Biggles and the Black Mask

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: BIGGLES REMEMBERS

  CHAPTER 2: SUSPICIONS

  CHAPTER 3: GINGER SETS OFF

  CHAPTER 4: WHAT HAPPENED IN NICE

  CHAPTER 5: FOOD FOR THOUGHT

  CHAPTER 6: MR X

  CHAPTER 7: BIGGLES IS WORRIED

  CHAPTER 8: THE MYSTERY DEEPENS

  CHAPTER 9: WHAT NEXT?

  CHAPTER 10: CANSON MAKES A PROPOSITION

  CHAPTER 11: DARK WORK

  CHAPTER 12: THE RAID

  CHAPTER 13: NOW WHAT?

  CHAPTER 14: BACK TO NICE

  CHAPTER 15: SHOCKS

  CHAPTER 16: THE STRANGEST TALE OF ALL

  CHAPTER 1

  BIGGLES REMEMBERS

  BIGGLES sat at his desk in the Air Police office at Scotland Yard studying the periodical report on International Civil Aviation.

  He had looked at one page for so long that Ginger, working at a filing cabinet, remarked: ‘Isn’t it about time you turned over the page? What’s on your mind?’

  ‘I’m thinking,’ answered Biggles, pensively.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘I’m wondering if it’s possible for a man with a crooked streak ever to straighten out.’

  ‘And what conclusion have you reached?’ inquired Air Police Sergeant Bertie Lissie.

  ‘I’d say it may be possible while all goes well; but there will always be a weakness. The piece that has been straightened, under pressure, is liable to bend.’

  ‘What induced this profound train of thought, if I may ask?’

  ‘An item of news I’ve just read here.’ Biggles sat back and lit a cigarette. ‘I don’t know if you’ve noticed it but since I’ve been on this job I’ve sorted out some problems which could have got a non-flying cop bogged down. I’m not flattering myself by implying I’m smarter than the next man. No. It happens that I’ve been in aviation a long while, and in that time I’ve seen all sorts of pilots, and aircraft, come and go. It’s also my luck to have a memory. That can be reduced to one word. Experience. That, more than once, has enabled me to see the ground when the overcast looked solid.’

  ‘You still haven’t answered my question, old boy,’ returned Bertie. ‘Why this sudden burst of philosophy?’

  ‘Last month a man named Roderick Canson was granted a licence to operate an air charter company.’

  ‘Any reason why he shouldn’t?’

  ‘That is precisely what’s exercising my mind. I knew Canson years ago as a flying officer RAF. At that time he had one of those crooked streaks I mentioned a moment ago. Naturally, I’m bound to wonder if he still has it. We all have our weaknesses, and I’m aware that I have mine. But I’ve never sunk to robbing my brother officers.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘He did. And, moreover, he got away with it. Don’t ask me how. I could only conclude it was a glib tongue or the charm he could turn on. Anyhow, he got away, twice, with a reprimand. I must admit he was popular in the mess although he wasn’t my cup of tea. He talked too big. Really big men don’t talk big. He was also that rare thing, a good pilot who is also a clever mechanic. He could do anything with his hands. It was an education to watch him at a bench. He was also the most plausible liar I’ve ever known. They say that to be a good liar you must believe your own lies. Canson told a tale so convincingly that I fancy he could do that. He was always hail-fellow-well-met, He spent money freely — as things turned out, not always his own. He was a queer mixture.’

  ‘He must have been.’

  ‘I believe his real trouble was vanity. I suppose you’d call him good-looking. He certainly fancied himself. But a man who has his hair artificially waved like a corrugated iron roof isn’t my idea of a man. When I knew him he sported one of those fair, fluffed up moustaches. Nothing wrong with that. But he never stopped fiddling with it — like a girl who can’t leave her hair alone. It may be significant that the lower ranks called him Foxy. Foxy Canson. And as you may have noticed, when troops coin a nickname for an officer it’s generally on the beam.’

  ‘What mischief did he get up to?’

  ‘The first time he slipped up — as far as I know — was over a bag of coal.’

  ‘Coal?’

  ‘The stuff you put on the fire. Why coal, you may ask? Canson was married. A nice-looking girl. I sometimes wondered how she put up with him. They had permission to live off the station so they rented a cottage not far away. One day his batman, going out on his motorbike with a sack on the carrier, was stopped at the gate. The sergeant of the guard asked him what was in the bag. It turned out to be coal. From the Service dump, of course. The man said he was taking it to Canson’s house. He, and Canson, were put under open arrest. At the court martial it was revealed that this pinching Service coal for Canson’s private use had been going on for some time. The airman pleaded he had been ordered to do it and couldn’t disobey an order. This, a reasonably valid defence, was accepted; and possibly because it would have been difficult to punish one without the other, Canson got off with a caution as to his future conduct. His popularity and charm may also have had something to do with it.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call that a very serious charge,’ said Ginger.

  ‘Maybe not, but it provides a line to his character. I may be a harsh critic, but I hold the view that if a man will steal a small thing, given the opportunity he will help himself to something bigger. To get an airman involved was to me unpardonable.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ murmured Bertie. ‘Only a stinker would do that.’

  Biggles went on. ‘Canson’s next effort had an even nastier smell. He was Mess Secretary. After a while some officers, including myself, began to look hard at their mess bills, particularly their wine accounts. I for one was sure I hadn’t had the drinks for which I was charged. Naturally, there were complaints, and these eventually reached the ears of the Group Captain commanding the station. He called for the books and got the Accountant Officer to audit them. Then the truth came out. Canson, if you please, had been having some of the wine, ordered for the mess, delivered at his house. The deficiency he had squared up by overcharging officers on their mess bills — a pound or two here, a pound or two there. He was, of course, put under close arrest. This time I was sure he’d be handed his bowler hat.’

  ‘Don’t say he got away with that,’ said Bertie.

  ‘Nearly. All he got was a severe reprimand, and as he could hardly remain on the station he was posted to Iraq. That was the last I heard of him.’

  ‘Marvellous what some fellows can get away with,’ murmured Ginger, cynically. ‘How did he manage it?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. He put up some cock and bull story about intending to pay for the wine out of his winnings at cards in the mess. He was in fact a first-class bridge player. He had no money of his own. For all I know he may have gone straight after that; but now you’ll understand why, when I saw he’d managed to get a licence to run an air operating company— well, it gave me something to think about.’

  ‘Where is this?’

  ‘He’s taken over the abandoned American training aerodrome at Millham, in Suffolk.’

  ‘Any other particulars?’

  ‘Yes. He’s started with two machines, an Auster Autocrat and a de Havilland Dove. What sort of business does he hope to do with a Dove, a twin-engined eight seater, with a pay load — if my memory serves me — of 1,500 lb. and a range of 700 miles? There’s another angle to that. From where has he got the money to start a venture like this? You can’t buy aeroplanes with chicken feed. When I knew him, although he talked as if he was a millionaire, Canson never had any money; he spent his pay as fast as he drew it. That, maybe, is what caused the trouble.’

  ‘He may have got some rich
uncle to put up the money,’ suggested Bertie.

  ‘It’s possible. He was glib enough to talk Eskimos into buying refrigerators. Even so, how and from where does he hope to get enough passengers to fill a Dove to capacity? You can’t pay your way, let alone make money, flying with empty seats.’

  Ginger came in. ‘What this boils down to is, you’re suspicious.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. It would be going too far. Let’s say I’m a bit puzzled. I’m not questioning Canson’s ability to run an air charter concern. He’s a good pilot and he must know the regulations. He may have turned over a new leaf. Knowing what I do I may be prejudiced; but on his past record I’m bound to wonder if he’s the right sort of man to be doing what he’s taken on.’

  ‘What you really mean is, there may be more to this than appears on the surface,’ guessed Ginger.

  ‘Put it that way if you like.’

  ‘One thing in his favour is, he must have left the Service with a clean sheet or he wouldn’t have got a licence. Surely someone would check up.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that. I’ve already told you he had a way with him. In ten minutes he could make black look white; and on top of that he had a knack of making friends in high places.’

  ‘Well, what are you going to do about it — if anything?’

  ‘I feel like dropping in at Millham to have a close look at the sort of business Canson is doing. I mean, if he’s getting any customers. He can’t last long without any.’

  ‘Why bother?’ questioned Bertie. ‘Why not wait for him to make a boob. If he’s up to any funny business we shall know about it eventually,’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. He’s a clever fellow. And he has, or used to have, ambitious ideas. Anyhow, you know how it is. If he does get away with something there’ll be the usual outcry. What were the Air Police doing? Why didn’t they spot it? That would mean a rap on the knuckles for me. I’d rather satisfy my curiosity now, before anything happens. If everything is above board we can forget it. I know it isn’t very nice to go through life being suspicious of people but that’s why we’re here; and in this case Canson, with blots on his copybook to my certain knowledge, has only himself to blame. That’s what I tell some of these youngsters. One black mark can stick all your life.’

  ‘When are you thinking of going?’

  Biggles glanced at the window. ‘It seems a fair sort of day; it might as well be now. I’ll take you with me. Two pairs of eyes are better than one. Ginger, you’d better finish that filing job. You might ring up the hangar and get the Auster pulled out ready.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Ginger.

  It was a little after eleven o’clock when the Air Police Auster arrived over Millham aerodrome, a pre-war rural airfield that had been abandoned because it was not large enough to take modern military jet aircraft. For a time, before being given up, it had been used as a practice emergency landing ground for pilots under training in piston-engined machines. There was still one permanent hangar, with the original tarmac apron in front of it, and a cluster of administration buildings. A wind-stocking on its pole and the usual white chalk circle indicated that the flat, treeless area was still a landing ground for aircraft. Two machines were standing on the tarmac. Three men, near them, were looking up at the new arrival.

  ‘Not exactly falling over themselves with activity,’ observed Bertie, casually, as they lost height.

  There were no formalities. Biggles landed, ran on to the buildings, switched off, got out and with Bertie walked on to meet a man now coming towards them. ‘It’s Canson,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Leave the talking to me until we see how he shapes.’

  For a moment Canson did not appear to recognize Biggles. A puzzled expression dawned on his face as he said: ‘Haven’t we met before, somewhere?’

  ‘We have. Bigglesworth’s the name. Remember?’

  ‘Of course. How could I forget. What are you doing nowadays? I seem to remember someone telling me you’d got a flying job for the government — an inspector of some sort.’

  ‘Quite right. Meet one of my assistants — Bertie Lissie. He was with me when I had 666 Squadron.’

  ‘Had you any reason for inspecting my little show here?’ inquired Canson, with raised eyebrows and a faint smile.

  ‘No. Noticing your registration I dropped in to see if everything was all right.’

  ‘No trouble here, my good fellow. Everything goes according to plan — as they say.’

  Biggles took a casual look round, his eyes resting for an instant on a Rolls parked in the shade of the hangar. ‘It must have cost you a pretty penny to set yourself up in this sort of business.’

  Canson smiled broadly. ‘Me? Don’t be silly. Where do you suppose I’d get the cash to buy aeroplanes?’

  Biggles looked mildly surprised. It was not affected. ‘Oh, so it isn’t your company?’

  ‘Good Lord, no. I’m merely manager of air operations and chief pilot.’

  ‘Does that mean you have assistant pilots?’

  ‘Not yet. At present I’m on my own; but I’m looking for the right fellow to help me. But why are we standing here? Come into the office and have a drink.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  They went in. Canson produced bottles and glasses from a cupboard.

  ‘You don’t appear to be very busy at the moment,’ prompted Biggles.

  ‘You’ve come on the wrong day, my dear chap. Had you come on a Monday you’d have seen a different picture.’

  ‘Why Monday?’

  ‘That’s the day we do business.’

  ‘Do you mean you can fill the Dove with passengers?’

  ‘Fill it! We’ve got a waiting list.’

  ‘How do you manage that?’

  ‘I can see you don’t understand the sort of business we’re running here. I’d better explain. Do sit down. This company is a subsidiary of a new travel agency called Sunnitours Ltd., head office in London. It was formed to cash in on the current tourist boom. More and more people are looking for cheap holidays on the Continent. We provide them.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘We hope to expand, but at present we have only two regular runs, to Switzerland and the French Riviera. I have nothing to do with the bookings. All that’s done in London. One reason why we’re able to do really cheap holidays is because the company has its own hostels — you know the modem holiday camp sort of thing. We give all-in price for a week, although this can be extended. It’s all very simple. Bookings are made from Monday to Monday. At eight o’clock on Monday morning the tourist party assembles at the London office. After passports and so on have been checked a fast coach brings the party here. I fly them to their destination, where they are met by another coach which takes them to their quarters. I then fly home the previous week’s party. It runs like clockwork.’ Canson spoke enthusiastically and was obviously well satisfied with the success of the scheme.

  ‘Where does the Auster come in?’

  ‘For a possible emergency. That’s another part of our service. Should any member of a party fall sick, or have urgent reason for coming home, I fly out and collect him, or her, as the case may be. We specialize in family parties — mum, dad and the kids. By foolproof organization, and without the heavy overhead expenses of the regular services we can do a really cheap job. Of course, we don’t pretend to be one of these luxury affairs.’

  ‘I see that,’ said Biggles. ‘There’s one thing I’m not clear about. When you bring your customers home where do you land for Customs examination?’

  ‘Here. We’ve got that laid on.’

  Again Biggles looked surprised. ‘Do you mean you have a Customs and Excise officer here?’

  ‘When required. Not a full-time officer. He’d have nothing to do most of the time. The day a party is due in we notify Customs and they send an officer along to meet the plane. Then he goes home. We have to pay for that, naturally, but it works out cheaper than using an airport, where we should have to pay land
ing fees and lay on another coach to take people home. A lot of headwork has gone into this. The only way a show like this can be made to pay is by cutting expenses to the bone, and that’s what we’ve done.’

  ‘I can see that,’ agreed Biggles.

  ‘We’re giving people the cheapest overseas holidays they’ve ever had. I handle the actual flying. The bookwork, inquiries, publicity and so on, is done in London. That’s not my line.’

  ‘What about ground staff?’

  ‘All I want here, apart from myself, is one competent fitter and a rigger who knows his job. I’ve been lucky enough to find just the chaps I needed.’

  ‘Very good,’ congratulated Biggles, ‘Whose bright idea was this?’

  ‘Mine. It struck me one day and I got down to working out the details. There were a few snags, mostly concerned with Air Traffic Regulations, but I got over them. When I was ready I took the scheme to Sunnitours and told them I could handle it. They jumped at it. Up to that time they were doing their tours by train, boat and motor coach.’

  ‘So the show looks like being a financial success?’

  ‘Can’t be otherwise.’

  ‘What happens if you have a crack-up? It can happen.’

  ‘That’s all covered by insurance, of course. Matter of fact that’s our heaviest expense.’

  ‘All very interesting,’ said Biggles, getting up and rubbing out his cigarette. ‘It shows what can be done by people with brains, imagination, and a flair for organization.’

  ‘That’s what I told Sunnitours. Now they can see it for themselves.’

  ‘Well, we’ll be getting along. Thanks for the drink and for showing us how things can be done. I hope the show keeps going well for you.’

  ‘No reason why it shouldn’t. I’ve got it all buttoned up.’

  Still chatting they walked back to Biggles’ Auster. A last word or two and the machine was in the air, heading for home.

  CHAPTER 2

  SUSPICIONS

  BIGGLES flew on. He did not speak. His expression was pensive, serious.

  For some time Bertie did not break his train of thought; then he said: ‘Well, old boy, what do you make of all that?’