Biggles' Chinese Puzzle Page 2

  ‘You mean, you do this run on your own?’

  ‘No. There are four of us, but it ain’t often we’re in one place together. I’ve got a navigator. He spends the time between trips drinking himself to death. There’s nothing else to do. How about one?’

  ‘Not at the moment, thanks. I want to give my machine the once-over and get my bearings.’

  ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Pagoda Palace.’

  ‘It’s as good as anywhere. That’s where I sleep.’

  ‘May see you there.’

  ‘Okay.’

  Biggles walked on. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask the easy-going American if he had seen anything of a Morane; but he thought better of it. He might ask him when he knew him better. Pondering the matter he perceived that he had already discovered one air link between Indo-China and Europe that was not on his list. No doubt there were others. He spent two hours wandering about the airport, but although he looked in every hangar he did not find Marcel’s Morane. He was tempted to question some of the mechanics, but refrained.

  When air liners came in or departed he watched the customs procedure without seeing anything in the slightest degree suspicious. It all seemed to be normal and straightforward.

  He was on his way to call a taxi when the American reappeared. ‘Do you spend the day here?’ asked Biggles curiously.

  ‘Yep. I have to wait here for orders. Never know when a job’s coming my way. Looks like we shall have to postpone that drink, pal. I’m pushing out in the morning, in an old Douglas.’

  ‘For Marseilles?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Hope it keeps fine for you.’ Biggles walked on, a slight frown on his face, for it seemed to him that the young American had already had plenty to drink. However, that was no affair of his. He wasn’t the only pilot to drink more than normal thirst demanded.

  Biggles took a cab to the Pagoda Palace where he found the others installed.

  ‘Any news?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘None,’ answered Biggles. ‘I had a word with an American who’s ferrying for the American Aid people, but I didn’t ask leading questions. He stays here. He seems a decent chap, but be careful if he gets you at the bar. He’s already had plenty to drink. Let him do the talking. He’s in the mood. Let’s see about something to eat.’

  Feeling a bit strained after the long journey, it was Biggles’ intention to retire early. Before doing so,however, he spent a little while going through the hotel visitors’ book. From this he learned that the name of the American ferry pilot was Bollard. He then found the date on which Marcel had booked in.

  He had booked out three days later, but this entry, Biggles noted, was not in Marcel’s handwriting. The ink was of a slightly different colour, too, from that in the ink-well, which most people had used. Who had made the entry, he wondered. Whoever it was, the writer must have known that Marcel was not coming back, which implied that he was aware of his fate.

  This looked bad, and it was with fading hopes that Biggles returned to the others, in the lounge, to tell them that he was going to turn in. He had just advised them to do the same when the American came through the swing doors. He walked straight over and it was clear from his easy familiarity and a slight slur in his speech that he had been trying to relieve his boredom at the bar. But this is not to say that he was drunk.

  ‘How about a drink?’ he suggested, in a manner that was friendly enough.

  Rather than risk hurting the man’s feelings Biggles accepted. ‘Which way do you travel when you go?’ he asked nonchalantly.

  ‘Straight as I can make it. Bangkok, Calcutta, Karachi, Baghdad, Cairo. I’ve done the trip so many times I could do it with my eyes shut,’ boasted Bollard. ‘With no reason to hurry I can take my time.’

  ‘I imagine you get hung up occasionally, anyway, when you run into airport red tape,’ prompted Biggles.

  ‘Me? Not on your life. On this job we carry diplomatic passes, issued at the highest level; and believe me, brother, no one in his right mind would get in our way.’ Bollard grinned. ‘Working for the cause of humanity makes us kinda important.’

  ‘And having sweated all the way to Marseilles you turn round and come back. Don’t you get a bit tired of it?’

  ‘No more than the guys who fly the regular services. Besides which I’m practically my own boss. I don’t have to stick to a fixed schedule. I’m better paid, and, naturally, a guy can always make a dollar or two on the side.’ Bollard winked.

  ‘Naturally,’ agreed Biggles dryly.

  As if he had realized that he had been indiscreet Bollard switched the subject. ‘How do you find this place?’

  ‘The town or the hotel?’

  ‘The hotel.’

  ‘Very good, as Eastern hotels go.’

  ‘Should be. It’s run by the Ching Loo outfit. They’re the big noise here, and look like being bigger. Buying property everywhere. They’ll soon own the whole goldarned city.’ Bollard dropped his voice. ‘I keep in with ‘em because there’s a whisper they’re going to start their own airline. I aim to get in at the top when the war here folds up.’

  ‘Do you mean you know this Mr. Ching Loo ?’

  ‘Not yet; but Estere, the Swiss manager here, has promised to fix a meeting. Ching Loo seldom leaves his big place in the country. If you’re still here when I get back, which should be in a coupla weeks or so, I’ll give you an intro to Estere. He’s a useful guy to know.’

  ‘Thanks a lot,’ acknowledged Biggles.

  ‘Think nothing of it.’ Bollard finished his drink at a gulp. ‘How about another?’

  Biggles was saved from the embarrassment of having to decline by the arrival of a dark-skinned waiter, who whispered something in the American’s ear.

  ‘I shall have to be getting along,’ stated Bollard, somewhat abruptly. ‘So long. Be seeing you.’

  Biggles’ eyes followed him thoughtfully as he left the room.

  ‘What do you make of him?’ asked Algy softly.

  ‘I don’t know,’ answered Biggles slowly. ‘To our way of thinking he shoots a bit of a line about himself, but that’s typical of that type of American. It may be true or it may be bluff. We can ignore that. He’s young. He’s bored, and he’s had plenty to drink. My first impression, at the airport, was that he was a straight, likeable sort of chap. But now I’m beginning to wonder. He’s obviously well in with this Ching Loo organization. There need be nothing wrong with that if, as he hinted, he’s playing his cards for a job with them.’

  ‘What do you think he meant by making a few dollars on the side? That didn’t sound too healthy,’ suggested Bertie.

  Biggles shrugged. ‘He may have meant it literally. He wouldn’t be the first man, with the advantages of a diplomatic pass, to carry a few odds and ends that are not strictly permissible. R.A.F. officers have been known to do it — without regarding it as being criminal, which of course it is. At any rate, it’s sailing near the wind.’

  ‘You don’t think he knows anything about Marcel?’ put in Ginger.

  ‘If he does then I’m no judge of men. As a pilot he wouldn’t stand for seeing another pilot bumped off, or his machine sabotaged. The only doubts I have are, does he know what he’s doing? I mean, on his own admission he’s well in with this Ching Loo organization, and if they’re not straight he may be in something deeper than he suspects. If he isn’t now, he may be before he’s finished with them — or they’re finished with him. I’d like to see what he does and where he goes when he gets to Marseilles; but we can’t go tearing back there, and I don’t like the idea of sending a signal to Joudrier to watch him. But it’s getting late. I’m going to roost.’

  ‘What’s the drill for tomorrow?’ asked Algy.

  ‘I shall go back to the airport, possibly in time to see Bollard take off. You and Bertie had better make a pretence of showing your samples, in case we’re being watched. Ginger can come with me. See you in the morning.’

  Deep in thought Bi
ggles turned into the main corridor towards the lift that served the bedroom floors. As he did so a door opened and out came the man who a moment before had been under discussion. In his hand he carried a well-filled portfolio. Without seeing Biggles he walked briskly down the corridor, and at the far end disappeared round the corner.

  In passing it Biggles looked at the door of the room from which he had emerged. On it had been painted in bold white letters the word: Private. And below, smaller, P. Estere.

  Reaching his bedroom Biggles switched on the light, sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. He was thinking about what he had just seen. In the lounge Bollard had carried no luggage of any sort. He had received a message, obviously from the manager, for he had gone to his room. He had left it with a portfolio. The implication was, the portfolio would travel with him when he left Saigon in the morning. The bag, or its contents, belonged to Estere. Anyhow, Estere knew what was in the bag. Did Bollard know? The bag was too slim to carry an object of any size or weight; but it would hold a lot of paper. A large sum in high denomination currency notes, for instance. Bollard was flying a shuttle service between Saigon and Marseilles. He had boasted of making a few dollars on the side. He flew under the protection of a diplomatic pass. Which meant that the bag would not be opened en route. And last, but not least, the name Ching Loo had been on Marcel’s list. The Pagoda Palace belonged to Ching Loo. Marcel had gone to the hotel on his arrival at Saigon.

  For half an hour Biggles sat smoking, hardly moving. At first he was conscious of a feeling of disappointment, for his first impression of Bollard had been a favourable one, and it now began to look as if he had been mistaken. But a doubt still lingered, and it was based, curiously enough, on the American’s own confession of ‘making a few dollars on the side’. No, decided Biggles. Had Bollard known that he was in a wholesale currency smuggling racket he would not have talked like that. In fact, it was unlikely that he would have said anything at all — unless he was a fool. Which he was not, for no one entrusts large sums of money to a fool. Looked at in that light, it seemed more likely that if in fact he was engaged in handling contraband, somebody was using him as a tool.

  Still turning the matter over in his mind Biggles undressed and got into bed.

  The following morning Biggles and Ginger set off early for the airport.

  It was a dull, muggy, cheerless sort of day, but it was not actually raining, although there was every indication that it would before the day was out.

  The narrow rutted road, muddy and puddled, wandered across a landscape that turned a sullen face to the dismal sky. Jungle and forest, their outlines blurred by steamy mist, followed flat, marshy paddy fields, with here and there a dilapidated hut or villa. At intervals there were block-houses, the concrete weather-stained, mossy and weed-grown, reminders that the country was at war and had been so for several years. Some of them were thinly manned by coloured troops drawn from one or other of the French dominions. Ginger smiled reminiscently as occasionally he picked out the familiar white kepi of a Foreign Legionnaire. Over all hung an atmosphere of weariness, of misery and fear. In short, it was a tropical country at its worst.

  On arrival at the airport, after making a pretence of being interested in the meteorological report, Biggles chose a place from where, without being seen, they could watch Bollard’s arrival and subsequent actions.

  This was of course their main purpose in being there, although Biggles also intended to check up on sundry machines using the airport, if any; for in view of what had happened he had not yet had time to do this to his satisfaction. He knew from the published time-tables the movements of the regular air liners; but these he regarded as being outside the range of his inquiries.

  On the airfield, a Douglas D.C.3 was standing on the concrete apron in front of Number Two hangar.

  ‘That must be the machine Bollard is flying to France,’ observed Biggles.

  Shortly afterwards the American arrived, carrying the portfolio in one hand and an attaché-case, presumably containing his travelling kit, in the other. With a cheerful word and a smile to the officials who were standing about, he walked past them without stopping and so on to the Douglas.

  ‘You see,’ said Biggles, ‘they all know him and what his job is, so they don’t trouble to check his baggage. Of course, for all we know the duty officer at this hour may be in the racket, supposing there is one, in which Bollard is the operative agent. Anyway, from what we’ve just seen there’s nothing to prevent him from walking through with any sort of light-weight contraband if he wanted to. Whether he’s on the level or not, he wouldn’t get away with that in Europe.’

  They moved on slowly to a point from which they could see the end of the incident, Ginger supposing that nothing now remained but for the aircraft to take off on its long run to the West. Indeed, the signs pointed to this. Bollard joined a man who was standing by, presumably his partner on the flight, had a word with him and climbed aboard. The second man remained at the cabin door. The engines came to life and remained ticking over. The man at the door, Ginger supposed, would now get in; the engines would be run up and the Douglas would move off. This did not happen. The man at the door stood still, staring at the scrub that fringed the landing area some fifty or sixty yards distant. He looked at his watch. A minute passed. The engines were run up and allowed to settle down again.

  Bollard then reappeared at the cabin door. He, too, looked at the scrub, with an occasional glance in the direction of the airport buildings.

  ‘What goes on?’ murmured Ginger.

  ‘Looks as if they’re waiting for somebody.’

  ‘Why wait there?’

  ‘There’s a road behind that scrub. It skirts this part of the airfield.’

  ‘What’s the road got to do with it?’

  ‘Well, where the machine is standing would be a good place to wait for someone who didn’t want to walk through the booking hall.’

  Ginger stared at Biggles’ face. ‘You mean, he’s waiting for a passenger?’

  ‘He’s obviously waiting for something.’

  ‘That’s a bit hot. Would he have the brass face to do a thing like that?’

  ‘Because such a thing couldn’t happen at London Airport doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen here. You saw how Bollard walked through Customs as if they didn’t exist.’

  ‘Maybe this is how Bollard makes his extra dollars, giving people a cheap lift home.’

  ‘Could be. He’s got plenty of room. But I suspect there’s more to it than that. He could probably get permission to carry a passenger if he wanted to, always supposing that person was free to leave the country. But if the person was not free to leave it would be a different matter. It wouldn’t do for him to be checked through the booking hall. He would have to slip aboard under the curtain — or, shall we say, out of the bushes. And there must be a lot of people here who would be glad to get out of this pestilential hole — if they could find a way.’

  ‘Such as?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘I could think of several. People wanted by the police; people who dodged the immigration laws to get in, and now want to get out; deserters from the army...’

  Biggles broke off, for at this juncture a man, a white man in dirty green denims, burst out of the scrub, and crouching low close to the hangar raced towards the aircraft. The two airmen also moved, as if it was for this they had been waiting. Bollard disappeared inside. The other, beckoning urgently, waited until he was joined by the new arrival. He literally pushed him in, got in himself and closed the door. The engines roared and the machine moved forward.

  Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘Very interesting,’ he said dryly. ‘So now we know,’ remarked Ginger.

  ‘What do we know?’

  ‘Bollard’s a crook.’

  ‘That may be a strong word for such evidence as we have. Don’t take too much for granted.’

  ‘He must be crazy, anyway, risking his ticket, to take a chance like that for a few dollars.’

 
‘You’re still jumping at conclusions. We don’t know it was for a few dollars, or even a lot of dollars. Maybe it was for nothing at all.’

  ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘I’m still reluctant to change my first opinion of Bollard. If he’s a downright crook I’ll never trust my judgment again. There’s a chance that his motive, in doing what he has just done, was inspired by something more powerful than money.’

  ‘Is there anything more powerful?’ inquired Ginger cynically.

  ‘Yes, sometimes. Patriotism. Comradeship. Even nationalism in certain circumstances. The French are waging their war here largely with the Foreign Legion. We’ve seen some of them about. The man who just slipped away in that aircraft was wearing green denims, which are part of the tropical kit of the Legion. I’d say he was a deserter, or a man with strong compassionate reasons for wanting to get home. There are quite a lot of Americans in the Legion; men fascinated by the life as it is shown on films made in Hollywood. They must get a nasty shock when they arrive here and face the facts, which, without the glamour and romance, are pretty grim — as we can see for ourselves. Some of them may stand up to it, but there are bound to be others who would give anything to get out. I don’t know. I’m merely trying to put a possible construction on the incident we’ve just witnessed. Not that it’s any concern of ours. It isn’t likely to help us to find Marcel. We might as well have a look at our own machine as we’re so close.’

  ‘It doesn’t say much for Bollard’s character if he’s prepared to side with deserters,’ opined Ginger, as they walked on towards the hangar.

  ‘On the face of it I’m bound to agree. But let us not be too righteous about it. Wouldn’t you be tempted to offer a helping hand to one of your own countrymen who found himself up against it far from home in a foreign country?’

  ‘It would depend on the time, the place and the man,’ answered Ginger evasively. ‘You always look on the bright side.’