Biggles on the Home Front

  CONTENTS

  SYNOPSIS

  CHAPTER I: INSPECTOR GASKIN CALLS

  CHAPTER II: THE BAIT

  CHAPTER III: WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

  CHAPTER IV: GIVE AND TAKE

  CHAPTER V: A DAY IN THE COUNTRY

  CHAPTER VI: A DANGEROUS ENCOUNTER

  CHAPTER VII: ACCIDENT OR MURDER?

  CHAPTER VIII: BERTIE CLIMBS A TREE

  CHAPTER IX: ALGY SPEAKS HIS MIND

  CHAPTER X: LAXTER MAKES A PROPOSITION

  CHAPTER XI: NEWS FOR INSPECTOR GASKIN

  CHAPTER XII: THE TRAP

  CHAPTER XIII: NEW MOVES

  CHAPTER XIV: WEARY WORK

  CHAPTER XV: THE END OF THE TRAIL

  BIGGLES ON THE HOME FRONT

  An adventure of Biggles and. his Air Police Pilots in and around London

  Inspector Gaskin of the C.I.D., worried by a crop of jewel robberies in London, knew very well what difficulties crooks were up against when it came to disposing of stolen gems. Yet those who might have pulled these recent jobs were certainly getting big money for their loot. “They’re spending it like it dropped from heaven,” he told Biggles. “Where are they getting it from?”

  CHAPTER I

  INSPECTOR GASKIN CALLS

  AS the door of the Air Police Operations Room opened Biggles glanced up from the map which, with his police pilots, he was studying in connection with some recently published aircraft endurance ranges.

  “Hello, Inspector,” he greeted cheerfully, as the burly, dark-suited figure of Inspector Gaskin, of the Criminal Investigation Department, New Scotland Yard, advanced slowly into the office. “Take a pew.”

  “Thanks,” grunted the detective.

  “What’s on your mind?” inquired Biggles. “You look like a man who’s lost half a crown and found a penny.”

  “I feel,” answered the square-faced police officer, heavily, as he dropped into the chair that Ginger pulled out for him, “like a man who’s just seen his last quid go down the drain.”

  Biggles smiled. “On a fine spring day like this? Never mind. Another one’ll turn up. It’ll all come right in the end.”

  “It doesn’t look that way to me at present,” asserted Gaskin, lugubriously.

  “What’s the headache?”

  “If I knew the answer to that mebbe I could handle it.” Producing a well-smoked pipe the Inspector began with great deliberation to fill it.

  “Handle what?” asked Biggles.

  “Don’t you ever read the papers?”

  “When I have time.”

  “If you did,” rejoined the detective, “you might have noticed that over the past few months the Yard has had enough smacks in the eye to give anyone doing my job a permanent squint.”

  “From what direction did these smacks come?”

  “From several directions, but all jewel robberies. Big stuff. Fifteen thousand quid’s worth from one house; ten thousand from another; five thousand from a block of flats in Mayfair, and a tray of rings worth a couple of thousand from a shop in Bond Street. Close on a hundred thousand pounds’ worth altogether, and we haven’t a clue as to where it’s gone, much less recovered any of it. It still goes on. I lie awake o’ nights wondering where the next crack’ll come from. The Insurance Companies are beginning to squeal.”

  Biggles grimaced. “I’m not surprised. How’s it being done? I mean, what’s the particular method?”

  “Smash and grab, using stolen cars, and climbers1.”

  “That must mean there’s more than one gang at it.”

  “At least two parties, but not necessarily gangs. The climbers and flat raiders may work alone; but, of course, it needs a gang of three or four to work a smash-and-grab racket.”

  Biggles looked puzzled. “But what’s gone wrong? I thought you could identify these specialists by their methods.”

  “So we can, more or less, but lately they’ve been particularly fly, almost as if someone has been giving them a tip or two. It’s no use suspecting if you can’t lay hands on evidence to prove.”

  Biggles reached for a cigarette. “Well, all I can say is, I’m glad this angle of crime isn’t up my street.”

  “You don’t know how lucky you are,” rejoined Gaskin bitterly. “I know you have some big jobs to handle, but with you they mostly happen only once. My brand of crooks may not be such big game as yours, but I have them with me always. It’s a war that never ends. From time to time I take prisoners but there are always others on the outside. And by the time I’ve got those rounded up those who were inside are out again.”

  Biggles smiled. “It must be tough. But carry on. Get it off your chest if it’ll ease the pain.” He eyed Gaskin shrewdly. “Or had you a better reason than that for coming up the stairs to tell me about it?”

  “I thought you might have one of those brainwaves—”

  “Now, wait a minute,” broke in Biggles. “You’re the professional sleuth. You’ve been at it for what—thirty years?”

  “Thirty-two.”

  “That, aside from aviation, must make me look like an amateur.”

  “I have an idea aviation might come into this.”

  “I see,” said Biggles, slowly. “That’s different.”

  “It’s only a hunch, with nothing to back it up.”

  “No matter. Even a hunch has to start from somewhere. Go ahead.”

  “It’d mean explaining the whole set-up of how my sort of crooks work.”

  “That’s all right. It so happens we’re not pushed for time, and I’m always willing to learn. You’ve an idea. Out with it. I’m listening.”

  “I’ve come to the conclusion there’s a new man in the business.”

  “A new man. But surely he wouldn’t mix smash and grab with climbing drainpipes. The two things don’t go together.”

  “They might if there was one set of brains behind ‘em. That’s the only answer I can arrive at to account for this sudden burst of activity in the so-called underworld. It’s my guess that the trouble is at the receiving end. There’s a new man on the job and he’s paying fair prices.”

  Biggles frowned. “I don’t quite understand what you’re getting at. By receiver I take it you mean the man who receives the stolen goods, commonly known as a fence.”

  “You’ve got it.”

  “But is the fence all that important?”

  “He’s the most important man in crime, and he’s also the hardest to catch. You’ve got to catch him with the goods on him, or be able to prove that he’s had the goods and knew the stuff was stolen. And that takes some doing.”

  “So I can imagine,” nodded Biggles.

  “You see,” went on the Inspector, relighting his pipe, which had gone out, “we often get a squeak from the underworld about a job, either before or after it’s been pulled off. Forget what you’ve heard about honour among thieves. There isn’t any. One crook will put in a whisper about another, or one gang will double-cross another gang if they think it’s to their advantage. Or may be out of revenge. But it’s almost an unwritten law that a crook must never shop a fence.”

  “Why? Why should a fence be sort of sacred?”

  “Because, don’t you see, if crooks shopped him they’d be cutting their own throats. How would they dispose of their swag? They seldom know the value of the stuff they pinch; but the fence knows. It’s his job to know. He makes his own price, and as far as the thief is concerned it’s a matter of take it or leave it. As the crook is usually short of money, he takes it. It may surprise you to know that a crook is lucky to get even a quarter of the value of the stuff he pinches. Ten per cent is more usual. Which means that for a thousand quid’s worth of sparklers he gets a hundred. And even out of that he may ha
ve codgers, and other people, to pay.”

  “That’s a lovely word—codger,” put in Bertie Lissie. “What’s a codger?”

  “The underworld name for a watcher. The curse of that is, a crook tries to get youngsters to do it because they’re less likely to arouse suspicion. These silly kids stick their necks out for a quid or two and so take the first step on the road to Dartmoor; because it’s only a question of time before they find themselves involved in bigger jobs. Then there may be the car thief to pay, too, in case one’s necessary for a quick getaway.”

  “Why not use his own?” queried Ginger.

  “Because we should spot it. The crook prefers a stolen one. That’s done by a specialist who knows how to start any make of car. For ten pounds he’ll provide anything from a sports car to a van and park it where you want it. For smash and grab raids the car thief will fix a tow-bar and a chain with a hook on it for tearing down shutters and steel grilles over jewellers’ windows.”

  “Very interesting,” murmured Biggles. “But let’s get back to the receiver, the fence, if that’s the man you want.”

  The Inspector resumed. “As I was saying, the thief has to take what he can get for the loot. Imagine the feelings of a crook who has risked a five years’ sentence to get a parcel of gems. The fence gives him, say, a couple of hundred quid for ‘em. The next day the crook reads in the newspapers that they were worth three thousand. What can he do about it? Nothing. Knowing he’ll be under suspicion he daren’t keep the stuff on him for a moment longer than is necessary.”

  “Do these crooks ever go back to the fence and say they’ve been cheated?”

  “If they do the fence has the answers ready, and they’re not unreasonable. He argues the stuff is hot —red hot—and if it should be found in his possession he’s likely to get ten years. Again, receiving is a long-term business. He may have to keep the stuff for months, maybe years, waiting for the fuss to die down before he tries to sell it. Of course, he may recover part of his outlay by taking the gems out of their settings and melting down the gold. That’s easily disposed of. But he has to be more careful with the stones even if they’re re-cut, because there’s always a chance that an expert will recognize them.”

  “You make it sound as if jewel stealing is poor business.”

  “It is. I know crooks who could make more money by going straight, but some queer bug in their brains won’t let ‘em.”

  “All right. Let’s get down to brass tacks. What do you think has happened to set off this spate of robberies?”

  “I’ve told you. I believe we have a new type of fence to deal with, one who’s prepared to pay better prices. The crooks I know who might have pulled these recent jobs have all got money. They’re spending it like it dropped from heaven. Where are they getting it from?”

  Biggles shrugged. “Don’t ask me. How can this new fence, assuming there is one, afford to pay more than the old hands?”

  “I can see only one answer to that. He’s got a safer and quicker way of unloading the stuff. I’m as certain as I sit here that it’s going to the Continent, or some of it would have been traced by now. And if you ask me how, I’ll tell you.”

  “How?”

  “It’s being flown out.”

  “Ah!” breathed Biggles. “Now I see what you’re driving at. You think I might be able to help you to find this fly guy?”

  “Could the stuff be flown out of the country?”

  “Probably,” admitted Biggles, frankly. “In fact, it has been done.”

  “By the regular services?”

  “Not as far as I know. I can’t imagine a crook, knowing that all ports are watched within minutes of a crime being discovered, trying to get through Customs with hot jewels in his pocket, even if he had a passport, which is unlikely.”

  “This new fence may not be known to the police.”

  “No matter. Any man or woman spotted going through Customs more often than the currency allowance permits soon comes under suspicion. If this man you have in mind is doing that it’s only a question of time before they cop him.”

  “What about a private aeroplane?”

  “That could be the answer,” conceded Biggles. “Air smuggling goes on all the time in Europe, where it’s only a few minutes’ job to slip a load of contraband across a frontier. A privately-owned machine in the hands of a capable pilot can cock a snoot at official airports.”

  “And are you telling me there’s no way of stopping that?”

  “If there is, no one has yet thought of it. Just think for a minute. If, during the war, with thousands of men on the watch, equipped with radio, radar, searchlights, guns and all the rest of it, machines could slip through on secret missions, dropping anything from spies to provisions, and even landing, without being caught, how much easier must it be now without such obstacles? In those days failure meant death, without any argument. Yet men, and women, were willing to take a chance. Today, the worst a sky sneak has to fear is a short prison sentence. We keep an eye open always for unofficial air traffic, but I can’t watch the coast, east and west, day and night, from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. I’ve neither the staff nor the machines to do it, and if I had I wouldn’t guarantee to stop such a racket, should one start.”

  “I’ve an idea one has already started,” growled the Inspector.

  “You’re thinking in terms of a fence with an aircraft?”

  “Or a fence with a pilot on his pay-roll.”

  “Assuming that is so, wouldn’t it be easier for you to locate him on the ground, since he would of necessity be in contact with your pet jewel thieves? Watch them and they should lead you to him. I imagine you know them by sight, and where they spend their spare time.”

  “Of course. But the trouble about that is, they know me. The old lags know everyone in my Department by their Christian names. That’s all part of their business. They can spot a cop as quick as a teenage girl can spot a film star. When I show my face in the Barnstaple Arms, commonly known as the Barn, in Soho, where a lot of ‘em hang out—and I often look in to see who’s around—they gather round me like I was a rich uncle and argue as to who’s going to buy me a drink.”

  Biggles smiled. “They must love you.”

  “Yes, as much as an old mouse loves the house-cat.”

  “What’s the idea?”

  “Oh, mebbe it’s just to let me see they haven’t forgotten me. Mebbe it’s a front to cover up their nervousness, to let me see they’re behaving themselves. More likely it’s just bravado, swank, to kid themselves they’re not afraid of me.”

  “But they are.”

  “You bet your life they are, particularly when they have something on their minds and they know I’m on the war path. Then it’s a battle between their vanity and their fear of the law.”

  “Why do they congregate at that particular pub?”

  “They’ve got to congregate somewhere to keep in touch, to get the latest news in their line of business. Birds of a feather... you know. The Barn is as good as anywhere, I suppose, and it’s central. Anyway, they have to go out some time; they can’t sit indoors all the while. Of course,” concluded the Inspector meaningly, “as you don’t normally come in contact with ‘em they wouldn’t know you.”

  “Neither would I know them,” Biggles pointed out. “And I’m not pining to know ‘em. These dirty birds are your pigeons, and as far as I’m concerned you can keep them.”

  “You’d soon get to know ‘em if you had a look at their mugs in our Rogues Gallery,” argued the Inspector. “We’ve photos of all of ‘em, ugly, plain and handsome.”

  “Purely as a matter of interest tell me this,” requested Biggles. “How do crooks usually pass their stuff to a fence? I mean, do they go to his house, or shop, if he has one?”

  “Only in exceptional circumstances. It’d be too dangerous. More likely contact would be made over the ‘phone in a harmless-sounding conversation. But a meet is made, a meet in crooks’ language being an appointment
. Both parties arrive dead on time, to the tick. The stuff changes hands and the whole transaction is over in a couple of seconds. I’ve seen stuff passed by a man on the pavement to another in a car without the car stopping. Knowing they might be tailed, which means shadowed, by a police car, they waste no time in idle chatter.”

  Biggles thought for a moment. “I get the drift of your idea,” he said, stubbing his cigarette. “But this is outside the range of my official duties.”

  “It could be inside if aviation came into it,” contended the detective.

  “Agreed. But how are we to find out if aviation does come into the picture?”

  “That’s up to you. You’re the flyer.”

  “Let’s get to the point,” returned Biggles. “I don’t want to appear uncooperative, particularly as on more than one occasion you’ve helped us. Without promising anything, what exactly do you suggest I do?”

  “Well, what I was thinking was this. If you drifted into the Barn once in a while, and stood near the crooks who by that time you’d know by sight, you might hear an odd word dropped that would give you a line. There’s just a chance you might spot one of ‘em talking to a man you’ve known at some time or other in the aviation business.”

  “I’d call that a pretty remote chance.”

  “No harm would be done by having a look round.”

  “I suppose not. All the same, I can’t imagine any crook being so daft as to talk in a public bar.”

  “You’d be surprised. It’s amazing how rumours travel in the underworld. I don’t know how crooks get to know what they do know. Anyway, I’m certain these jobs are being pulled off by professionals. I know their methods. You’re bound to see some of ‘em in the Barn. All you have to do is keep your ears open.”

  “Maybe I can think of something more likely than that to produce results,” said Biggles.

  “I was hoping you would,” admitted Gaskin, frankly. “But you be careful what you get up to. If they get a sniff of why you’re there you might meet with an accident on the way home.”

  “Does the landlord of this pub know he harbours crooks?”

  “Probably. But as long as they behave themselves, and they usually do, that’s no concern of his. His business is to serve drinks to people who are sober and can pay for ‘em. The customers aren’t all crooks. It’s a perfectly respectable house. Stands at the corner of Greek Street and Landal Square. Now how about casting an eye over some of the photographs I have downstairs?”