Biggles and the Pirate Treasure Page 13

  ‘There must be at least a score of hotels and cafés in Vienna with the adjective blue in their name.’ Biggles smiled. ‘All trying to cash in on the Blue Danube, I suppose.’

  ‘I don’t care if you have to turn the spotlight on every eating place in Austria. Find the man who supplies the blanks of those cards, or the printer who prints them. He’ll tell you what blue restaurants he supplies. And you’d better get cracking on it. If the newspapers start probing this Muller story, and hit on the air angle, they’ll run banner headlines about a crooks’ air route that’ll make us look silly.’

  ‘Okay, sir,’ said Biggles.

  ‘So off we go on a Ukranian Borsch hunt,’ said Algy, when they were outside.

  ‘There are worse places than Vienna,’ Biggles told him. ‘We’ll fly over in the Proctor. Ginger, you can send a wire to the West Bahn Hotel, booking four single rooms and a private sitting-room.’

  ‘That’s one of the biggest hotels.’

  ‘The bigger the place the less likely are new arrivals to be noticed,’ explained Biggles.

  The following morning they were in Vienna, assembled in the sitting-room after unpacking their light suitcases in their rooms.

  ‘We’ll try the easy way first,’ Biggles told them. ‘Here’s a list of all the cafés and restaurants of any size that begin with the word blue. I got most of them from the telephone directory. The hall porter gave me one or two others — smaller places. I want you, between you, to cover the lot. In taxis it shouldn’t take you long to get round. The best way to work is to go in and order coffee. Later, you can make it lunch. Either way, ask to see the dinner menu. Check the imprint of the printer supplying the card, the style of printing of the word blue, and perhaps the handwriting of the letters UKR and SCH. I don’t think they can mean anything but Ukranian Borsch. Of course, it’s probable that more than one blue establishment serves that particular soup. Again, it may not be served every day. Anyway, you know what we’re looking for. If anybody strikes anything like a clue he’ll come back here and let me know. I’ll wait.’

  First back, late in the afternoon, was Bertie. ‘Nothing on my list, old boy,’ he reported sadly. ‘I never want to see coffee again. I spent an hour at the Blue Dragon watching a suspicious type who seemed to have an interest in me, but it turned out he wanted to teach me to play the zither in six lessons.’

  Algy and Ginger returned in due course, each with a negative report.

  ‘No matter,’ said Biggles. ‘We’ll try again tomorrow.’

  It was not until the third day, after the list had been exhausted, that the investigation yielded result, and then it was Ginger who hit the trail.

  ‘I believe I’ve got it,’ he announced excitedly, bursting in upon the others. ‘Struck it by accident, too, in a back street. It wasn’t on the list. Too small, perhaps, or maybe they didn’t want their name in the phone book.’

  ‘Take it easy. Never mind conjecture. Give us the facts,’ requested Biggles.

  ‘It’s a filthy place behind the station, called Die Blau Gans—The Blue Goose. I had a drink, and seeing some small tables with cloths on, asked the boss — as nasty-looking a piece of work as you ever saw — to let me see the dinner menu. He said they weren’t ready. I may have been a bit indiscreet, for when I asked him if he ever served Ukranian Borsch he gave me a mighty queer look. It may have been my imagination but his manner seemed to change from that moment. After a bit he went through to the back and a greasy-looking waiter came in. The boss must have spoken to him — it could hardly have been coincidence for he brought the conversation round to food and asked me if I liked Borsch. He said they made a very good Ukranian Borsch. I said I could never get enough of it. Whereupon he said they served it as a speciality twice a week — Wednesday and Saturday.’

  ‘Nice work,’ complimented Biggles, ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Plenty. Whether or not it’s the joint we’re looking for the place is certainly a crooks’ hideout. After a bit the waiter came up close, gave me a leer, and fairly rocked me on my heels by asking me if I’d been followed. I said I didn’t think so, but one never knew. Whereupon he offered, for a hundred schillings, to show me another way out.’

  ‘Did you accept?’

  ‘Of course. It suited me to let him think I was on the run. Well, the upshot of it was he took me through a long bolthole which came out, of all places, the Mariahilf Strasse, where, had I wanted to do so, I could have dodged into thick traffic and given anybody following me the slip. That’s all.’

  ‘Good show,’ said Biggles warmly. ‘This sounds like it. Note they served Borsch on Wednesday. Muller must have come over last Wednesday night. That agrees with the date on the torn card. Wednesday must be one of the days the service operates — assuming we haven’t struck a false trail. To-morrow will be Saturday. Our next move will be to have some Borsch; in other words, book a passage to England. It’ll cost a tidy penny, no doubt. But I reckoned on that, which is why I brought plenty of money, in dollars.’

  Ginger looked startled. ‘But you can’t just walk into The Blue Goose and say, “Is this where you run a get-away service?”’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘They’d probably bump you off right away as a police spy.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Dead men can’t talk, and they’d want to know how I knew about their racket.’

  ‘What would you say to that?’

  ‘I’d say a friend of mine named Hans Muller gave me the low-down.’

  ‘What’s to stop them knocking you on the head and taking your dollars anyway?’

  ‘The promise of more dollars than I’ve got on me. But you can leave the answers to me. This is how we’ll go to work. Tomorrow I shall drift into The Blue Goose and ask if they know of an easy way of getting to England. Ginger, you’ll loaf about that bolt-hole exit and watch for me to come out. Algy will be near you in a fast car. Your job is to watch where they take me — if you can. If you lose me, as you may, don’t worry. Make for the airport, where Bertie will be standing by with the Proctor, and fly straight home. Tell Gaskin what’s happened and ask him to contact the Security Police in Vienna. They’ll deal with The Blue Goose. I want him, also, to watch our rooms in Mount Street. You’ll see why later on — I hope. Now, if you two in the car see me get into an aircraft you’ll go straight to the Security Police and tell them the whole story. They, no doubt, will grab the machine when it returns, and by cleaning up The Blue Goose wipe out the Vienna end of the racket. Is that clear?’

  ‘Clear enough, but you’re taking a fearful risk,’ answered Algy grimly.

  ‘We’re paid to take risks, and if we’re going to jib at them we’d better resign,’ returned Biggles shortly.

  Algy nodded. ‘Okay, if that’s how you want it.’

  It was just after seven the next evening when Biggles walked into The Blue Goose and seated him self at a small table covered with a stained paper cloth. Two other men, whom he naturally took to be customers, were already there, heads together, conversing in low tones with drinks between them. One was a big, hard-faced man, untidily dressed. The other was a dark, dapper type, black hair brushed flat, neat to the point of being a little too slick. They spoke in English, but with such a drawl that Biggles took them to be Americans. Considering where they were, and the fact that they wore civilian clothes, he thought it not unlikely that they were deserters from the United States Forces of Occupation. Shortly after Biggles’s arrival they got up and went out, one by the proper entrance and the other, the big man, to the rear.

  The waiter, correctly described by Ginger as greasy, came in. He was as greasy in his manner as he was in his dress. With a menu card in his hand he approached Biggles’s table.

  ‘It’s the night for Ukranian Borsch, I believe,’ said Biggles casually, as he reached for the card.

  The waiter’s expression changed. ‘You like it, eh?’

  ‘I could do with some right away,’ Biggles told him.

  The waiter did not move.
‘So,’ he said quietly.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘The ticket.’

  ‘Ticket?’ Biggles, who was thinking fast, slowly tore the top off the card, although he was by no means sure he was doing the right thing. He could think of no other ticket. ‘Is this the one you mean?’ he asked, handing it over.

  The waiter threw him a queer smile. ‘Okay. Wait here,’ he said, and went out through the staff door.

  During the next half hour Biggles was served with a fair meal, starting with Ukranian Borsch. He had a feeling that he was being watched, but gave no sign of it. One or two customers, all seedy-looking individuals, came and went. Then the waiter reappeared and beckoned. Biggles followed him to a back room, half office, half parlour, where, behind the desk, sat the big American he had seen in the dining-room. He was not particularly surprised.

  ‘Sit down and relax,’ said the man, his eyes on Biggles’s face.

  Biggles sat.

  ‘Who told you about our Borsch?’ was the first question.

  ‘A man I know.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘I don’t like names.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Okay. Muller. Hans Muller.’

  ‘You a friend of his?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘It matters plenty.’

  ‘I know him, and what he does for a living.’

  ‘You mean, what he did for a living.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘He thought he was smart enough to get away with something and had an accident.’

  Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘Did he get what he came here for?’

  ‘Do you know what that was?

  ‘I’ve an idea. I get around, you know.’

  ‘What’s your idea?’

  ‘A piece of stuff called crystalium.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Did he get it?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘I organized the job. I brought him here. Paid him well. Took him home afterwards. He gave me what he came to get — he said. What he gave me, the cheap chiseller, was a piece of ordinary nickel worth about two cents.’

  ‘You’re not going to blame me because he pulled a fast one?’

  ‘It’s made me kinda nervous.’

  ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘What’s your line?’

  ‘That’s got nothing to do with it. I can pay for a lift to England.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘Dollars.’

  ‘You’ll need a lot.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Three thousand.’

  Biggles’ eyebrows went up. ‘That is a lot. I haven’t that much on me.’

  ‘What can you do?’

  ‘Fifteen hundred.’ This was, in fact, as much as Biggles had on him.

  ‘Nothing doing. I have a heavy pay roll, and planes don’t run on water.’

  ‘I could give you the rest over the other side, if that’s any use to you.’

  ‘That might be arranged. You’ll remember what happened to Muller.’

  ‘I’m remembering it. I’ll put the money in your hand.’

  ‘Not mine. I don’t go on these trips. My agents in England will collect it — or else.’

  ‘Fair enough. When do I travel?’

  ‘Tonight if you want to.’

  ‘The sooner the better.’

  ‘I’ll fix it. Now let’s see the size of your wad.’

  Biggles counted out fifteen hundred dollars, which left him very little.

  The American put the money in a drawer. ‘Now go back to the bar while I get things organized,’ he ordered. ‘I’ve a long distance call to make which may take time.’

  Biggles went back to the restaurant and lingered over a pot of coffee for nearly an hour, at the end of which time the dark, slim man, whom he had seen with the other, came in. ‘We’re all set,’ he said briefly. ‘Come on. This way.’

  Biggles followed the man who by this time he suspected — correctly as it turned out — was to be his pilot. They went out by way of the bolt-hole described by Ginger. As he got into a waiting car he caught a glimpse of him on the pavement of the busy thoroughfare.

  The drive that followed, through gathering darkness, was not as long as he expected it to be, occupying only about twenty minutes. They stopped at what was obviously a farm, and thereafter everything proceeded with the smooth efficiency of regular routine. In a large barn Biggles saw that his transport was to be an elderly Puss Moth. It was wheeled out, and within five minutes was in the air, heading west.

  ‘Beats me how you find your way in the dark,’ said Biggles.

  ‘I’ve done the trip so many times I could do it with my eyes shut,’ boasted the pilot.

  A long, weary night flight followed. No intermediate landing was made, which told Biggles that the machine must have been specially adapted for its job, with extra fuel tanks; he did not remark on this to his pilot, however, for fear of betraying his own knowledge of aviation.

  The moon was high in the sky by the time the English coast came into view. They crossed over East Anglia, and it was with no ordinary interest that Biggles watched to locate the position of the landing ground, for the pilot, of course, could not use any recognized airfield.

  It turned out to be at another farm, on the outskirts of Newmarket Heath, in Cambridgeshire. A few sparse landing lights were put out, and the pilot landed with a confidence which Biggles had to admire. No sooner had he taxied up to the nearest building than two men set about the refuelling. As soon as this was done, the pilot, after a short talk on one side to his accomplices, took off again, to be lost to sight in the night sky. Biggles was then taken to the farmhouse where a car stood waiting.

  ‘You’re due fifteen hundred bucks,’ said one of the men.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In my lodging in London. I’ll show you. Let’s push on. I’ve had a busy day.’

  It was in the early hours of the morning that the car pulled up outside Biggles’s apartment in Mount Street. He let himself in with the latch-key, and closely followed by his companions, went on into the sitting-room. Closing the door behind them he said loudly: ‘Anyone at home?’

  The bedroom door was opened, and Inspector Gaskin, with two plain clothes men, entered.

  ‘Go ahead, Inspector,’ said Biggles. ‘It’s all yours.’

  The two men spun round to bolt, but Biggles was standing with his back to the door, gun in his hand. ‘Take it easy,’ he said evenly. ‘There’s no hurry now.’

  The rest is soon told. The fingerprints of one of the two men were those on the handle of the phone box door, and the handle of the knife that had killed Muller. Convicted of murder he paid the extreme penalty. His accomplice received a long prison sentence.

  At the other end of the crooks’ escape route a police raid cleaned up The Blue Goose just about the time Biggles was landing in England. Five ‘wanted’ men, deserters from the military forces in Austria, were found there. Security police, guided by Algy and Ginger, who had followed Biggles’s car out of Vienna, were waiting for the Puss Moth when it landed at the end of its return trip.

  So the case of the phone box murder was, as Bertie put it, all very neatly buttoned up, with a gang of unpleasant birds in the bag.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE UNKNOWN DIAMONDS

  Air-Commodore Raymond, head of the little-publicized Special Air Section at Scotland Yard, glanced up from his desk as Biggles walked in. ‘Morning Bigglesworth,’ he greeted briefly. ‘Busy?’

  ‘Not particularly, sir.’

  ‘I thought you might like to have a look at these.’ The Air-Commodore mustered five small objects that lay on his blotter.

  Biggles picked one of them up and held it to the light. He whistled softly. ‘That’s a nice line in millionaire stuff.’
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  The Air-Commodore nodded. ‘That diamond you’re holding is so perfect that it tells us from what part of the world it came. You’ll only find stones of that quality at one place. Even as it is, uncut, it’s superb.’

  ‘How did this lot get here? Somebody try to import them without mentioning it at Customs?’

  ‘Since the Customs people have no record of them the answer must be yes.’

  ‘You don’t know how they were smuggled in?’

  ‘No. We wish we did. We suspect they’re not the first to slip in under the curtain. Smuggling, as a fine art, knows no limits; for which reason the modern exponent is usually one jump ahead of the authorities — although given time we usually catch up. Apart from being the tops in the matter of value, diamonds are so small that they’re easily concealed and simple to transport. But sooner or later, as they have to be sold, somebody must see them, and it’s then the cat slips out of the bag. The history of every sizeable diamond is known to those who deal in them honestly, so a diamond without a history is as crooked as the crook who handles it. Eventually word of it reaches us.’

  ‘How did this little parcel of sparklers reach you?’

  ‘In a curious, roundabout way. The other day the police raided the premises of a small-time pawnbroker who has for a long time been suspected of dealing in stolen property. The stuff was there all right. But these diamonds, which were in his safe, gave us a shock. We weren’t expecting anything on that scale.’

  ‘How did this fellow explain them?’

  ‘His story is, he bought them. We couldn’t shake him from that and it may be true. He swears he doesn’t know the man from whom he bought them — which may also be true. In any case he wouldn’t dare to squeal for fear of what the underworld might do to him when he comes out of prison. He’s gone down for five years. Nothing was said about these diamonds at the trial, one reason being that as they had no history we couldn’t prove they’d been stolen. There’s no law in this country against possessing diamonds. We had all the evidence we wanted for a conviction without them. The important thing about that is, the person who brought these diamonds into the country may not know they are now in the hands of the police.’