Biggles in the Underworld Read online

  As far as he had been able to observe there was nothing wrong with the place. It appeared to be what it purported to be; just that and nothing more. Nothing illegal. To his relief there was none of the noisy form of entertainment customary in so many similar establishments.

  Somewhat surprisingly, he thought, he had not found it easy to become a member without the recommendation of a man already a member. It was not merely a matter of paying a subscription. He had to provide references, one of which had to associate him with aviation; so he had been right in the supposition that the place was in the nature of a flying club. On the form of application he had had to sign he simply put ‘Late R.A.F.’. The tall Negro doorkeeper was strict, and no one was allowed in without being identified by him or without showing his membership card. Biggles thought this a little odd and he wondered if there was a sinister purpose behind it; but so far he had seen nothing to arouse his suspicions. But for the fact that the Sheikh had been seen there, he wouldn’t have given the place a second thought.

  The manager was a dark, sleek, affable little man named Constantine Nestos and known to everyone as ‘Charlie’. He was not English. Biggles took him to be a Cypriot, perhaps a British subject, but he did not yet know the man well enough to ask questions, personal or otherwise.

  This was his sixth successive night at the club and so far he had seen no one bearing the slightest resemblance to the ‘fair, blue-eyed’ young man who was really his quarry. He was not so optimistic as to hope he might see the Sheikh himself, although as he had once been to the place this was not outside the bounds of possibility. So, while he had cultivated the virtue of patience, he was beginning to wonder if it was worth while going on with the task he had set himself, or for how much longer he could tolerate such a tiresome occupation. To make matters worse neither Bertie nor Ginger had met with any success in their investigations. The Air Commodore, at headquarters, had no further news of the Sheikh or the Park Lane pearl robbery.

  Then, suddenly, the luck turned. Tired, and finding the overheated atmosphere oppressive, he was thinking of leaving when in came a man who, apart from his clothes, answered precisely to the description of the one for whom he had been waiting. He was now dressed in an ordinary dark suit for evening wear and sported an R.A.F. necktie. Actually, quite a few of these were in evidence. He went straight to the bar and ordered a drink, nodding to certain members whom apparently he knew.

  Now, with an interest, Biggles came to the alert. It was for this he had been waiting; but how to proceed, how to make contact with the man, he did not know. Anticipating the situation, he had given it some thought without finding an answer. If the man was a crook, as his association with the Sheikh seemed to suggest, it would be easy to arouse his suspicions by forcing conversation on him.

  His luck continued. The man he was watching was now talking to the bar-tender, an alert little man named Carlo, from which Biggles judged him to be one of the many Italians working in London. With his empty glass in his hand Biggles approached, ostensibly to get another drink, but actually hoping to hear the conversation; even a few words might be informative. At the moment he arrived Carlo was called to serve another customer. The man to whom he had been talking, with a full glass in his hand, turned away. The hand that held the glass came into contact with Biggles’ arm, with the inevitable result that a fair amount of beer was thrown down the front of Biggles’ jacket. Instantly there were apologies on both sides, each accepting responsibility.

  ‘I’m most terribly sorry,’ said the fair young man.

  ‘Forget it,’ returned Biggles. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Then let me buy you a drink.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘Well, I never say no,’ he said, accepting the offer as an easy way of continuing the conversation. ‘I’ll join you in a beer.’

  The drink was ordered and brought. ‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Biggles, raising his glass. ‘Cheers!’

  ‘Cheers. I see from your tie you’re one of the gang,’ went on the young man with his eyes on the R.A.F. tie Biggles too was wearing.

  ‘Yes, I did a spell,’ Biggles said.

  ‘I haven’t seen you here before. You a new member?’

  ‘Yes. The name’s Bigglesworth.’ To save complications Biggles had more or less been forced to join the club under his own name.

  His companion frowned as if searching his memory. ‘That name rings a bell,’ he said.

  Biggles answered casually: ‘I’ve been flying quite a while and have met a lot of people, so you may have heard my name mentioned.’

  ‘My name’s Caine. Brian Basil Caine. The initials, B.B.C., should be easy to remember.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you. You still in the Service?’

  ‘No. I was slung out six months ago after a Short Service Commission.’

  ‘Bad luck.’

  ‘I’m not worrying. I’ve bought a little machine of my own, so I can still put in a spot of aviating if I feel like it.’

  ‘Good for you. What is it?’

  ‘American job. Starfinder. Two-seater. You may have heard of it.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I know it. Folding wing type. But why are we standing? What’s wrong with taking the weight off our feet?’ With what satisfaction Biggles noted this information can be imagined. This was better than he had dared to hope.

  Together, glasses in hand, they went to the small table, with two chairs, which Biggles had recently vacated. This gave him a moment to think. He was puzzled by the easy way Caine was talking. He was beginning to wonder if he had picked up the wrong man. ‘Where do you keep your machine?’ he asked, casually, as if it was of no importance, as they sat down.

  ‘I run a small farm in Hampshire,’ was the answer. ‘Not a very big place, but enough for me to handle single-handed; I have a big barn with a pasture adjacent, so what more do I want?’

  ‘Then you’re not a member of a flying club?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How do you manage for petrol?’

  ‘No difficulty about that. I have pals.’

  Biggles wondered who the pals were, but he did not voice his curiosity. ‘You’re on the official register of private owners, of course,’ he prompted, knowing he was not, or it would be on the office records.

  Caine made a grimace. ‘I can’t be bothered with all that fiddle-faddle. It doesn’t mean a thing.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ returned Biggles, seriously. ‘There’s been quite a bit of funny business going on and the regulations are pretty tight. If you’re caught you may be landed with a tidy fine to pay.’

  ‘That wouldn’t worry me. I prefer to mind my own business. I haven’t had any trouble so far.’

  As Caine was still willing to talk Biggles pursued his questioning, wondering how many drinks Caine had had to loosen his tongue to such a degree of indiscretion. Or was it mere vanity talking? ‘Do you live on your farm, then?’ he queried.

  ‘More or less. I have a little flat in Town for when I feel like hitting the high spots. What do you do for a living these days?’

  ‘Oh, this and that,’ returned Biggles inconsequentially.

  Caine changed his tone of voice. ‘Not looking for a job, I suppose?’

  ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘Might be some flying in it.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘I’m always open to offers. Who isn’t?’

  Caine thought for a moment as if he was turning over something in his mind: or perhaps wondering if he had said too much.

  ‘Have another drink,’ invited Biggles, to keep the conversation going.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do. Make it a whisky this time.’

  Biggles fetched two more drinks from the bar. He did not hurry, for he wanted time to think about this curious situation. It seemed too easy, too good to be true. He still couldn’t get Caine weighed up. Was he really as irresponsible as he appeared, talking so freely to a stranger? Or was he being clever? His behaviour was not that of a man who knew he was breaking the law. Was he a fo
ol, or was there a trick in it somewhere? For once Biggles couldn’t make up his mind. Hoping to learn more, he took the drinks back to the table, having decided not to press his questions too hard for fear of making his companion suspicious.

  ‘Whereabouts is this place of yours in Hampshire?’ he inquired, as having put the drinks on the table he sat down again.

  ‘Near Carthanger. Hardly a village. Twotrees Farm is the name. It’s a bit difficult to find, but you must drop in some time if you’re ever that way.’

  ‘Thanks. I may take you up on that. Do you fly anywhere in particular?’

  ‘No. Just waffle around to keep my hand in.’

  ‘Ever go abroad?’

  ‘Once in a while; not very often. I may slip across the Channel to see a friend. I don’t bother with the formalities.’

  ‘If you’re caught at that it could cost you your ticket.’

  ‘I haven’t had any trouble so far.’

  There was a pause while they sipped their drinks.

  Biggles was wondering if Caine was the man’s real name, because if so it would be a simple matter to check his service record in the R.A.F. ‘This job you were talking about,’ he resumed.

  Caine appeared to be on the point of explaining, but at this juncture there was an interruption, one that appeared to settle any doubt of Caine’s name. A club steward came up and said: ‘Excuse me, Mr Caine. You’re wanted on the phone. You can take it in the manager’s office.’

  ‘Shan’t be a minute,’ Caine told Biggles, and followed the steward out of the lounge.

  He was away for some minutes, which gave Biggles time to ponder the information he had gathered. So far there had been no mention of the man in whom he was most interested; the Sheikh; but then, of course, there had been no reason to mention other members of the club. What was the association? The two men, Caine and the Sheikh, appeared to have little in common beyond the fact that both were pilots who had served in the R.A.F. Was that where they had met?

  Caine returned and resumed his seat; but he had changed. His conversation was no longer ‘free and easy’: he seemed subdued, almost taciturn, as if he had something on his mind. Biggles found himself being regarded with a different expression: not exactly hostile, but suspicious. It seemed reasonable to suppose this was the result of the telephone conversation. What had happened? Biggles would have liked very much to know who had been at the other end of the line, but Caine didn’t volunteer the information and it would obviously be indiscreet, to say the least, to ask personal questions.

  After the conversation had languished for a little while Caine got up saying he would have to be getting along. Then, somewhat abruptly, he departed, leaving Biggles plenty to think about. For a moment Biggles was tempted to follow him, but decided against it in case he himself was being watched. This was not entirely instinctive. He could see the manager hovering in the background for no apparent reason, occasionally glancing in his direction. A feeling came over him that he was in deeper water than was apparent from the surface.

  Presently the manager came over. ‘Everything all right, sir?’ he inquired politely.

  ‘No complaints, thank you,’ answered Biggles cheerfully.

  The manager walked on.

  A little later, seeing no purpose in remaining at the club any longer, feeling well satisfied with his evening’s work. Biggles, too, prepared to take his departure. He had learned quite a lot, more than he could have anticipated, and now had plenty to think about.

  He was still puzzled by Caine’s behaviour. Why had his attitude changed so markedly after his telephone conversation? Of course, there was no proof that he had spoken to anyone on the telephone. He may have been called away to speak to someone in person in the manager’s office. The whole incident may have been an excuse to break off their conversation. It looked very much as if, in one way or another, Caine had been given a warning. Of what? Of talking too much? Had he been tipped off that the man with whom he had been chatting so confidently was in fact a Scotland Yard detective? That would account for his sudden change of manner. If that was the answer, Biggles thought, it was unfortunate. No matter. He now had quite a lot to work on.

  There should be no difficulty in locating the farm at Carthanger, where Caine said he kept a private aircraft, to find out exactly what was going on there. It should also be a simple matter, from the telephone directory, to ascertain the address of Caine’s flat in London. He would be on the telephone. Yes, there was plenty to work on. If Caine was as friendly with the Sheikh as it appeared, sooner or later the escaped convict could be expected to call at one address or the other.

  Finishing his drink, having collected his hat and raincoat from the rack, Biggles went to the door to find himself facing a typical dreary November night: a slight drizzle of rain was falling through enough fog almost to obscure the street lighting. The night was still young, so there was a steady stream of pedestrians on the pavement hurrying to their various destinations.

  Declining the coloured doorkeeper’s offer to get him a taxi, for in such conditions it might take some time, he set off in the direction of Shaftesbury Avenue where there would be a good chance of finding one. Anyway, after the rather stuffy atmosphere of the club, he felt he needed a breath of fresh air. Naturally, his mind was still occupied with what had happened inside; moreover, he was in the heart of London, so it would not be fair to accuse him of carelessness. Be that as it may, it must be admitted that he was unprepared for what was to happen before he had taken a dozen paces. There was no warning; no indication of danger.

  As he passed an unlighted doorway, or it may have been a passage, an indistinct figure came sharply out of it. He sidestepped just as sharply, not because he thought he was being attacked, but simply to avoid collision. The movement was instinctive. It was a split-second glint of steel as the man’s hand flashed up that told him the truth. Just as quickly he swerved, and ducked at the same time. He felt something brush his arm. Then, before he could do anything, before he had recovered from his surprise, the man was running, to disappear instantly among others on the pavement.

  Biggles did not go after him, knowing that in such conditions it would be futile. He wouldn’t recognize the man even if he caught up with him, which was unlikely. Muffled in an overcoat with the collar turned up, and hat pulled well down over his eyes, he hadn’t so much as caught a glimpse of his assailant’s face. But when he looked at the sleeve of his raincoat and saw that it had been slashed from shoulder to elbow, he was not for a moment in doubt as to the identity of the man that had done it. Lazor the Razor had lost no time in trying to put his mark on him.

  Biggles now had even more to think about. For a minute, with his lips pursed, he stood with his back to a lighted shop window to consider what had happened and recover his composure, which had been somewhat shaken. It had been made clear that his suspicion of being in deeper water than was apparent on the surface had been correct; It had now been amply demonstrated. It was evident that the Sheikh had been waiting for him. It followed that he must have known he was in the club. How did he know? Assuming he hadn’t been in the club himself, or if he had he must have entered secretly by a back door, someone must have told him. Who? Caine? Or Nestos, the club manager? That seemed more likely. Was this what the alleged telephone call had been about? Was this the reason for Caine’s sudden change of face?

  It began to look as if the club was not exactly a health resort, reflected Biggles. Anyhow, as far as he was concerned, it was time someone checked up on the amiable ‘Charlie’ Nestos. He might be in the records at Scotland Yard.

  Resolved to be more careful in future, while the Sheikh was at large, Biggles went on his way. It did not take him long to find a taxi and he was soon on his way home: that is, to the flat where they all lived, not the office. He found the others about to go out for the evening meal. Bertie was the first to spot the gash on the sleeve of his raincoat as he was taking it off.

  ‘Hello — hello,’ he bantered. ‘Bumpe
d into a glass door or something?’

  ‘Nothing like it,’ Biggles answered. ‘I had a brief encounter with a gent who carries a razor where respectable citizens keep a fountain-pen.’

  ‘Not the Sheikh!’

  ‘Who else? He’s the only man I know who wears that sort of armament.’

  ‘Looks as if you’ll need a new coat,’ put in Ginger.

  ‘I nearly needed a new face,’ replied Biggles grimly. ‘It’ll be easier to buy a new coat. Don’t worry. I shall see to it that the Sheikh pays the bill. Listen.’

  He narrated what had happened at the Icarian Club. ‘Now we can all get busy,’ he concluded. ‘Pass me the London telephone directory. Maybe it’ll tell us where Caine hangs his hat up when he’s in Town. It could be that the Sheikh parks himself at the same address.’

  CHAPTER 3

  ROUTINE INQUIRIES

  On the morning following the affair at the Icarian Club Biggles was already in the Air Commodore’s office when he arrived.

  ‘You’re bright and early,’ greeted the Air Commodore as he hung up his hat. ‘I gather you have news.’

  ‘I thought, sir, you’d be interested to know that the Sheikh is still in London. Or he was last night.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Very briefly, although I must admit I didn’t see his face. At the Icarian Club I had an interesting conversation with a man who I’m pretty sure was the fair-haired fellow the Sheikh met there. As I left, someone stepped out of a doorway and tried to slice up my face. All he did was ruin my raincoat. Then he bolted. Considering the circumstance, I can think of only one man with a reason to pull a razor on me.’

  The Air Commodore looked serious. ‘You think he had seen you talking to his boy-friend?’