Biggles of the Interpol

  CONTENTS

  BIGGLES WORKS OVERTIME

  THE MAN WHO LOST HIS FOOT

  ASSIGNMENT IN ARABIA

  ROUTINE PATROL

  THE LADY FROM BRAZIL

  EQUATORIAL ENCOUNTER

  BIGGLES MAKES A BET

  MURDER BY THIRST

  A MATTER OF DEDUCTION

  THE MAN WHO CAME BY NIGHT

  THE BIRD THAT DIED OF DIAMONDS

  BIGGLES WORKS OVERTIME

  ‘Did you know a fellow named Eustace Bowden? He was for some time a club instructor at Gatwick.’ Air Commodore Raymond, head of the Special Air Police, put the question to Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth, his chief operational pilot, as he entered his office at Scotland Yard.

  ‘I’ve heard of him, and may have seen him about, but I can’t say I knew him,’ answered Biggles.

  ‘Have you heard he’s been killed in a crash on an attempt to break the solo light plane record to Cape Town?’

  ‘I’ve heard that a burnt-out aircraft, with a body, presumably that of the pilot, in it has been found in the Sudan — if that’s what you mean, sir.’

  ‘The crash was found not very far from what we may suppose would be Bowden’s line of flight. Who else could it be?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea. Why should a pilot of Bowden’s experience be off course?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Did he make any signals?’

  ‘No. Why should he? It was a fine night.’

  ‘All the more reason why he should have been dead on his track.’

  ‘Nobody else has been reported missing so it could only be Bowden.’

  ‘I think probably you’re right,’ agreed Biggles, reaching for a cigarette. ‘It certainly looks like that.’

  The Air Commodore frowned. ‘What do you mean by probably? Have you any doubts about it?’

  ‘Not if the aircraft and the body have been identified.’

  The Air Commodore became curt. ‘You know as well as I do that in cases of fire it’s almost impossible to identify a body. Bowden was burnt beyond any hope of recognition. Not only did the aircraft crash in flames but it set off a grass fire that made it impossible to get near it for some time.’

  ‘Did anyone see the machine come down?’

  ‘Apparently not. In fact, it was supposed that natives had started the fire as they often do, to burn off the dead grass and so to encourage the growth of new grass for grazing. Not until the fire had burnt itself out were the remains of an aircraft discovered by the District Officer sent out by the Resident Magistrate to investigate. As you can imagine, by that time there wasn’t much left of the pilot, or the machine, beyond the metal parts. In any case it’s unlikely that the machine would have been identified, as never before, to my knowledge, has one of that type been seen in Africa.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘There was something a little odd about that.’

  ‘What do you mean — odd?’

  ‘The machine was a new type, an Owlet, produced by the United States Aircom Corporation. It was a four-seater developed for night work on feeder lines, which means that speed was sacrificed for reliability and slow landings. When I read of what Bowden intended to attempt I was a little puzzled. Not that it was any business of mine.’

  ‘Why were you puzzled?’

  ‘Because, on the machine’s official performance figures, had Bowden flown on full throttle all the way he could not have broken the record.’

  ‘The engine might have been hotted up for the job.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose that’s possible. We could soon find out. The British agent for the Owlet is Allan Hay, at Gatwick. It was from there Bowden took off for the flight. By the way, has his wife been informed?’

  ‘I don’t know. Why?’

  ‘Because I should feel inclined to hold my hand until it has been established definitely that the body found is that of her husband.’

  The Air Commodore’s frown deepened. ‘I see you’re in one of your difficult moods. What’s at the bottom of all this?’

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘Where exactly was the machine found?’

  ‘North-east of Atbara.’

  ‘That’s east of the main route south.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he must have been well off his course.’

  ‘Maybe he was trying to keep clear of north-bound traffic.’

  ‘That, for a man out to break a record, would be unusually considerate.’ Biggles shook his head. ‘No, sir. If he was off course it was by accident. Who found the crash?’

  ‘An officer of the Resident Magistrate at the government post of Abu Kara. Does that satisfy you?’

  Biggles shrugged his shoulders. ‘I’m satisfied that he found an aircraft. I’m not questioning that, sir.’

  The Air Commodore spoke with a sort of awful patience. ‘Then what are you questioning? There was only one aircraft on that sector of the route that night and it was Bowden, who had refuelled at Heliopolis. It must have been Bowden.’

  ‘You assume that it was Bowden. You don’t know. Since I’ve been on this job one thing I’ve learned is that it isn’t safe to assume anything.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll get the number of the engine of Bowden’s machine from the makers and have it checked with the one in the wreck. The engine, if nothing else, will have survived the fire. Will that satisfy you?’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  ‘In heaven’s name, man! What more do you want?’

  ‘Even if the check proved correct, and the number tallied, it would still do no more than confirm it was Bowden’s machine. It wouldn’t answer for the body. How could it?’

  The Air Commodore sat back. ‘You know, Bigglesworth,’ he said slowly and deliberately, ‘there are times when this relentless passion of yours over meticulous detail tries my patience. Everyone except you has accepted Bowden’s death without question.’

  ‘That’s because it’s the easiest course to take. Some people will do anything to avoid a spot of trouble.’

  ‘There’s no way of identifying a body charred to a cinder. Why not let it go at that?’

  ‘Maybe there’s something in my system that jibs at taking for granted what everyone else takes for granted.’ Biggles smiled, ‘After all, sir, you have only yourself to blame for that. It was you, many years ago, when I was a junior flying officer, who hammered home in me the importance of little things.’

  The Air Commodore sighed, nodding slowly. ‘There you go. Up to your old trick of sliding the onus of responsibility on me. Very well. Have it your way. What do you suggest we do about it?’

  Biggles spoke seriously. ‘As this is a matter of life or death I think we should settle beyond all doubt that the body is that of Bowden before we say so. More than one man, presumed dead, has reappeared to upset quite a number of apple-carts. If you say Bowden’s dead, and later on he were to turn up, we would all look pretty silly. For the moment, at any rate, you need merely say that Bowden is missing.’

  ‘Delaying tactics.’

  ‘Call it that if you like, but it gives us time.’

  ‘All right. Time for what? How are you going to settle the question?’

  ‘It shouldn’t be difficult. Bowden served for some years in the R.A.F. In his medical papers there will be a dental chart. Get a copy of it and compare it with the teeth of the body found in the aircraft. That’s been done before. Few sets of teeth are identical so there’s your answer. Send a radio signal asking the Resident Magistrate to postpone interment pending identification and I’ll fly out with Bowden’s dental chart. At the same time you might ask him to get the District Medical Officer to make a pattern of the teeth they have there for comparison. I don’t want to fiddle about with a c
orpse.’

  ‘You’re making this a grim business.’

  ‘Inquests always are grim, but they’re necessary. It’s a million to one that the body is that of Bowden, and I shall be as surprised as you if it isn’t; but we shall at least have proved the point. You might get particulars of Bowden’s career. I’ll have a look at the crash. I don’t suppose it’ll be possible to ascertain the cause — you know how it is — but no harm will be done by looking. We shall then have done everything possible. I’ll have a word with Hay, at Gatwick, before I leave. The makers of the machine will be puzzled, no doubt, and perhaps upset. It’s no advertisement for them.’

  ‘All right. Let’s leave it at that for the time being,’ agreed the Air Commodore. ‘You go to Gatwick and have a word with Hay about this if you like, but I can’t imagine how he’ll be able to help you.’

  ‘Okay, sir. You get that dental chart for me, and no matter what Hay says about it I’ll slip out to Africa and check up.’

  Biggles returned to Air Police Headquarters to tell Ginger what was in the wind, Algy and Bertie being on leave.

  Two days later, Biggles, who had flown to the Sudan with Ginger in a police Proctor, was shown by a coloured sentry into the headquarters of the Resident Magistrate at the government post of Abu Kara. Even as he introduced himself to the two men present, one of whom turned out to be the District Medical Officer, he sensed an ‘atmosphere’.

  ‘You have had a signal from my chief, I believe, so you would be expecting me,’ he began, looking from one to the other.

  ‘Yes, and we’re glad you’ve come,’ answered the magistrate. ‘Something queer, not to say unpleasant, has turned up.’

  ‘Indeed?’

  ‘Yes. It enables me to tell you why the machine crashed.’

  Biggles stared. ‘You can tell me why it crashed?’

  ‘Yes. The pilot was shot.’

  ‘Shot!’ Biggles looked incredulous. ‘You — er — mean he was hit by a random bullet from the ground?’

  The doctor spoke. ‘Not at all. The bullet that killed him couldn’t possibly have come from the ground. It was fired in the air, and moreover, at close range. Death must have been instantaneous.’

  Biggles was still staring. ‘Forgive me, sir, if I seem sceptical, but how could you judge the range, considering the whole thing was burnt out?’

  ‘From the hole in the skull and the type of weapon used.’ The doctor pointed to a small object on the desk. ‘There’s the bullet. A lead bullet, fired, so the station armourer assures me, from a Webley forty-five revolver. I should never have found it had you not asked for a description of the pilot’s dental formation, for as you will believe, I wasn’t looking for anything like that. The bullet entered the head from the side just below the temple, struck the opposite cheek-bone and lodged in the jaw. Which means that it travelled downwards; and that in turn can only mean that the shot was fired in the air. Had it come from the ground, or at any rate below the machine, it must have travelled upwards.’

  ‘Excuse me, gentlemen. Do you mind if I sit down?’ said Biggles.

  Not for a long time had Ginger seen him so shaken.

  ‘This is a development for which I was not prepared,’ went on Biggles, taking a sheet of paper, actually a Service form, from his pocket, and handing it to the Medical Officer. ‘That is the dental chart of the man who was officially flying the aircraft,’ he stated. ‘How does it compare with the one you have?’

  The doctor did little more than glance at the chart. ‘These teeth are not those of the body we found in the crash. The teeth of the body we have here are perfect and complete. This chart you have given me shows that five molars are missing. It is the mouth, I would say, of an older man.’

  Again for a moment Biggles could only stare. The truth of the matter was, in spite of the arguments he had put forward to the Air Commodore, he was convinced in his mind that the crash could only be that of Bowden, the ill-fated record-breaker. He looked at Ginger. ‘If it wasn’t Bowden’s machine, who on earth could it have been? No one else is missing. If it wasn’t Bowden in the crash it couldn’t have been his machine. Or could it? This has me stumped.’ Biggles shook his head.

  The magistrate resumed. ‘In the matter of the machine, if it’s any help to you I can tell you the number of the engine. I sent a man out to get it.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘J.B. 4257.’

  ‘J.B. 4257,’ repeated Biggles, in a dazed voice. ‘Then it must have been Bowden’s machine, for that’s the number of his engine. I got it from the agent before I left.’ Again he looked at Ginger. ‘We seem to have started something, and given ourselves a pretty tangle to unravel. It was the machine in which Bowden left England but he wasn’t flying it when it crashed. Who was flying it? The plane crashed because the pilot was shot. Who fired the shot? As only one body was found in the crash quite obviously Bowden couldn’t have been in it. Where is he?’

  ‘According to Hay,’ reminded Ginger, ‘Bowden wore a parachute. You remember Hay telling us that. He told Hay, who was surprised to see him carrying one on such a trip, that having to wear one for so long in the R.A.F. he felt uncomfortable in the air without one.’

  ‘The man who died in the aircraft had no parachute, I can assure you of that,’ put in the magistrate. ‘Had that been so we should have found the metal fittings. Wondering why the man hadn’t jumped if he was in trouble I looked particularly for them. That, of course, was before the doctor found the bullet.’

  ‘As he was shot through the head a brolly wouldn’t have been much use to him, anyway,’ muttered Biggles grimly. He drew a deep breath. ‘After all this there doesn’t seem much point in our looking at the wreckage. May I ask you, gentlemen, to keep the soft pedal on this until I’ve had a chance to confer with my chief? I’ll go straight back. Obviously there has been foul play here and it looks uncommonly like a deliberately planned murder.’

  ‘Do you want to see the body? We held up interment as requested.’

  ‘No thanks. You’ve told me all I need to know about it.’

  ‘Then we may bury it.’

  ‘Certainly. I assume you found nothing in the pockets that would help identification?’

  ‘Not a thing. Everything was incinerated.’

  ‘I see. The problem now is to find Bowden. It seems futile to look for him in a country this size but should you hear of him, dead or alive, you’d oblige me by sending a signal at once to Scotland Yard.’

  The magistrate promised to do that.

  ‘That’s all, then,’ said Biggles. ‘Thanks for your cooperation, sir. We’ll press on home.’

  In a few minutes the Proctor was speeding northwards.

  ‘Now you have let yourself in for something,’ remarked Ginger.

  ‘I’m beginning to think I should have taken the Air Commodore’s advice and left well alone,’ answered Biggles lugubriously.

  When Biggles reached the Yard and walked into his chief’s office he was greeted with a smile.

  ‘You’re soon back,’ observed the Air Commodore. ‘I assume you must have now satisfied yourself that it was Bowden?’

  ‘Far from it,’ answered Biggles wearily, sinking into a chair. ‘It was Bowden’s machine all right but he wasn’t in it.’

  The Air Commodore’s expression changed abruptly. ‘Not in it? Who was?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue — and in this case there’s no dental chart for comparison.’

  ‘All right. Don’t rub it in.’ The Air Commodore pushed over the cigarette box. ‘You know, Bigglesworth, you must have an instinct for this sort of thing.’

  ‘If that’s so it’s my misfortune, for it gives me an awful lot of trouble.’

  ‘I withdraw my criticism of your methods. Now tell me about it.’

  Biggles recounted the result of his investigations at Abu Kara. ‘I seem to have set myself a pretty problem,’ he concluded. ‘What on earth can have happened to Bowden? You say no news has been received from Africa, so i
t’s a case of where do we go from here.’

  ‘You tell me,’ requested the Air Commodore, helplessly.

  ‘For a start I think I’ll run down to Gatwick and have another word with Hay,’ decided Biggles. ‘He has an interest in this and may be able to throw light on the business. While I’m away you might get Bowden’s full service record from the Ministry. To know where he’s been and what he’s done might help. It’s queer he hasn’t shown up. He’s either dead or deliberately keeping under cover. If he was wearing a brolly, as Hay said, he should still be alive.’

  ‘It must have been one or the other,’ agreed the Air Commodore. ‘It does seem queer that he hasn’t turned up.’

  ‘I shan’t be long,’ said Biggles, and taking Ginger with him went by car to Gatwick where they found Hay, the Aircom agent, at his desk.

  ‘Hello! What’s your trouble?’ greeted Hay, for he knew Biggles fairly well, and of his connection with the Air Police.

  ‘I’m still working on this accident to one of your machines in Africa,’ informed Biggles, accepting a cigarette.

  ‘I’ve already told you all I know about it,’ declared Hay. ‘The aircraft was in perfect order when it left here. I can’t imagine what happened. Your guess is as good as mine. My people are pretty sick about it. What was intended to be a publicity stunt has ended up in a mess that will do us more harm than good. I’m partly to blame.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘I should never have agreed to the show. I had a feeling that Bowden was phoney.’

  Biggles frowned. ‘What gave you that idea?’

  ‘Well, for one thing he hadn’t any money.’

  ‘He had enough to buy the machine.’

  ‘He didn’t pay for it.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

  ‘The less said about a bad show like this the better.’

  ‘Who did pay for the machine? I imagine you didn’t give it to him.’

  ‘A lad named Renford — Antony Renford.’

  ‘How does he come into the picture?’

  ‘He was a pupil pilot at the club here. Bags of money. That’s how he got to know Bowden. Bowden was an instructor here at one time. He must have put up the proposition to young Renford, who fell for it. At all events he bought the machine.’