Another Job For Biggles Page 2

  “In what form is this stuff put into cigarettes?” inquired Biggles.

  “It seems that a small quantity of tobacco is steeped in alcohol in which the gum has been dissolved. This is then dried, mixed with ordinary tobacco and made up into cigarettes.”

  “Has it any taste?”

  “It gives a cigarette a slight aromatic flavour, hardly noticeable and rather pleasant than otherwise. We reckon that one grain would be sufficient to treat a hundred cigarettes.”

  “What about the tobacco used? I mean, what sort of leaf is it?— Virginian? Turkish? Egyptian? Empire? or what?”

  “That line of investigation will get you nowhere,” asserted the Air Commodore sadly. “We’ve tried it. All types are used. Indeed, there is reason to believe that the dope pedlars get their tobacco by breaking up popular brands of cigarettes. The contents of one ordinary cigarette, doped, could be mixed with the contents of hundreds of others; and even then a few draws would be sufficient to rob the smoker of his normal faculties.”

  “Hm.” Biggles thought for a moment. “If it is a fact that gurra occurs only in one place, in Arabia, it shouldn’t be a difficult matter to cut off the supply of gum at its source.”

  The Air Commodore nodded. “Just so. That’s where I thought you might come in.”

  “You mean—we might fly out and destroy the whole growth?”

  “Yes. It burns readily.”

  “How much is there?”

  “According to the Doctor perhaps three acres, sometimes sparse and sometimes thick.” The Air Commodore looked at Biggles seriously. “Don’t get the idea that the destruction of the stuff in its original habitat is going to be a simple matter. There are several factors to consider, each one not pretty to look at. First, there’s the country itself. If anything went wrong, you’d have no hope of getting out alive, not even if you took as much water as you could carry. A white man couldn’t live in that furnace without special preparations. Then again, fresh Arabs may have arrived there, and if you fall into their hands they would certainly kill you.”

  Bertie stepped into the conversation. “How about dropping a few incendiaries into the beastly stuff—if you see what I mean? No need to land at all that I can see.”

  “There’s a snag about that,” the Air Commodore pointed out. “What about the Arabs already there? They may still be alive. They’re practically helpless, or they were when Doctor Darnley was on the spot, and you’d burn them up too. That isn’t to be contemplated, and the fact that they’re likely to die anyway makes no difference. The effect of such an act, if it became known, would send the whole Arab world up in arms.”

  “I didn’t think of that,” murmured Bertie.

  Biggles resumed. “What I can’t understand is how the stuff came to be commercialised in the first place. Was Doctor Darnley the only white man in his expedition?”

  “He was.”

  “Somebody must have talked. The Doctor can be ruled out, so it must have been one of his Arabs.”

  “So it would seem. But the Doctor assures me that he told his men nothing about the stuff, fearing they might start playing with it and put them all in the same fix as the miserable people already there.”

  “All the same, unless we are to suppose that gurra was discovered in two places almost simultaneously, which isn’t likely, some member of his party must have been more wide-awake than the Doctor supposed. I am assuming that this wadi is beyond the normal range of coastal Arabs, or a casual white traveller.”

  “Quite correct,” concurred the Air Commodore. “Certainly no white man had ever seen the wadi, or been within a hundred miles of it. And as far as the Arabs were concerned the Doctor had with him only three men who had ever made contact with outside civilisation. The coastal Arabs who started with him refused absolutely to go beyond the country that they knew and that ended far short of the wadi. That was why, as I told you, the Doctor had to change his camel men from time to time. No tribe dared go beyond its normal boundary, although it might happen occasionally in a raid.”

  “Did these three coastal Arabs stay with the Doctor throughout the trip?”

  “Yes. He picked them up at Aden. They had been with him on a previous expedition.”

  “One of these men must have spotted more than the Doctor imagined,” declared Biggles. “He might have discovered the gum on his own account and put some in his bag to enjoy when he got home. Later, he might have talked about it. I know this is surmise, but I can’t imagine a simple camel man having the wit to realise the possibilities of the stuff outside his own amusement.”

  The Air Commodore rubbed his chin. “Anyway, the racket is now organised on such a scale that we can assume that behind it is no ordinary, small-time dope pedlar.”

  “I take it that Doctor Darnley can supply the exact position of the wadi in which the plant grows?”

  “ Oh yes. You may be sure I had a long talk with him. He is very upset because he feels that he is largely responsible for what has happened. But, as he pointed out, we’ve no proof positive that the plant doesn’t grow somewhere else. If it does, no doubt it demands exactly the same conditions—a sandy soil, practically no water, and a baking summer heat. But there, one feels that if the plant did grow somewhere else, in upper Egypt, the Sudan, or Abyssinia, for instance, the natives would have discovered the dope long ago, in which case it would certainly have been brought to our notice. All the same, we shouldn’t lose sight of the fact that certain aromatic trees and shrubs found in Arabia, such as frankincense, myrrh, balm of Gilead, and so on, are also to be found on the other side of the Red Sea; but they are not generally of good quality, which suggests that they were transplanted there in the first place.”

  Biggles lit another cigarette. “Assuming that the Dope King got his gurra from the wadi, how did he get the stuff home? Did he harvest a crop, so to speak, and bring it home like a load of hay?”

  “I shouldn’t think so,” returned Raymond. “That wouldn’t be necessary. He’d only need the gum, and that could have been brought home in one small bag.”

  “Could he get the gum without the plant?” inquired Biggles. “I’m a bit out of my depth in this sort of thing.”

  “I imagine he’d employ one of the primitive, but stIll quite effective, methods of collecting the gum,” explained the Air Commodore. “Gum-collecting has been an industry in the Middle East for thousands of years—not gurra, though, as far as we know. But many other shrubs yield aromatic gum which is used mostly in perfume making—opoponax, for instance which is the base of many perfumes. If the plant is large enough, as in the case of frankincense, an incision is made in the bark, and the tears of rosin—as they call them—drip from the cut. With smaller plants, one way is to drive goats through the stuff, when the gum sticks to their beards. A more modern way is to use a kind of rake with a double row of leather straps. This is pulled through the shrubs and the gum sticks to the straps.”

  “Very interesting,” murmurmed Biggles. “And you think that if the stuff could be destroyed in its natural home, the supply of gurra would dry up?”

  “It’s a reasonable assumption,” averred the Air Commodore. “But that presupposes the supply is coming from the wadi. That, in turn, means that someone has agents there collecting it. If so, they wouldn’t be likely to let you destroy it without putting up a stiff opposition.”

  “Naturally,” said Biggles slowly. “But we could at least try it. We should certainly learn something. Did you by any chance ask the Doctor if an aircraft could get down anywhere near this place?”

  “I did, and he assured me that a landing could be made practically anywhere. The whole country, disregarding two or three wadis, is mostly a flat area of wind-polished gravel, at an altitude of about eight hundred and fifty feet. There happens to be a connspicuous landmark too. Between fifteen and twenty miles to the north there is a mountain system in the form of a horseshoe, with its ends pointing to the south-west. If you follow the westerly end and continue for about ten
miles, you will come to the Wadi al Arwat, which is the Arab name for the wadi in which we are interested.”

  Biggles smiled. “I see you have all the gen handy.”

  “I was hoping you’d go,” confessed the Air Commmodore, “although in view of the nature of the thing, I had no intention of sending you if you thought it too risky. You realise that a crack-up, even if you didn’t hurt yourself, would end your career in a way that I for one would deplore.”

  “I could minimise that risk by taking two machines, each capable of seating two or three passengers,” suggested Biggles. “Only one machine would land. The other would stay in the air as a relief in case of accidents.”

  “That’s an idea,” agreed the Air Commodore. “But I want you to realise that there is no more dangerous territory in the world for a white man. Thirst and hostile Arabs are factors not to be treated lightly.”

  “So I have discovered,” murmured Biggles drily. “Just two more questions,” he went on. “I imagine the nearest aerodrome to the wadi is Aden?”

  “Yes, but the Aden Command has some outlying emergency landing grounds, although they don’t extend far back from the coast. You would probably find it most convenient to operate from Aden.”

  “And how far, roughly, is Aden from the wadi?”

  “As a plane flies, not more than a hundred and fifty miles, although by camel, avoiding dunes and wadis, and travelling from water-hole to water-hole, it would be more than twice that distance and take at least six weeks to cover.”

  “I see. Did you by any chance get the names of these three coastal Arabs who went all the way with Doctor Darnley?”

  “Yes, I have them here.” The Air Commodore picked up a slip of paper. “The most intelligent, his general organiser and interpreter on several expeditions, was Abu bin Hamud. The other two were known as Kuatim and Zahar. All three speak English, more or less. Are you thinking of calling on them? If you are, I can get you photographs of them, and the wadi. Darnley brought back a big collection of pictures.”

  “I’d like to see them,” said Biggles. “It struck me that as I shall be in Aden, if that’s their home town when they’re not employed, I might have a word with them. If someone has been to the Wadi al Arwat since the Doctor was there, they may have accompanied the expediition. If they didn’t go themselves they may have heard rumours. You know how news travels in such places. Which reminds me; I may need a local contact man myself.”

  “I can help you there,” offered the Air Commodore. “A retired Middle East Political Officer, named Captain Jerry Norman, has made his home in Aden. He speaks all the dialects. He’s a good type. Everyone knows him. If you want advice about anything or anybody you couldn’t do better than go to Jerry.”

  “Thanks,” acknowledged Biggles. “But if there are no complications we ought to finish the job and be home in a week to ten days. All you want me to do is to burn these poison plants?”

  “Unless, of course, you can lay your hands on the man who is making a fortune out of the stuff.”

  Biggles got up. “That’s a taller order but I’ll see what can be done about it,” he promised. “If that’s all for the moment I’ll start making arrangements. The sooner the job’s done the better.”

  “What about Lacey? Are you going to recall him from leave?”

  Biggles hesitated. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Three of us ought to be able to manage. You can tell him where we are and what we’re doing when he comes back.” Biggles broke off and laughed suddenly.

  “What’s the joke?” inquired the Air Commodore suspiciously.

  “I was just wondering what things are coming to, when it becomes necessary to send a policeman over two thousand miles to light a bonfire,” explained Biggles.

  “Where the Middle East is concerned, a little fire often makes a big blaze before it’s put out,” reminded the Air Commodore earnestly. “Be careful how you strike your matches.”

  “I’ll keep an extinguisher handy,” promised Biggles, as, followed by Bertie and Ginger, he left the room.

  Chapter 3

  A Riddle In The Sands

  FIVE days later, two four-seat Proctor aircraft, single-engined, low-wing cabin monoplanes, on loan from Air Ministry Communication Headquarters, but without service insignia, stood ticking over on the sun-scorched aerodrome at Aden, where Biggles and his party had arrived overnight after an uneventful trip out along the regular air route. Near the machines, in casual conversation but in attitudes that suggested they were waiting for someone—which in fact they were—stood Ginger and Bertie, clad in tropical kit.

  “Here he comes now,” observed Ginger, as Biggles appeared, walking briskly from the direction of the administrative buildings.

  “Sorry to keep you waiting, but I’ve been busy,” apologised Biggles, as he joined the others. “I thought it would be easy to find these three Arabs of Doctor Darnley’s, but there’s nothing doing. Appparently no one has seen them for a long time. Abu bin Hamud put in a brief appearance some months ago but the other two seem to have completely disappeared. Their camels have gone, so it’s supposed they’re out on another expedition— either that, or they’ve got a job transporting dates to the coast. I dashed along to see Jerry Norman, the chap the Air Commodore told us about, thinking he might be able to help. I found him at the Club. Nice, amiable chap.” Biggles smiled. “That’s why I’m late. He knows the three men because it was he who engaged them when he was helping Darnley to organise his show; but he has no idea of where they are now. However, he’s promised to make enquiries while we’re away. Of course, we may not need these men; on the other hand, they might be able to tell us something. All right. Let’s get off this blistering dirt-track. You know the plan. I shall land with Ginger and set fire to the stuff. You, Bertie, will circle and keep an eye on us unless I signal you to come down. We’ll get the job done as fast as we can. Let’s get off.”

  In a few minutes both machines were in the air, climbing for altitude on a course that was roughly north-east.

  Ginger, who had had experience of desert flying, did not expect to enjoy the trip. Nor did he. The sun beat down with relentless force and a blinding glare made him glad that he’d brought dark goggles. At first, the territory below was more or less under cultivation, but this soon gave way to wide areas of wilderness, with the herbage round water-holes and groups of palms standing like islands in the surrounding desolation.

  These became fewer, until at last the scene became a colourless expanse of naked earth, sterile except for an occasional growth of camel-thorn or acacia. In half an hour, to the north, a long glittering yellow line marked the southern extremity of the Great Sands. Above it the overheated air flowed in a quivering, transparent stream. Overhead, a sky of steely blue was reflected in every depression on the ground, so that a hollow sometimes appeared as a lake of pale blue shadows. One looked in vain for a touch of green.

  As time passed the terrain became ever more hopeless in its awful loneliness and barren desolation, and Ginger found himself admiring the courage of Docctor Darnley and those few white men who had faced its blazing challenge. For the most part the ground appeared to be flat or slightly undulating, with weird, distorted shadows marking the configuration of the large dunes. All was as lifeless as the moon. Still, Ginger was in no way disappointed or surprised. What he could see was what he had expected to see. He had seen deserts before, and most deserts are alike in their weary monotony. He was only thankful they were covering this one the easy way.