of war-trained pilots it was inevitable that one or two of them should strike hard times and go off the rails.”

  “He’ll go to gaol for this,” observed Ginger moodily. “The thing must have seemed easy. One sailor on board the Sirocco, to toss the consignment overboard at a prearranged spot, was all that was necessary. All Paullson had to do was back-trail the steamer and pick it up. Do you suppose he flies the stuff to the mainland?”

  “He wouldn’t be quite such a fool as that,” opined Biggles. “Besides, there’d be no need. It would be easier, and less risky, to slip it into some of the stuff he exports, a bale of wool, for instance. There would be no Customs check at Baltroonie on inter-island traffic. I imagine someone collects the stuff there and sends it on to London. I’ve got a feeling Paullson didn’t organise this himself. There would be difficulties at the American end. I’d say there’s a professional crook in it. If so, he’s the real sand in the gear-box.”

  “Yes,” muttered Ginger. “He’ll have his bolt-hole ready too, no doubt. When the showdown comes he’ll get away with it and leave Paullson to take the rap.”

  “Probably.” Biggles drummed on the table with his fingers. “I think we’ll make sure of our facts before we go any further. I’m going to slip back and have a word with Paullson. It may save us, and him, a lot of trouble. I’m convinced he isn’t really a bad hat—but, if he goes to gaol, he will be when he comes out.”

  A few hours later, with the sun past its zenith, Biggles landed in the little sheltered bay which during the war had been used as a marine aircraft reconnaissance base. Signs of this were still in evidence. There was a slipway, with a hanger behind it, near an old wooden pier on which was waiting, ready for the weekly steamer now approaching, island produce, which included live sheep, cases of eggs, and some bales—presumably wool. Here also the population of the island had forgathered to collect their mail, newspapers and the like.

  Biggles ran up the slipway, made fast, and, followed by Ginger, went ashore under the curious eyes of the little group of spectators. Taking no notice of these, they made their way to the merchandise and examined the labels. Biggles paid particular attention to the bales of wool. All were consigned to Louis Vanberger & Co., Glasgow. With one exception all the labels were printed. The exception was an orange-coloured label on which the address had been written. “This will be the one,” he murmured softly.

  By this time a tallish, good-looking young man of about twenty-six, in home-spun tweeds, had separated himself from the spectators and was walking towards them. He was slightly pale, Ginger noted, and his forehead was knit in a worried frown—which supported Biggles’s belief that, assuming it was Paullson, he was not an habitual lawbreaker.

  “Are you looking for something?” asked the man sharply.

  Biggles considered him without hostility. “You’re Paullson, aren’t you?”

  “I am,” was the curt reply. “Who are you?”

  “Detective Air-Inspector Bigglesworth of Scotland Yard,” answered Biggles quietly. “I’d like a word with you in private.”

  The ex-officer’s face turned ashen. He appeared to have difficulty in speaking. “Come over to my house, it isn’t far,” he managed to get out.

  They walked the few hundred yards to the house in silence. Paullson went to a sideboard and with a shaking hand poured himself a stiff drink. “Have one?” he offered.

  “I don’t use it, thanks,” replied Biggles. “I needn�
�t tell you why I’m here,” he went on. “ My advice to you is to come clean. It may make things easier for you and it’ll save time.”

  Paullson moistened his lips. “What do you want to know?” he asked in a low voice. “Speak quietly; my mother’s in the house.”

  Biggles went on. “This morning, shortly after daybreak, at a point roughly ninety miles southwest of here, you landed in the track of a ship named Sirocco and picked up a parcel.”

  “Who says so?” demanded Paullson, with a feeble attempt at bluster.

  “I say so,” answered Biggles evenly. “I was watching you. Am I right?”

  “Yes.” Paulison’s voice was hardly audible.

  “What was in the parcel?”

  “Cigarettes.”

  Biggles looked hard at the man. “Who told you so?”

  “The man to whom I forwarded the parcel.”

  “Have you ever opened one of these parcels? This, I believe, is the seventh.”

  “No.”

  “You took the man’s word for it?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did he pay you for doing this?”

  “Pay? He didn’t pay me anything.”

  “Don’t ask me to believe that you did it for nothing?” Biggles voice was sarcastic.

  “No. He sends me some of the cigarettes. I like American cigarettes. We don’t get many English cigarettes over here, anyway. My nerves are not too good and I smoke a lot.”

  “I see,” said Biggles slowly. “You knew, of course, that such a practice was highly irregular, to say the least of it?”

  “Yes, I knew that,” admitted Paullson frankly. “I took a chance.”

  “And the parcel you picked up this morning is now in a bale of wool addressed to Vanberger & Co.?”

  Paullson hesitated. “Yes,” he admitted.

  “Was it to do this that you bought an aircraft?”

  Paullson frowned. “Good lor, no! An aircraft is the only reasonable means of getting to and fro to the mainland.”

  “Tell me, then: how did this business start?” asked Biggles.