Biggles' Chinese Puzzle

  CONTENTS

  BIGGLES’ CHINESE PUZZLE

  THE CASE OF THE MODERN PIRATE

  THE ADVENTURE OF THE LUMINOUS CLAY

  THE FLYING CRUSADERS

  THE MYSTERY OF THE TORN PARACHUTE

  THE CASE OF THE MISSING CONSTABLE

  THE CASE OF THE SECRET INQUISITORS

  OPERATION STARLIGHT

  BIGGLES’ CHINESE PUZZLE

  ‘GET me the Paris Sûreté on the private line. I want to speak to Marcel Brissac. He promised to let me have some Interpol1 figures weeks ago and I haven’t heard a word since.’ Biggles gave the order to police pilot Ginger Hebblethwaite.

  Ginger went to the instrument and put in the call. In a minute he was through. ‘It’s Joudrier here,’ he told Biggles. ‘I think you’d better speak to him.’

  Biggles took the receiver. ‘Bonjour, mon vieux. Ici Bigglesworth,’ he greeted. And that was all he said for a long time. So long did he sit with the receiver to his ear, and so dark became his frown as he listened, that it was evident to all those in the Special Air Police Office at Scotland Yard that something was wrong.

  At long last he hung up. ‘Marcel’s missing. He’s been missing for six weeks,’ he announced briefly.

  ‘Six weeks!’ exclaimed Algy.

  Biggles nodded. ‘Looks bad,’ he averred, grimly.

  ‘Has Joudrier any idea of what he was doing when he failed to report back at headquarters?’

  ‘Yes. Or he knew what he was trying to do. That’s what he’s just been telling me.’

  ‘But what’s Joudrier doing about it?’

  ‘Nothing, apparently. He says there’s nothing he can do.’

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ burst out Ginger.

  Biggles shrugged. ‘It’s all very well to say that. There are four of us here. As you know, Marcel has to work on his own.’

  ‘What’s the French Air Force doing?’

  ‘Fighting thugs in Indo-China, trying to keep order in North Africa, and policing France’s colonial empire. I imagine they’ve plenty on their plate without looking for a stray cop.’

  ‘What did Joudrier tell you, old boy?’ inquired Bertie Lissie.

  ‘He said it was known there had been some big-scale currency smuggling between France and Indo-China, and Marcel, who was convinced that aircraft came into the picture, flew out to Saigon hoping to get a line on it. Nothing’s been heard of him since. It’s only recently that Joudrier became alarmed. Naturally, he wouldn’t expect regular reports from Marcel while he was working on a job of that sort.’

  ‘What exactly has been going on?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Apparently some of the big business merchants in Saigon have been making enormous profits out of the war in Indo-China. They’ve got more local currency than is healthy for them, or they know what to do with, so they’ve been paying forty piastres, which is six hundred and eighty francs, for the American dollar. The dollar, in Paris, is worth about four hundred francs. So it’s a matter of simple arithmetic. If you can buy a dollar in France for four hundred francs, and sell it in Saigon for six hundred and eighty, you’re making a profit of two hundred and eighty francs. That’s on one dollar. Multiply it by ten thousand and your profit is nearly three million francs - say, three thousand pounds. Easy, isn’t it? Of course, there’s one snag.’

  ‘Getting the dollars to Saigon,’ murmured Ginger.

  ‘Exactly. Joudrier doesn’t know how, but apparently that was, and still is, being done. Marcel suspected aircraft, which could carry millions of dollars in paper money. It begins to look as if he was right, too. I’d say he got on the track, and found himself up against something bigger than he could handle. There will always be service men who try to make a bit on the side by currency exchange, but that’s only chicken feed, and most governments turn a blind eye to it. But when it comes to trafficking in millions the thing becomes serious, and they have to do something.’

  ‘The question is, what are we going to do about it?’ put in Ginger.

  ‘It’s hard to see how we can do anything. Indo-China is France’s worry.’

  ‘But Marcel is a member of Interpol. So are we. Don’t tell me that members can be bumped off while the rest wash their hands and say it’s nothing to do with them.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with the Air Commodore about it,’ decided Biggles. ‘I know what he’ll say before I go. He’ll be reluctant to interfere in a French domestic problem.’

  ‘But look here, old boy: who says it’s a French domestic problem?’ protested Bertie. ‘These racketeers might be of any nationality. They might even be operating from British territory.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘Could be, but I think that’s unlikely. Get the thing clear. There’s no law in Indo-China against converting piastres into francs, and it’s legal for francs to be returned to France. The illegal part is the smuggling of hard currency notes out of France into Saigon. Aside from that, currency operations on a big scale defeat the very object for which currency control was introduced. Of course, for all we know these francs may be converted into other currencies; but that’s surmise. Had Marcel thought that sterling came into the picture surely he would have told us before he set off on what he must have known was a dangerous mission. These big money merchants stick at nothing, because they’re breaking the law anyway and stand to make or lose a packet.’

  ‘Never mind the arithmetic,’ argued Bertie. ‘The basic idea of Interpol was that one member country should help another. If they’re not going to do that then the whole bally thing falls down. If Marcel is in a jam then it’s up to us to get him out.’ Adjusting his eyeglass he looked around for support.

  ‘You may have something there,’ admitted Biggles. ‘But it isn’t a matter of what we would like to do. It’s a matter of what we’re allowed to do. We’re not free agents. The government pays our wages, and to be fair they’ve allowed us plenty of scope, for which reason I’m not going to embarrass anybody by gate-crashing into French territory.’ He got up. ‘I’ll see what the Chief has to say,’ he concluded.

  He was away for perhaps half an hour, and his expression, when he returned, was non-committal. ‘Haven’t done too badly,’ he announced, resuming his seat. ‘As I expected, the Air Commodore nearly swallowed his tonsils when I suggested that we ought to try to find out what has happened to Marcel. He didn’t want to listen to any argument, but eventually I talked him round to the point where he’s agreed to ring up the French Embassy, the Currency Commission, and the rest of them.’

  ‘All he’ll do is get himself snarled up in a lot of red tape,’ declared Algy.

  ‘Probably. Anyhow, I’ve done my best. There was no question of our pushing off to the Far East on our own account. I’ve told the Chief we’re willing to go, although, even if he gives us the okay, I’m by no means clear as to what we could do. Indo-China is French. To complicate matters there’s a war on, with, as far as I can make out, half a dozen different armies fighting anybody and everybody. What excuse are we going to give for barging in? Of course, Indo-China is only one end of the racket. There’s another end somewhere; probably in France or in French North Africa. But we’ll talk about that if the question arises. Meanwhile we’ll rest on our oars until the Air Commodore is given a decision.’

  This came about an hour later, when the Air Commodore entered. ‘All right,’ he said shortly. ‘You may go — with limitations. Obviously, you can’t operate as British police officers, so you’ll be provided with papers showing that you’re civilians on a trade mission. You’ll fly a civilian aircraft, on charter. Make your own arrangements to keep in touch with Joudrier at the Sûreté, and finally, don’t be away too long. I may need you here. For heaven’s sake be careful what you get up to. If you get in a mess with any of the several forces now playing for power in the Far East, don’t rely on me to get you out. The business is to find Marcel — or find out what happened to him. Don’t get tangled up in the war, or anything connected with it. That’s all. Good luck.’ The Air Commodore went out.

  Biggles looked at the others. ‘That’s fair enough,’ he observed. ‘Now we know where we are we’d better do some hard thinking. We don’t want to make the same mistake as Marcel seems to have done, although we can only work on the same lines.’

  ‘What are they?’ asked Algy.

  ‘He went to Saigon, where the dirty work is being done. As I said just now that’s one end of the black market. Where the other end is we don’t know, and I doubt if Marcel knew. He may have made some inquiries before he went, but I don’t think he could have picked up anything important or he’d have told Joudrier.’

  ‘And what would he have done in Saigon?’

  ‘As he suspected the racket was being worked by aircraft he would obviously go to the airport to check up on the ‘planes using it. That’s what we shall have to do. It’s no use walking about the streets. Marcel may have pressed his inquiries too hard and let it become known that he was a police agent. We shall play our parts as a trade mission. I shall be merely the pilot of the aircraft, and Ginger my mechanic. That will give us an excuse for hanging about the airfield. You two will have to put up some sort of show of buying or selling something. That’s a detail that can be settled later. In one way our nationality should be an advantage. I mean, what business would British police officers have in Indo-China? But let’s get mobile. You start to get the machine ready and dig out all the information available about official civil aircraft using the airport, although I don’t think the regular air liners are bein
g used by the gang because that would mean the customs officials were involved. I’m going to dash over to Paris and have a word with Joudrier. Ring him, Ginger, and tell him I’m on my way. I shan’t be long.’

  Three hours later Biggles was in the office of Captain Joudrier, head of the Department of the Paris police headquarters to which Marcel was attached.

  He found the detective in a state of indecision, because, as Joudrier explained, he had no actual information to suggest that something tragic had happened, and was, therefore, reluctant to start a scare that might not only turn out to be a false alarm, but could make things dangerous for Marcel should he be on a hot scent. Nevertheless, he could not ignore the fact that it was unlike Marcel to remain silent for so long. All he knew was, and this is what worried him, Marcel’s Morane was not at the airport. It had been there, but had gone.

  ‘And you have no idea of what he intended to do when he got to Saigon?’ queried Biggles.

  ‘He didn’t know himself. He told me that. His inquiries at this end provided no definite information. That was why he went to Saigon.’

  ‘What inquiries did he make here?’

  ‘He didn’t say, from which I imagine they were merely a matter of routine.’

  ‘Have you examined his desk for possible notes that might provide a clue as to his intentions?’

  Joudrier shrugged. ‘Surely he would take any such notes with him.’

  ‘One would think so,’ agreed Biggles. ‘There’s a chance that he may have made some marks on a map in working out a particular compass course, for example. That would give us an idea of the ground he intended to cover.’

  ‘We will look,’ said Joudrier, getting up and leading the way to Marcel’s office.

  For a time it seemed as if his supposition was correct. Everything had been left neat and tidy. There were no maps of Indo-China, Marcel, apparently, having taken them with him, as was to be expected. His diary ended on the day of his departure. The scribbling pad, beside which lay a ball-pointed pen, was topped by a sheet of plain paper.

  ‘You see,’ said Joudrier. ‘If he made notes he either destroyed them or took them with him.’

  ‘If he made them with that pen the impression might have gone through to the next sheet,’ Biggles pointed out, carefully removing the blank page and holding it up to the light. ‘Yes, I think there’s something here,’ he went on. ‘It’s too faint to be read as it is, but we should be able to make it legible.’

  ‘Bring it along,’ requested Joudrier.

  Back in his office a light dusting with black carbon powder was all that was necessary to throw the writing into white relief. It consisted of five names and addresses, although no town or country was given.

  ‘What do you make of it?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘These,’ said Joudrier slowly, ‘are the names of Paris business houses that trade with the Far East and have offices in Saigon. Or to be correct, three of them are. The other two are Saigon companies with offices in Paris — which comes to much the same thing.’

  ‘From the name, one of them appears to be a Chinese concern.’

  ‘Yes. Ching Loo and Co.. They’re well-known Oriental merchants with offices in every big Eastern city. They own a lot of property in Saigon, including the Pagoda Palace Hotel. I’m afraid we shan’t learn much from these.’

  ‘Why, I wonder, did Marcel make a note of them?’

  Joudrier lifted a shoulder. ‘Who knows? He may have intended to stay at the Pagoda Palace.’

  ‘Since he evidently thought it worth while to note these names I’ll take a copy,’ said Biggles.

  ‘Would you like me to provide you with special police passes?’ suggested Joudrier helpfully. ‘They might be useful in an emergency.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘No thanks. They might be dangerous, so I wouldn’t risk using them. With all respect to you, there might be an official in the plot — even a policeman. In this sort of business, when it’s big enough, money has been known to corrupt even the best men. It’s better to trust nobody.’

  ‘Yes, my friend, I’m afraid you are right,’ conceded Joudrier sadly.

  And on that note the conversation ended, Biggles telling his French colleague that he would keep in touch with him as far as possible but would refrain from calling on him for help unless it was vitally necessary.

  He took a taxi to the airport and by six o’clock was back in his own office.

  Ten days later the old but still serviceable Air Police Halifax was making its approach to the airport of Saigon under a leaden sky. Below lay the Mekong River, its waters grey, its muddy banks merging into the great shapeless areas of scrub and forest in which a million men, white, black, brown and yellow, were fighting an apparently futile and interminable war.

  The machine landed in pouring rain. The first hour on the ground was spent in refuelling, finding accommodation for the aircraft and going through the usual tedious formalities; and in this respect, Ginger noted, there was nothing slack about the way the French customs officials went about their business. The ‘samples’ of textiles which the party had brought as part of the set-up of the trade organization were examined closely. However, at the finish they were ‘cleared’.

  ‘Now what’s the drill?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Get a taxi, taking all the kit with you, and see about rooms. You might try the place that was on Marcel’s list — the Pagoda Palace. There’s a chance he went there, so we might pick up some news. Ginger, if only as a matter of courtesy, I think you’d better report our arrival at the British Legation. I’ll follow on.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to have a mooch round the hangars just to make sure Marcel’s Morane isn’t here. It could have come in while we were on the way out — not that I think there’s much hope of that. However, I’ll have a look. After that — well, I don’t know. It’s a bit hard to know where to start. I’ll see you at the hotel.’

  So they parted.

  Biggles knew, when he had said it was a bit hard to know where to start, that this was an understatement. Although he had been turning the matter over in his mind during the long hours in the air on the way out, he still had no definite plan. To make inquiries openly about the missing aircraft would, if there had been foul play, not only defeat their object but put them in a position of some danger. Apart from learning how the smuggling was being done by watching incoming and outgoing aircraft, all he could hope for was, as they were on the spot, some rumour or whisper of gossip which would put them on the track.

  He had not taken more than a dozen paces towards the exit that gave them access to the tarmac when, to his surprise, he was accosted by a youngish man who sat on one of the seats reading a newspaper.

  ‘Hello there. You an American?’ was the question, cheerfully put.

  ‘No. Sorry to disappoint you. I’m British,’ answered Biggles.

  ‘Too bad. Funny, when you’re a long way from home, how you jump at the chance of having a say-so with someone from your own country.’

  ‘I gather you’re an American.’

  ‘Sure am. I should have known you were British by that antiquated crate you brought in.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘Yes, she’s a bit of an old stager, but she still gets around.’

  ‘I saw plenty of ‘em when I was in England during the war, but I’d have thought they’d all have been on the scrap heap by now.’

  ‘When they became obsolete the government sold them at a price that made them worth converting for long distance charter work.’

  The American nodded. ‘What you doing in this dump?’

  ‘Brought out a couple of chaps who are hoping to sell a new line in wool shirts and pants.’

  The American grinned. ‘What a hope!’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ inquired Biggles. ‘Something to do with the war?’

  ‘Not me, brother. I’ve had all the war I want. I’m a delivery pilot under the American Aid Plan. Bring new kites out and take old ones back for reconditioning.’

  ‘To America?’

  ‘Nope. Wouldn’t be worth it. As far as Marseilles. We’ve a repair depot there.’

  ‘Must be tough going.’

  ‘Sure is. Just plain bus driving. Waste of time and money, of course. These hamfisted Orientals break the stuff up as fast as they get it. The ‘planes don’t cost ‘em anything and it keeps me in a job, so who cares? It’s the waiting about in this cock-eyed dump that kills me.’