Biggles Flies to Work Read online

  CONTENTS

  THE CASE OF THE LOST COINS

  THE CASE OF THE OLD MASTERS

  MYSTERY ON THE MOOR

  THE TWO BRIGHT BOYS

  HORACE TAKES A HAND

  BIGGLES LEARNS SOMETHING

  DANGEROUS FREIGHT

  A ROUTINE JOB

  DAWN PATROL

  THE TRICK THAT FAILED

  THE CASE OF THE EARLY BOY

  THE CASE OF THE LOST COINS

  AIR COMMODORE RAYMOND, head of the Air Police Section at Scotland Yard, looked up with a smile as Biggles entered his office and seated himself in his customary chair within easy reach of the desk.

  “May I, sir, with respect, share the joke?” inquired Biggles.

  “There’s no joke.” The Air Commodore pushed forward the cigarette box. “I was just thinking what a fascinating job this is. One never knows what’s going to turn up next.”

  “Fascinating for you—or for me?”

  “For both of us; but for you in particular.”

  Biggles looked doubtful. “It depends on what you call fascinating.”

  “Oh come now, Bigglesworth,” protested the Air Commodore. “You know as well as I do that if yours was a humdrum, routine, cut-and-dried job, you wouldn’t stick it for a month. But let’s not argue about that. I have a little job here that should be right up your street. For a start I’d like to know what you think about it. It’s essentially an air operation.”

  Biggles lit a cigarette. “Okay, sir. What is it this time? Or rather, where is it?”

  “Albania?”

  Biggles frowned. “Iron Curtain stuff, eh. I don’t like that for a start.”

  “Only on the fringe. Let me tell you and you can judge for yourself”

  “I’m listening, sir.”

  “The principal figure in the case is an extremely wealthy Greek gentleman named Constantine Pelegrinos,” began the Air Commodore, opening a folder that lay on his desk. “He has lived in this country for several years. Before he came here, for reasons which need not concern us, he made his home not in Greece but just over the border, on the Adriatic coast of Albania. Near the small town of Delvaros he bought an estate and built a luxury villa overlooking the sea. I have a photograph of the place here. Actually it stands on a small promontory with low cliffs on three sides dropping almost sheer into the water. Take a look.” The Air Commodore passed the photograph.

  “All his life,” he resumed, “Mr. Pelegrinos has been an ardent numismatist, and over a long period of time—he is now eighty years of age—he built up one of the finest collections of ancient coins in the world, mostly gold and silver, of course, because they do not perish like base metals. These are worth a large sum for their intrinsic value alone, but their real value lies in the rarity of the specimens. This wonderful collection he kept at the villa so that he could admire them at any time.”

  “How were they kept—as a sort of public exhibition?”

  “No. They were contained in a number of specially made leather cases lined with velvet in which had been sunk depressions into which each coin fitted exactly. But to continue. Some years ago, when the communist revolution struck Albania and he realized he would have to leave the country, his first thought, naturally, was for his collection. He knew he would not be allowed to take it with him. In the end he escaped with only the clothes he stood in. Before leaving he tipped all his coins, loose, into an ordinary metal cash box—this was to save space—and buried it in the garden; actually, under the front lawn. The leather cases he disposed of by throwing them from the top of the cliff into the sea. All this, I should say, was done at night.”

  Biggles nodded sombrely. “I can guess what’s coming.”

  “Don’t anticipate.” The Air Commodore took another document. “Here is a sketch map of the house and garden. It shows the lawn. The figures shown are distances in yards from salient points to the spot where the coins were buried. There should be no difficulty, therefore, in going straight to the place.”

  Biggles sighed. “I seem to have heard that before. Why all this fuss, anyway? As the coins are the man’s personal property surely all he has to do is put in a claim for them.”

  The Air Commodore shook his head. “I’m afraid, Bigglesworth, you’re still a bit behind the times. The days when certain governments could be relied on to honour their obligations ended with the two World Wars. There is only one certain way to recover the collection and that is to fetch it secretly. Were it hidden somewhere in the interior that would be out of the question; but as it happens to be on the coast, in a lonely part of the country, to fetch the coins shouldn’t be too difficult a task. For obvious reasons the British Government can’t be involved. The mission would have to appear as a private undertaking.”

  “I still don’t see why Mr. Pelegrinos should suppose we’re ready to stick our necks out to recover his precious toys for him.”

  “He doesn’t. I’ll come to that in a moment. On leaving Albania he returned to Greece, but when political troubles forced him to leave he came to England, where he has lived ever since. He had long given up hope of recovering his collection. One can understand his position. Being what communists call a capitalist he himself dare not go back to Albania. He was afraid to entrust his secret to anyone in case the person ratted on him and kept the coins.”

  “So the box is still where he buried it.”

  “As far as he knows.”

  “It may have been found.”

  “He doesn’t think so, for two reasons. In the first place there was nothing left to show where the coins had been buried. Very carefully, alone, in the middle of the night, he lifted a piece of turf, made a small cavity, dropped in the cash box and replaced the turf. Secondly, had the coins been found, they would almost certainly have come on the market. That hasn’t happened. Some of the pieces are unique and Mr. Pelegrinos keeps close watch on sales all over the world.”

  “So we are now expected to fetch them.”

  “Not exactly. Mr. Pelegrinos, having given the matter a great deal of thought, as one would imagine, has decided it would be a pity if the collection was lost for ever, as might easily happen should he take his secret with him to the grave. That might happen any day. Rather than this should happen he went to the British Museum and made a proposal. He offered to sign a document handing over the collection to the Museum—if they could get it. In that way he would still be able to see his beloved coins any time he wished.”

  “Fair enough. Was the offer accepted?”

  “It was. The Museum is in no position to make a raid on the villa, although as the coins are now officially their property they would be within their rights if they did. The collection never did belong to Albania.”

  “You’re sure it wouldn’t be any use asking the Albanian Government to hand it over.”

  “That, Mr. Pelegrinos is convinced, would simply defeat its object; for once it became known that this peculiar treasure was still in Albania the ruling authorities would, if necessary, tear down the villa and dig up the entire estate in their determination to secure it. It all boils down to this. It would be utterly futile to try to get the collection out of Albania, and through all the Customs barriers of Europe, by any ordinary form of transport. The only way the coins could be recovered would be for a plane to land, lift the box and fly straight home with it. It might turn out to be a simple matter, or, as we don’t know what has happened at the villa since it was abandoned, it might not be so easy. One thing is certain. If the raiding party was caught—well, the members would find themselves in a nasty position.”

  Biggles smiled wanly, “ You needn’t tell me that. I take it there is a flat patch handy where a plane could land?”

  “Unfortunately no. Th
at’s the snag. The country around the promontory is wild and rugged. It means a marine aircraft. I can tell you that a path, part natural and part artificial, zig-zags up the face of the cliff. Mr. Pelegrinos had it cut so that he could get down to the water from the villa, either for a bathe or to reach the small boat he kept there. That, I imagine, will have gone by now. If you decide to have a shot at it everything will have to be done under cover of darkness. It wouldn’t do for a foreign aircraft to be seen near the coast in daylight.”

  Biggles stubbed his cigarette. “What would be the weight of this money box?”

  “I’ve no idea, but it can’t be very heavy or Pelegrinos couldn’t have carried it. Well, there it is. Think about it and let me know how you feel about it. There’s no desperate hurry.”

  “You’d like me to have a stab at it?”

  “Of course. Who better for such a tricky piece of work? But it’s up to you. It isn’t an order.”

  “Anything could have happened at the villa since Pelegrinos was there.”

  “That I must admit.”

  “Should I have a word with him?”

  “If you wish, but I don’t think you will learn anything more than is in this file. It’s all here. The Museum went thoroughly into the matter before it was passed to us.”

  Biggles took another cigarette. “It’s worth trying,” he decided. “It’ll mean careful planning, timing, the phase of the moon and so on. Fortunately there’s no tide in the Mediterranean to contend with. I’ll think it over and come back later. I shall need faked papers, of course, in case I run into trouble.”

  “Tell me what you want and I’ll see you get it.”

  Biggles got up. “Right you are, sir. I’ll get on with it.” Taking the file with him he returned to his own office, and there, Algy, his second in command, being on leave, he told Bertie and Ginger of the proposed assignment.

  With the file open on the desk and a map of the Central Mediterranean at hand, the best ways and means of achieving the object were discussed at some length and in detail. On the face of it, from what was known, there appeared to be no great difficulty, the only big doubt arising from what was not known; namely, the present conditions at the villa, whether or not it was still there, and if it was, by whom it was occupied—if in fact it was occupied by anyone. Should there be no one there, so much the better; but as there were no means by which this vital information could be obtained, the risks of not knowing had to be accepted.

  The discussion lasted for two days, for a lot of figures were involved and there was much checking to be done; the phase of the moon, the probable weather for the time of the year, and so on. At the finish the aircraft chosen for the operation was the one on their own establishment that had often served for long-distance overseas work. This was the Gadfly, a twin-engined, high-wing, amphibian flying boat which, with an extra tank, had an endurance range of more than two thousand miles—enough to see them to the objective and back without an intermediate landing unless there was a reason for making one. As part of its equipment it carried a collapsible rubber dinghy.

  The broad plan was for the aircraft to time its arrival off the coast soon after dark at a high altitude. Cutting the engines for silence it would glide down to make a landing within a mile of the promontory on which the villa stood. In clear weather, with a moon, there should be no difficulty in spotting it. The dinghy would then be inflated and the aircraft towed closer in. Leaving Bertie in charge of the machine the other two would go ashore in the dinghy with the necessary tools for digging, recover the box and return to the aircraft. If all went well the whole thing might be done in a few minutes. Biggles, from experience, did not expect the show to go as smoothly as that; but anything unforeseen would have to be dealt with as it arose.

  The tools were simple. A short-handled pick like a soldier’s entrenching tool, a spade with a sharp edge, dulled so as not to reflect the moonlight, and a pointed steel rod for probing the ground in order to locate the box before digging. From these the makers’ names and trade marks would be removed. A knotty problem was whether or not to take weapons. Biggles said he would prefer not to be armed; but against that was a fear that should they be challenged, unable to defend themselves they might be shot without being given a chance to make excuses for being there. It was finally settled that those going ashore should carry pistols, primarily for purposes of intimidation. They would be used only if it became necessary to save their lives.

  On no account were they to risk being caught with guns on them, for it would be hard to reconcile this with the papers they carried in their pockets, stating the machine was on a long-distance delivery flight.

  Three days later, with everything settled to the last detail, the flying boat took off” and headed for its destination, carrying, for the overland part of the journey, documents showing it was on official Interpol duty.

  * * *

  No trouble was expected, nor was any encountered, and at nine o’clock the same evening, with the sun astern, setting behind the “leg” of Italy, the Gadfly was over the Adriatic, cruising at twelve thousand feet with its nose pointing towards the wild, mountainous country for which it was bound.

  As far as the weather was concerned it was a typical late summer night in the Central Mediterranean region, sultry, the sky unmarked by a suspicion of a cloud, the sea unruffled by a breath of breeze. With darkness fast dimming the scene lights were beginning to appear on both sides of the water, Italy to the west and Yugoslavia, with Albania farther south, to the east. Far away beyond the “toe” of Italy a lighthouse flashed its beam with mechanical regularity. Apart from these signs of human occupation the aircraft might have had the world to itself.

  The sun disappeared, leaving only a dull crimson glow to mark where it had ended its day’s work, and night came quickly into its own. After a few minutes on half throttle the Gadfly’s engines were further retarded, and on a course for the approximate position of the objective the machine lost height quickly. Presently the moon, nearly full, soared up over the horizon like a lopsided silver balloon.

  “Now, see if you can spot the promontory,” Biggles told Ginger who was sitting beside him. “According to Pelegrinos it’s not much bigger than a big lump of rock, too small to be shown on anything except a large-scale map; but if, as he says, it’s shaped like a door knob, narrow at the inner end, it shouldn’t be hard to pick up.” He switched off the ignition and cut all lights, which had been on while flying over Italy.

  “That cluster of lights should be Delvaros,” remarked Bertie, who was standing in the bulkhead doorway behind them. “If it is, it should give us our bearing. It’s the only place of any size in the district.”

  With only the soft sighing of displaced air the aircraft continued to slip off altitude, always drawing nearer to the deeply indented coast. The moon helped to brighten the picture, but it was not yet high enough to penetrate the irregular line of gloom which followed the base of the cliffs.

  “I made a slight miscalculation in the timing,” muttered Biggles. “I didn’t allow enough for the height of the mountains in the interior. No matter. We’re in no hurry.”

  Two or three minutes passed. “I think I’ve got it,” said Ginger, peering down and ahead. “You’re nearly dead on. Left a little—little more—that’s it. I can see only one bit of land sticking out, so that must be it. There’s a light close behind it. Could be coming from the villa.” He went on sharply: “There’s another light passing behind it now—I’d say the headlights of a car on a road.”

  “I’m with you,” returned Biggles. “Confound it. If that light is at the villa it can only mean the place is occupied.”

  “Not so good,” murmured Bertie.

  “I suppose it was asking too much to expect to find the place empty,” replied Biggles. “All right. This is it. Stand by. I’m going down.”

  There was no more talking. The flying boat, dropping now at only a little faster than stalling speed to reduce noise to a minimum, closed w
ith the sea. A final “S” turn, and with the bows pointing to the objective the keel kissed the water which, clinging to it, quickly brought it to a stop, rocking gently, something less than a quarter of a mile from the coast.

  “Jolly good, old boy,” breathed Bertie.

  “Don’t talk—listen,” ordered Biggles. “We should soon know if we’ve been seen.”

  They sat motionless, listening intently, while the ripples they had made crept languidly to the shore, to die against the rocks. The profound hush of a sea at rest settled on the scene. They waited for perhaps ten minutes, eyes on the cliff in front, the only direction from which, as they were alone on the water, danger could come.

  “Okay,” said Biggles at last. “Let’s get the dinghy out. Quietly does it. Sounds will carry a long way on a night like this.”

  To get the little rubber boat inflated and ready for action took only a few minutes. The tools were put on board. Biggles and Ginger got in, and picking up the paddles began towing the Gadfly closer to the cliff. This, with no wind and no sea running, presented no difficulty, and very soon the flying boat lay like a resting gull within the shadow of the land. Still no sound came from the shore; but the height of the cliff would have prevented any lights above from being seen, should there be any.

  Biggles’ last words to Bertie, before he cast off, were: “Start up if you hear us coming back in a hurry.”

  It took a little while to find the mooring platform said to be at the foot of the path, and when it was found, protected by a buttress of rock, it raised misgivings. There was a boat already there, a sailing dinghy fitted with an outboard motor.

  “Looks as if the path is still used,” whispered Biggles. “Must be someone living in the villa. Hello, what’s this?” A notice had been painted on a flat piece of rock. The language was foreign. “Probably means private, or landing forbidden,” concluded Biggles. “Let’s press on up Jacob’s ladder.” They picked up the tools.

  The ascent was steep but otherwise easy, steps having been cut in what originally must have been the most difficult places. Biggles, his face wet with perspiration, was the first to reach the top. He stopped abruptly, staring at something in front of him.