Biggles and the Pirate Treasure Page 12

  ‘Such as Nemo and Nix?’ put in Ginger softly.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I thought clowns were intended to make you laugh, but there’s something about those two white-faced horrors that gives me the creeps,’ muttered Algy. ‘I’m sorry Nix is in charge of the air section. He had the cheek to check my work this afternoon after I’d top-overhauled your machine.’

  Biggles drew on his cigarette. ‘It seems he was the last man to touch Strickland’s machine before it crashed. It’s still hard to see how he and Nemo could sabotage the Peace Conference. All we can do is keep our eyes skinned. I have a feeling that if some devilment has been cooked it will happen in the grand finale, when Nemo and Nix do their low-level stunt act over the procession, with the animals and trainers being towed round the airfield by trucks. Nemo stands on a wing, you know, and pelts the spectators with paper balls.’

  ‘It’d be a bit late to do anything if he used grenades instead of paper balls, old boy,’ observed Bertie. ‘Don’t forget he could easily fly off and escape in that old kite they use.’

  Biggles’s eyes suddenly went to the door. He raised a hand warningly.

  ‘Hold it,’ he said quietly. ‘There’s somebody outside.’ He took a pace and threw open the door. With its forefeet on the step stood a lion, the yellow light from inside reflected in its eyes. Biggles stood rigid.

  ‘What do you want, you old rascal?’ he demanded sternly.

  Another voice, rich with Irish brogue, spoke from the darkness. ‘Come back here, Major, or begorra I’ll have the hide off you.’ The order was followed by a sound as if someone was hitting a tin plate with a spoon.

  The animal turned and ambled off into the gloom. A moment later came the clang of a cage door being shut. Footsteps sounded, and a burly figure in red breeches and a khaki shirt appeared. ‘Sure and it was only old Major,’ said the Irish voice cheerfully. ‘If I’m late with his dinner he’s learnt to slip the bolt with his paw.’

  ‘You should be more careful with your cats,’ Biggles told him.

  ‘And so I should, and me Paddy O’Shea, the oldest lion tamer in the business.’

  ‘One day Major will bite somebody.’

  ‘If he does I hope it’ll be that painted-faced clown Nemo.’

  ‘Come in,’ invited Biggles. ‘I gather you don’t love Nemo?’

  ‘’Tis no secret, me bhoy. It’s sacked I would have been by now if I hadn’t been so popular with the rest of the troupe. Neither does me old friend Major like him. It’s great judges of character are lions. After forty years in the business, I remember—’

  ‘What don’t you like about Nemo?’ interposed Biggles.

  ‘I don’t like anything about him,’ answered the lion tamer, accepting a cigarette. ‘He’s a man with a past, and sour at that. You boys are to be trusted with a secret – that’s as plain as me nose is on me face – so I’ll tell you why. It was a while ago, and me only a boy, when I first clapped eyes on Nemo. ‘Twas at a travelling circus right here in Paris. I was only a spare hand then. Nemo was a tall, handsome feller, and ‘twas a mighty fine act he did on the high trapeze. A darling act to be sure – till a rope broke. ‘Tis the luck of the game. He went clean through the safety net and broke himself up on the ground. The crowd laughed. To be sure they laughed, thinking it was part of the act. We left Nemo in the hospital for dead.’ The Irishman shuddered. ‘’Tis not myself that will ever be forgetting the look on his face when he heard the crowd laughing.’

  ‘Apparently he didn’t die.’

  ‘That’s the size of it, me bhoy. Maybe it would have been better for himself if he had died, instead of living with a hunched back, hating everyone. Knowing the temper of the man it wouldn’t surprise me if one day he got his own back on the crowd.’

  ‘That’s a sobering thought,’ murmured Biggles, frowning. ‘If there is something like that in the wind it would be interesting to hear what he and Nix have to say to each other when they’re in the air together to-morrow for the full dress rehearsal. I mean, by wireless.’

  ‘So it would. Mike Casey, the operator in the control room, is my nephew.’

  ‘Would he let us in?’

  ‘Sure and he would if I asked him.’

  ‘Then ask him if—’ Biggles broke off short as the door opened to reveal the ghastly face of the clown Nemo. Excluding the Irishman none of them had seen him so close before, and they stared with mingled sympathy and horror.

  The clown’s body seemed to have been telescoped, so that his arms appeared unnaturally long, like those of an ape. He moved as though his body were made of rubber; but perhaps the most disconcerting feature was the harsh voice that grated through the lips painted in a grotesque smile.

  ‘Don’t you know that tomorrow is the final rehearsal?’ rasped the clown. ‘You’ve got a busy day in front of you, so get to bed instead of loafing about gossiping. And put these lights out.’ He slammed out.

  Biggles looked at the others. On his face, which had turned slightly pale, was an expression of understanding. ‘No wonder he keeps his make-up on,’ he breathed. ‘You realize who Nemo is? Ironmaster himself. Now I begin to see daylight. But we’d better put these lights out. As he said, we’ve a busy day in front of us to-morrow.’

  The next day, the rehearsal went forward with the efficiency of a well-planned military operation. Biggles ran through his own act, which included a mock combat. At the end came the big moment. The arena was cleared except for the black-painted biplane of Nemo and Nix.

  Biggles, in white overalls like most of the circus hands, made his way towards the control tower, passing on the way the mobile cages of wild animals, cossack riders, show ponies and elephants that were forming up for the concluding procession. As he opened the door of the radio room, Bertie, earphones on his head, turned to look at him. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Casey’s gone. Nemo told him the radio wouldn’t be wanted for this rehearsal. I’ve tuned in to inter-com frequency and put it on the loudspeaker.’

  ‘Good work.’ Looking through the window Biggles saw the black plane taking off. It climbed, circling the field. Nemo, who had started astride the fuselage, was working his way out on one of the wings. ‘Not so far over, you fool,’ came his voice through the loudspeaker. ‘That’s better. Now across the stand. The scum that laughed when I went through the net won’t laugh to-morrow. I’ve waited a long time for this.’

  Biggles switched off. ‘That’s all we wanted to know,’ he said quietly. ‘He’s going to drop something on the Peace Conference stand. Whatever it is it won’t be pleasant.’

  Bertie was staring. ‘But he can’t mean that!’

  ‘He’s mad, driven insane by an obsession of hate because people laughed when he had the accident that ruined his life. Let’s get out of this before anyone sees us.’

  Back in the caravan the matter was discussed urgently.

  ‘I suggest you call in Marcel Brissac of the Sûreté and have Nemo arrested before he can do any harm,’ said Algy grimly.

  ‘On what charge? There’s no case against him. You can’t arrest a man because you think he’s going to do something outrageous.’

  ‘But we know he is.’

  ‘We know. But how are we going to prove it?’

  ‘You mean, we shall have to let him commit the crime before we do anything about it. What’s the use of that?’

  ‘We shall have to let him go far enough to provide us with the evidence we need.’

  ‘How are you going to do that ? ‘

  ‘I think I can handle it. When he does his act in the finale I shall be flying the machine. I shall, of course, tip Marcel off about what’s likely to happen. Come outside where you can see the lay-out of the dressing-rooms and I’ll explain.’

  Twenty-four hours later, Bertie, in white overalls, stood near the group of gendarmes guarding the flag-draped grandstand from which the Peace Delegates and other high officials had watched the several turns of the Air Circus. A crowd of more than ten thousand people had packed
themselves round the horseshoe-shaped arena. Circus hands and animal trainers were busy getting everything ready for the grand finale.

  A roar of applause greeted the appearance of Nemo. With a white haversack hanging on his shoulder he shambled out and stood posturing beside the black aircraft. Then, brandishing a toy riding whip in a white-gloved hand he vaulted on to the fuselage and grabbed imaginary reins. There was another roar as the white-masked figure of his pilot strode out and bowed to the crowd with mock dignity.

  Perspiration, not entirely due to heat, broke out on Ginger, who stood watching from the control tower with Marcel Brissac and some police officials. He knew that the real Nix was locked in his dressing room with Algy standing guard over him; but he still did not know what Nemo’s haversack contained. The only thing he was sure of was, the contents were not paper balls. It looked heavy — heavy enough to get in his way. The question was, would Nemo see through the deception, for if he did the day might still end in disaster.

  Biggles climbed into the cockpit, strapped himself in, adjusted his headphones, waved to the mechanics to pull away the wheel chocks and started the engine. By this time Nemo had started to move out on a wing for his wing-walking act. Those in the control tower heard him rasp: ‘Why didn’t you do your usual handsprings before you got in?’

  Biggles, pretending to be busy with the controls, did not answer.

  Nemo had now reached the first interplane half-strut, which meant that his back was towards the cockpit. This moment, apparently, was the one for which Biggles had waited, for he suddenly reached out, grabbed the haversack, and cutting the sling put it on the floor of the cockpit.

  Nemo must have realized instantly what this meant, for he was round in a flash, his painted face distorted with fury.

  ‘Take it easy, Ironmaster, the game’s up,’ said Biggles crisply.

  Nemo’s answer was to whip an automatic from his pocket.

  At that moment Biggles was as near to death as he had ever been: and he knew it. He could think of only one thing to do. He jerked the throttle wide open hoping to shake the clown from his precarious perch. Nemo nearly fell, but recovering his balance hung on to the strut with one hand. With difficulty he dragged himself to an upright position. By that time, as Biggles couldn’t stop without running into the crowd, he had lifted the machine into the air.

  From his seat he watched his mouthing passenger. Knowing that Nemo was not a pilot he felt the game was now in his hands, for the clown could not kill him without killing himself in the crash that would inevitably follow. True, he had a parachute, but as the aircraft was flying at not more than fifty feet it was no use to him. Biggles, of course, had no intention of climbing. Keeping low, he began a circuit, in order to land.

  Nemo must have realized what Biggles had in mind. Very slowly, for the tearing slipstream made fast movement impossible, he raised again the hand that held the gun.

  Whether he was prepared to kill both of them, or whether he purposed taking a chance with his parachute, will never be known; for Biggles, seeing what was going to happen, took the only action that would give him a chance to save his life. He put the machine through a slow roll. Nemo fell off, as he was almost bound to. His parachute mushroomed, but too late. The crowd rose to its feet as the clown plummeted to earth.

  Biggles brought the machine round, landed, and taxied tail up to the staff exit. ‘I had to do it,’ he said in a low voice to Bertie, who ran up.

  The public never knew the truth about the accident. Rumours flew, of course, and the story was front page news the following day. But accidents at air displays are not uncommon and the incident was soon forgotten. Naturally, all the sympathy was for the dead clown; and he was, as Biggles said afterwards, to be pitied, for he was one of those men who, having suffered, could only find consolation in seeing others suffer. Which was why he had devoted his life to the trouble-making which had brought him under the scrutiny of the United States Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  But what the crowd would have thought had it learned that his haversack contained a gallon jar of vitriol, which apparently he intended to shower on the Peace Delegates, is another matter.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE CASE OF THE PHONE BOX MURDER

  Biggles was walking home from Air Police Headquarters, at Scotland Yard, for a breath of air after a trying spell of office work, which he detested but could not avoid. Air-Constable ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite had volunteered to keep him company.

  They were walking up Davies Street when an ambulance standing against the curb, and a little crowd of people, brought from Ginger the observation: ‘Looks like an accident.’

  ‘It’s no ordinary accident, anyway,’ returned Biggles as they drew nearer. ‘That’s Inspector Gaskin of “C” Division telling the crowd to push off.’

  They reached the spot just as the ambulance drove away, and at the request of two constables the onlookers began to disperse.

  ‘More trouble, Inspector?’ remarked Biggles.

  The Inspector looked round. ‘Hello, it’s you. Of course it’s trouble. My job is nothing but trouble. One good thing about it, the old lag we just found here won’t trouble us any more.’ He jerked a thumb at a red-painted telephone call box.

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes, and so would you be if someone stuck a knife in your heart up to the hilt.’

  ‘Who did the heart belong to?’

  ‘Hans Muller, the neatest safe-blower in the business. Whoever stuck this blade in him meant to make a job of it,’ went on the inspector, wrapping a piece of muslin round the fatal weapon. ‘Funny place to choose for a murder, a glass box on a public pavement. He must have been inside, making a call, when the murderer struck. Either he or Muller must have dropped this. It was on the blood, not under it.’ The inspector showed a small piece of pasteboard. ‘I haven’t had time to look at it properly yet. Fingerprints should tell us which one of ‘em dropped it. I know Muller’s prints from memory. We’ll try the door handle for fingerprints, too. Careful how you handle it,’ concluded the inspector as Biggles reached for the card.

  ‘Looks like a piece torn off a menu card,’ said Biggles, holding the card by the edge. ‘In fact, I’m sure it is. Die Blau.... That must have been the name of the place — a restaurant or café, I imagine. In Germany or Austria, judging from the language.’ He turned the card over. ‘Here’s the maker’s trade mark. Vienna. With yesterday’s date on the top it looks as if the job might come my way.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Because this card must have been in Vienna yesterday — last night, in fact, at dinner-time.’

  ‘He could have flown over.’

  ‘Would Muller, with his criminal record, have a passport?’

  ‘No. And he wouldn’t get through any airport without being spotted by our watchers. It must have belonged to the other feller. What are those letters on the front?’

  Biggles looked at the card. As it had been torn, only the first three and last three letters of the top dish could be read. They were UKR, and at the end SCH. ‘Soup usually comes first,’ he mused. ‘I’ve got it. Ukranian Borsch.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘A highly flavoured pink soup — a house speciality in some restaurants. By the way, did Muller make his call?’

  ‘How would I know that?’

  ‘If he had put his money in, and was waiting to be connected when he was knifed, the money will still be in the box. We can soon settle that by pushing the return button.’

  Biggles went into the box and pressed button B. With a metallic clink a single object dropped into the tray. Biggles picked up a small thin square of white metal. Holding it by the edge he showed it to the inspector.

  ‘What the deuce is it?’

  ‘I don’t know. There’s no mark on it. This is a busy call box so it’s a safe bet that Muller must have put it in. I mean, the thing couldn’t have been in for any length of time or some other user of the box would have got it out. Muller must
have been in a hurry to get, rid of it.’

  ‘Looks as though he was followed, and knew it. What metal is it, anyway? It isn’t silver. It isn’t tin, or zinc. Hm. Queer-feeling stuff.’

  A strange expression dawned on Biggles’s face. ‘I wonder could it be crystalium.’

  ‘That word rings a bell.’

  ‘So it should. It’s that new alloy that has just been lifted out of a safe at the United Nations Research Station in Austria. They claim it’s a one-way conductor metal which will replace radio valves. Some people would pay a fortune for a sample of it. Things begin to hook up, unless we’ve run into a coincidence. Muller, you say, was a safe-blower. He’s just been to Austria, where someone has blown a safe. You’ve just picked him up here, and right beside him we find the most valuable object that was in that safe. That should give you something to work on — and give me something to think about.’

  ‘Why you?’

  ‘I want to know how Muller got to Austria, and back here, without going through the usual routine. That’s what it begins to look like to me.’

  ‘I’ll take care of this,’ said the inspector, wrapping the piece of metal in his handkerchief and putting it in his pocket. ‘I’ll soon let you know if Muller handled it. I reckon it cost him his life. Did a double-cross on somebody and got knifed for his pains. There was plenty of hate behind the blow that killed him. But I must be getting along. I’ll send you word of any developments in your line.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ agreed Biggles, and resumed his interrupted walk home.

  ‘What have we walked into this time, I wonder?’ murmured Ginger.

  The question was answered the following day when they were all called into the office of their Chief, Air Commodore Raymond.

  ‘Sit down. I’ve had Gaskin in here,’ began the Air Commodore without preamble. ‘He told me what happened last night. You’ll be interested to know that the metal is crystalium and that it bears Muller’s fingerprints. His marks were on the piece of card, too, but those on the knife handle haven’t been identified. Muller must have been to Austria within the last day or two, but he didn’t travel by any regular means of transport — air or sea. I don’t like the idea of a crook like Muller coming and going as he pleases, because if he can do it others can; which suggests that someone is running an unofficial air shuttle service to the Continent. There might even be a concern catering specially for crooks and their swag. I want you to follow it up. You might find out where that piece of torn menu card came from.’