Another Job For Biggles Read online

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: CONFERENCE AT THE YARD

  CHAPTER 2: AN ASSIGNMENT IN ARABIA!

  CHAPTER 3: A RIDDLE IN THE SANDS

  CHAPTER 4: BIGGLES MAKES A CALL

  CHAPTER 5: KNOTTY PROBLEMS

  CHAPTER 6: THE ENEMY HITS BACK

  CHAPTER 7: NATURE INTERVENES

  CHAPTER 8: GINGER FALLS OUT

  CHAPTER 9: ZAHAR SOLVES A MYSTERY

  CHAPTER 10: BERTIE GETS A FRIGHT

  CHAPTER 11: BIGGLES TAKES A RIDE

  CHAPTER 12: THE SULTAN SHOWS HIS HAND

  CHAPTER 13: ZAHAR PAYS A DEBT

  CHAPTER 14: ABRIMOS GETS HIS ANSWER

  Chapter 1

  Conference at the Yard

  “COME in, Bigglesworth. Sit down.”

  The speaker was Air Commodore Raymond, administrative head of the Special Air Section, New Scotland Yard: and the man to whom he spoke was Sergeant Bigglesworth (known to his friends as Biggles) his chief pilot, who had just entered the room.

  “I’ve some news for you,” informed the Air Commodore, a curious smile hovering about the corners of his mouth.

  “Go ahead, Sir,” invited Biggles sombrely. “I can take it.”

  “For your pains you’ve been promoted.”

  Biggles started. “I’ve been what!”

  “Promoted.”

  “To what?”

  “Detective Air-Inspector, which, incidentally, is a new rank at the Yard.”

  Biggles stared. “Suffering Icarus!” he breathed. “That’s terrific. When Bertie learns this he’ll swallow his monocle. May I ask who did this to me?”

  “The Commissioner himself—no less.”

  “Don’t think me ungrateful, Sir, but it would have been better to stick to plain Sarge; it isn’t such a mouthful,” said Biggles sadly. “Do I have to do anything extra for this spot of elevation? Too much responsibility has already washed out the sense of humour that once enabled me to aviate with a light heart.”

  “Not necessarily,” replied the Air Commodore smiling. “Are you still very busy?”

  “I think I’ve about got things buttoned up,” answered Biggles.

  This conversation related to the work on which he had for some weeks been employed. The Treasury, agreeing reluctantly that the police force would have to move with the times, had at last sanctioned a grant of money for the formation and equipment of a Special Air Unit, whereas hitherto the Air Police had had to rely on the Air Ministry for its machines, maintenance and service. The money did not run to a special airfield, but it was sufficient for the hire of a private hangar at Gatwick Airport, with the usual offices, and one or two aircraft for general work, mostly types from the R.A.F Obsolescent List. It was, of course, out of the question for the Unit to maintain the many types, large and small, land, marine or amphibious, which its highly specialised work in different parts of the world might from time to time demand; but the difficulty had been overcome by the appointment at the Air Ministry of a Liaison Officer who was authorised to let the Police have on loan any particular type required.

  It was on the organisation of this Unit that Biggles had been working; and there had been a lot to do, from the engagement of mechanics, who had been enrolled as policemen, to the fitting of two-way high-frequency radio, for direct communication between pilots and their headquarters, and police cars on the ground.

  “I’ve got my old flight-sergeant, Smyth, in charge of the ground-staff,” Biggles told the Air Commodore. “There’ll be a twenty-four hour service in the radio room. So through it, you should be able to get in touch with us instantly, whether we’re in the air or on the carpet. I hope, too, always to have an officer on duty, with an aircraft standing by, for any urgent job that may turn up.”

  The Air Commodore nodded. “Good! We’re getting on. I’m arranging for a special code for you, so that I shall be able to speak to you, or with your ground-staff, without the rest of the world listening to our conversation.”

  “That should be useful,” agreed Biggles. “There’s just one thing though. I hope the Commissioner doesn’t get any funny ideas, on account of this new set up, of turning us on to routine jobs. The day I’m put on traffic-control over Epsom Downs on Derby Day my resignation will be on your desk. I can find something more entertaining than counting queues of cars on cross-roads.”

  The Air Commodore laughed. “I don’t think it’ll come to that. We’ve already got that angle covered.” He picked up a single loose cigarette that lay on his desk and offered it. “Have a cigarette to steady your nerves?”

  Biggles looked at the cigarette, frowned and then lifted his eyes to the Air Commodore’s face. “What’s wrong with it?” he queried suspiciously.

  “What makes you think there’s anything wrong with it?”

  “Because when one has a box at one’s elbow it isn’t usual to offer a visitor a second-hand sample,” answered Biggles.

  The Air Commodore laughed again. “True enough,” he agreed. “You’re living up to your new title.”

  Biggles took the cigarette, examined it closely, smelt it and handed it back. “Looks all right, except that it doesn’t carry the maker’s name,” he observed. “Did you really want me to smoke it?”

  “No. You might enjoy it but it wouldn’t be good for you.”

  “What would it do to me?”

  The Air Commodore put his fingers together and gazed at the ceiling. “After a few draws you would sink back in a peace that passes the understanding. Wonderful music, melodious beyond imagination, would caress your ears as you wandered in an exquisite dream-world. You would then become a giant, floating on clouds to a world where pain is unknown and life an eternal harmony of joy.”

  Biggles sighed. “That’s just what I’ve been looking for all my life. May I have a thousand?”

  “Unfortunately I’ve only got one.”

  “Who handed you that paradise story?”

  “A man who has smoked one of the cigarettes.”

  “Dope, eh?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Sounds fascinating.”

  The Air Commodore nodded slowly. “It may sound fascinating, but I didn’t send for you merely to excite your imagination. I sent for you because we’re up against a menace that might, if it is allowed to run wild, turn the world upside down. I’m hoping you may be able to make a helpful suggestion.”

  “Do you mean this is a flying job?”

  The Air Commodore hesitated. “I don’t know. It may be. I can’t make up my mind just what sort of job it is, and that’s a fact. It may be in your line, or it may not. I’ll tell you about it, then you tell me.”

  “Do you mind if I get my boys down?” requested Biggles. “It may save me from going over the story again for their benefit. If this case is to be handed to us I’d like them to get the facts from the start. As a matter of detail, Algy Lacey is away. I’ve given him a week’s leave, and he’s gone sailing somewhere on somebody’s yacht.”

  “I see.” The Air Commodore reached for his intercom telephone. “Please ask Air Constables Lissie and Hebblethwaite to come to my office,” he told the operator.

  A minute later they came into the room, and after Raymond had told them to be seated, he went on: “I’ve just been having a word with Detective Air Inspector Bigglesworth and he thought you ought to be here to listen to the rest of the conversation.”

  There was a short silence. Then, in a thin voice, Ginger asked: “Who did you say?”

  “Ah! Of course, you didn’t know about your Sergeant’s promotion,” murmured the Air Commodore.

  “Promotion! Jolly good,” burst out Bertie. “I say, you know, not before it was due, if you don’t mind my saying so.” He walked over to Biggles an
d held out his hand. “Jolly good show old boy—absolutely top hole. Congrats and all that.”

  Biggles smiled as he shook hands with Bertie and Ginger in turn.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  “All right. Now that’s over let’s get on,” resumed the Air Commodore, pushing the cigarette box forward. “I was just saying, we’ve a rather nasty job on hand, and it’s a bit difficult to know where to start. I take it you’ve all heard of marijuana?”

  Biggles answered. “I have, although I’ve never made actual contact with it.”

  The Air Commodore went on. “To botanists, marijuana is merely a plant indigenous to Central America. To every police force in the world it has for years been a headache. Prepared, it becomes a drug that has startling effects on the human system, one of which is to make the user utterly fearless and regardless of consequences. American gunmen used it in the days of gang warfare. They admitted that under its influence they could commit murder cheerfully. A little of it got over here in spite of our efforts to prevent it. It is taken in the form of smoke, in cigarettes, which sell at a price that shows a fantastic profit. I merely mention this in passing in order to point out that we are not without experience in this sort of thing. Fortunately, it’s fairly easy to spot a man under the influence of the stuff, so we’ve been able to keep the racket under reasonable control; but make no mistake; if marijuana ever got into common use civilisation as we know it would just fall to pieces.”

  “Was it marijuana in the gasper you offered me just now?” enquired Biggles.

  “No. The stuff in that cigarette is a hundred times more insidious.”

  Biggles made a grimace. “I begin to understand why you’re worried.”

  The Air Commodore nodded. “I thought you would. All right. I shall now have to switch the conversation to a different angle, and a different locality. Some time ago, Doctor Guthram Darnley, the celebrated Asiatic traveller and explorer, undertook to cross the least known territory left on earth. This is not, as some people might suppose, the North Pole or the Amazonian jungle, but the very cradle of the human race, namely, Arabia—or to be more specific, the Rub al Khali1, which is that part of the great Arabian Peninsula lying between the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf. This is the real desert, a wilderness of calcined earth and sand. Water-holes are few and far between; they are guarded jealously by fanatical tribesmen that fight among themselves, so you can imagine what sort of reception an infidel would get. For this reason only one or two white men have seen the country—or at any rate, the southern area, which Darnley proposed to cross. Having lived for many years on the outskirts, and being able to speak Arabic fluently, he had the advantage of being able to pass himself off as an Arab.”

  “I’ve seen a little of this country from the air,” put in Biggles.

  “So have several other pilots,” acknowledged the Air Commodore. “But what did you see? Sand. What did you learn? Nothing. You must agree that air survey has a very limited scope. An air pilot may observe the nature of the terrain, but he returns without any knowledge whatever of the things that dwell on it, human, animal or vegetable. In short, he brings back no scientific information, and is in fact unable to add one single name to the map. In order to acquire this knowledge a man must still travel as his early ancestors travelled—on foot. Very well. Doctor Darnley, a man with great experience of desert travel, made his hazardous journey on foot—or, to be more precise, on the back of a camel. Naturally, he did not go alone. He had a fairly considerable force of Arab camel-men with him, enough to carry his water and stores, and present a bold front to raiding tribesmen. Most of these men were changed several times during the journey as camels became worn out and areas dominated by different races of Arabs were crossed. I mention this because, in view of what is coming, it is important.” The Air Commodore pushed the cigarrette box to Biggles and at the same time helped himself.

  “We needn’t dwell on the Doctor’s adventures,” he continued. “At the moment we are interested only in one of his several discoveries. He found great areas of sand, but there are also wide stretches of flat, hard earth, and gravel, locally called sabkha, which are sterile simply because there is practically no water. These regions are sometimes split by wadis, which are valleys in which a little brackish water may be found—not enough to support life as we know it but enough for the needs of small groups of tribesmen who never in their entire lives know what it is to drink to repletion. As one hole dries up they move to another.

  “In one such wadi Doctor Damley found what might be truly called a lost tribe of Arabs. Actually, they were Murras, and in his opinion had once been a powerful raiding party. At the time of his arrival there were about thirty survivors, all men, and they were in a pitiable condition.

  His first impression was that they were all suffering from sleepy sickness; but then, realising that such a disease in such a place was out of the question, his curiosity led him to make enquiries. He discovered that their comatose condition was brought about by the smoke of their fires. As you know, dry camel dung is the normal fuel in the desert, although sticks are used if they can be found. It happened that in this wadi there grew a shrub that burnt freely. There was also some acacia, which actually was the cause of the trouble in the first place, because it provides fodder for camels. The Arabs, finding both water and fodder, stayed on, as is the Arab custom, to make the most of it. For their fires they used the other shrub to which I referred just now. The smoke, they discovered, induced very pleasant sensations, and they also stayed on to enjoy it. They must have been in ignorance of what they were doing because all drugs, and alcohol for that matter, are forbidden by their religion—although that doesn’t prevent them from selling it to other people.

  “Their trouble was they stayed too long, for when the time came to go, they lacked the strength to travel. What was worse, their camels had been eating the shrub and were in an even worse condition than the men. In such a country a man, even an Arab, without his camel, is finished. So these wretched Murras found themselves marooned, so to speak. And there they were when Doctor Damley arrived. They were then living by eating their useless camels. The Doctor could do nothing for them, for the position of his own party was precarious.” The Air Commodore smiled apologetically. “I shall now, I fear, have to bore you with a little botany. I’ve looked it up myself to save you the trouble.”

  Biggles nodded. “Botany isn’t in my line, but go ahead,” he invited.

  “On examining the shrub that had caused the mischief, a woody plant about three feet high with a greyish leaf, the Doctor found that it was new to him. This was not really remarkable because Arabia seems to have made a point of developing highly specialised plants—and beasts for that matter—that will flourish only when given certain condidions of soil, climate and altitude. A precise degree of all these things may be essential to the well-being of the plant. Frankincense is an example and even in Southern Arabia it is very local. Thus with this new shrub, which, I may say, was also unknown to the Doctor’s Arabs. As you may or may not know, nearly every plant that grows in a waterless district must by some means protect itself from excessive evaporation, otherwise it will be shrivelled up by the blazing sun. They must contain and conserve their own water supply. Some turn their leaves edge on to the sun. Others, like cacti, grow extremely thick leaves, so that each one is a sort of reservoir. Others coat themselves with gum, which, acting as a varnish, prevents their moisture from escaping. The shrub with which we are concerned comes into this category, and to make a long story short, the Doctor ascertained that this gum was a potent narcotic.

  “Doctor Darnley collected some seeds of this plant, brought them home and gave them to the Royal Horticultural Society for scientific investigation. A few plants were raised at Kew in artificial conditions approaching as nearly as possible those of the wadi; but apparently conditions were not identical and the plants died, so that today not one exists in cultivation. But before they died they served their purpose. The shrub was i
dentified as a new form of Artemesia. For a desert species the plant grows quickly from seed and bears gum in a few months. In passing I may say that many of the Artemesia family have toxic properties. One is commonly known as wormwood, and the French use it to make a rather deadly drink called absinthe. Anyhow, that’s the story of how the new drug came to the notice of civilisation. The natives call it gurra, which is perhaps easier to remember.” The Air Commodore stubbed his cigarette.

  “Realising the dangerous nature of this drug we saw to it that it was given no publicity. Some of the gum was sent to the medical people for examination as to possible medicinal qualities, and from them we know the effect it has on human beings when inhaled in the form of smoke. We will now come back to London.”

  * * *

  1 Rub al Khali is Arabic, meaning, literally, Empty Quarter, an appropriate name because most of it, occupying many thousands of square miles, is a waterless desert of sand dunes. These “great sands” are bounded by mountain and steppe country which is almost as inhospitable, although a few scattered water holes and harsh scrub are sufficient to support one or two nomadic Arab tribes that are normally at war with each other. A British zone of influence has been established by aircraft of the R.A.F. operating from Aden, and a few advanced landing-grounds.

  Chapter 2

  An Assignment in Arabia!

  “THE first indication that we had that this new dope was no longer a secret was when a lady in the West End of London rang up her doctor in a panic to say that her husband appeared to be dying,” continued the Air Commodore. “Actually, he was not. He was under the influence of a drug. An unfinished cigarette lying beside him was sent for analysis and turned out to contain gurra. Very soon other cases were coming to our notice. In a raid on a night club the police found two men and a woman under the same influence. From this it became clear that a regular traffic was going on in the underworld. A number of people were already addicts of the drug which was being sold in the form of cigarettes. This was bad enough but worse was to come. In the early hours one morning a police officer picked up a man unconsious in the street. Thinking he was drunk the officer got him to a police station. He wasn’t drunk. He’d been doped—with gurra. He had also been robbed. He had no idea as to how he had got into such a condition. He stated that he found himself in conversation, in an hotel, with a man, a stranger, who had offered him a cigarette. He remembered nothing afterwards. It was a thing anyone might do. Other people have had the same nasty experience. You’ll now see our difficulty. We can’t issue notices warning people against accepting cigarettes from strangers without revealing the whole story, which might do more harm than good. No doubt there are people already addicted to the stuff about whom we know nothing, people who enjoy—if I can use the word—the drug in their own homes. We are told that the sensations produced are similar to those of opium, only more intense. Well, that’s the position, and if you will let your imagination dwell on it, you’ll see what’s likely to happen if the stuff gets into general use. At the moment it’s being used in two ways. One, simply as a drug, like opium, cocaine or hashish, by people who are crazy enough to go in for that form of enjoyment. Two, by crooks who are able to stupefy a selected victim by merely offering him a cigarette. The cigarette I have here was obtained by one of our plain-clothes men posing as a millionaire in a London night club. The fellow who offered it was arrested. He protested complete ignorance as to the nature of the cigarette, asserting that it must have been in a packet which he had just bought. We had no case against him and we had to let him go. To have put him in court would merely have given the stuff undesirable publicity, and warned the vendors of it that we knew what was going on. It’s no earthly use arresting these odd men selling the stuff. They’re only the small fry. Others would soon take their places. We’ve got to get, literally, to the root of the thing. By which I mean we’ve not only got to find the man or the syndicate that is smuggling the stuff into the country; we’ve got to find out where he’s getting it from. The stuff is so strong that only a minute quantity would be required to treat thousands of cigarettes, and I doubt if the Excise officers could prevent its importation. So really, the only way to kill the racket is to destroy the stuff at its source. Of course, it would be something if we could lay our hands on the big man behind the graft. That he is a big man we may be sure, for his profits must have been enormous. You see, what is going on here, is also going on in America and on the Continent. In fact, it’s the most serious menace we’ve ever had to face, and I’m not exaggerating when I say that if it got a big hold it might well put western civilisation off the map. As you know, it’s no use asking people to refrain from using a drug once they’re in its grip. They’re physically unable to do so.”