Biggles and the Missing Millionaire Read online

  ‘What colour was the Cordelia?’

  ‘White.’

  ‘Could you get me copies of her blue-prints, and if possible a photograph of her, so that I shall know exactly what I’m looking for, and at the same time take into account any changes that might easily be made in her superstructure?’

  ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘One last question. Does the public know anything about this?’

  ‘Not yet. After all, we’re still working on suspicion. If the story leaked out it might have repercussions on the Stock Exchange. And if by some chance Brandt did come back after we’d accused him of fraud, we might find ourselves facing an action for libel.’

  Biggles got up. ‘Okay, sir. I’ll turn the business over in my mind and let you know what I think about it.’

  Biggles went back to his office where his police pilots, Lord ‘Bertie’ Lissie, Algy Lacey and ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite, were engaged in bringing the files up to date.

  ‘Well, what’s the drill?’ inquired Algy.

  ‘Nothing urgent.’

  ‘Nowhere to go? That’s unusual.’

  ‘I should have said, for the moment. We may find ourselves aviating round the world.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Looking for a yacht that sailed away and never came back.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘It was no ordinary yacht. It happened to be a quarter of a million pounds job with everything laid on — including the owner.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘Otto Brandt, the financial wizard and so-called multimillionaire.’ Biggles dropped into his chair and related the story as told to him by the Air Commodore.

  ‘We’re not seriously expected to find this ship?’ expostulated Ginger.

  ‘I don’t think so. The chief doesn’t expect us to burn a lot of petrol looking for it. But I have a feeling he’d like us to make a pretence of looking, if only to prevent anyone from saying we didn’t try.’

  ‘Where would you start looking?’ inquired Algy, closing a filing cabinet.

  ‘That’s what I’m hoping you’ll tell me. I’m open to suggestions.’

  ‘You’ve had longer to think about it than we have. Haven’t you any ideas?’

  ‘Not many. I’ll tell you as far as I’ve got. Let’s start by assuming that the Cordelia is still on top of the briny and not at the bottom. A well-found ship, which she is, should be.’

  ‘She may have gone down.’

  ‘Admittedly, but if we begin by taking that as a foregone conclusion we’d have no heart to look for her. So let’s say she’s afloat, sitting pretty at the objective Brandt had in mind when he pulled up his mudhook in Falmouth Harbour. We may also conclude that he knew exactly what he was going to do next. It’s hardly likely that he’d be making for another anchorage near home. No. He intended going places, taking a course that would reduce to a minimum any chance of being seen on the way. Are you with me so far?’

  ‘Absolutely, old boy,’ agreed Bertie.

  ‘Very well. Now let’s set a limit to his possible track, as far as that’s possible.’

  ‘How can you do that?’

  ‘If he didn’t want to be seen he wouldn’t go through the Suez or Panama canals, where he’d have to show the ship’s papers.’

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘If he intended to make a long voyage there were two things he couldn’t do without, oil being one and food the other. As he wouldn’t want to stop near home to replenish these it’s reasonable to suppose he’d start with a full load. It follows, then, that what he needed would be bought while he was at Falmouth. If we knew exactly what he’d taken aboard it might provide a clue as to where he was going. Give us an idea of the climate, for instance. He wouldn’t buy tropical kit if he was going near either of the Poles. Conversely, if he was heading for a cold climate he’d need heavy clothes. This may all sound pretty vague but what else have we to work on?’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘If we’re going to do anything about this business the first place to start asking questions is Falmouth, or some other port handy, Plymouth or Devonport, for instance. The best bet, of course, is Falmouth. An unusual quantity of stuff going aboard wouldn’t pass unnoticed by the ancient mariners who hang about the sea-front at such places. Ships are to them what planes are to us, and having nothing to do they don’t miss much.’

  Algy spoke. ‘I suppose it’s occurred to you that if Brandt really intended to cover his tracks he might have burnt, sunk, or otherwise destroyed the Cordelia?’

  ‘I can’t see any man in his right mind wantonly throwing away a quarter of a million pounds. It’s far more likely he’d try to keep the yacht even if that meant spending money making her look like a different vessel. That would mean lying up for a time at some out-of-the-way place. He wouldn’t want to spend too long doing that, either.”

  “You mean, with shipping agents all over the world looking for the Cordelia?’

  ‘I was thinking more about the man himself. After the luxuries he’s been used to he wouldn’t bury himself on a desert island. To men like Brandt life means London, Paris, New York, Monte Carlo... somewhere where money would be of use to him. That goes for everyone else on board. Brandt may have dodged into some off-the-map creek for the time being, but he won’t stay there.’

  ‘All right. What does all this add up to?’ asked Ginger. ‘Are you thinking of going down to Falmouth?’

  ‘Not me. I have to finish my annual report. But if you fancy a spot of clean sea air to blow the smog out of your lungs you can run down to see if you can make anything of it. Try the ships’ chandlers, for instance, for anything they may have supplied to the Cordelia.’

  ‘When shall I go?’

  ‘As soon as you like. Follow up any likely trail, but don’t be too long about it. You should have no difficulty in finding accommodation at this time of the year. You needn’t go alone. Take Bertie with you for company if he feels like it.’

  ‘That’s me, old boy. I’m flat out for free holidays.’

  ‘Okay. Then we might as well catch the night train down to Cornwall,’ decided Ginger.

  ‘See you in a day or two, then,’ concluded Biggles, resuming his task at his desk.

  CHAPTER 2

  FIRST CLUES

  THE next morning found Ginger looking out across Falmouth harbour from his room at The Greenbank Hotel where he and Bertie had found lodgings.

  It was a fair, early spring day, gusty but dry, which was his chief concern in view of what they had to do. There was plenty of shipping on the water, most of it at moorings; a host of small private sailing yachts and dinghies, most of them still in their off-season covers, tugs with funnels smoking, showing they were ready should their services be required, deep sea tramps and an odd tanker. Cranes and derricks were already moving over the shipyards. The only craft really busy was a local ferry, gay in a new suit of turquoise paint, nosing its way to the pier from one of the several smaller ports along the coast. Gulls drifted about in their usual aimless fashion, squabbling over scraps, or finding perches on the laid-up yachts, buoys, railings or even roof tops.

  Ginger and Bertie had breakfast together and forthwith set out to make inquiries, the form these were to take having been discussed at some length on the way down.

  Any information they could find would be useful, so they had decided first to get into conversation with the local seamen whom they might expect to find along the frontage of the harbour.

  They did not have far to go. On one of the seats on the short concrete pier, provided for passengers waiting for one or other of the ferries that plied between the coastal villages and their shopping centre of Falmouth, they came upon two old men, both bearded like Vikings, both smoking pipes, wearing the customary navy blue jerseys of those who follow the sea. One wore a salt-stained peaked cap, suggesting he had at some time been more than an ordinary seaman.

  There was plenty of room on the seat, so Ginger and Bertie, after an exchan
ge of civil ‘good mornings’, made themselves comfortable. After a few words about the weather had established contact, Ginger set about the real work, opening the way with: ‘What’s become of that fine yacht that was lying here in the summer? What was her name — oh yes, Cordelia.’

  The old sailors were ready to chat, as such men usually are. The one wearing the peaked cap took his pipe out of his mouth and answered: ‘That was her name. She ain’t here now. Left us a couple o’ months ago. No one knows where she’s gone. If she ever intends coming back it’ll be some time before we see her.’

  ‘What makes you think that?’

  ‘From the load o’ stuff she took aboard she might have been going to Australia. I know. There were times when they had more stuff piled up than their own tender could handle, and I gave ‘em a hand with my own little boat. Joe here’ll tell you. Thought the stuff’d never stop coming.’

  ‘What sort of stuff?’

  ‘Gawd knows. There were scores of cases of liquor alone. There was boxes, crates, bags, and I dunno what else. Never saw so much cargo going on a yacht.’

  ‘Who did it belong to?’

  ‘Feller named Brandt. Millionaire, so they say. He must have been one, I reckon, the amount o’ stuff he stowed aboard.’

  ‘I gather he didn’t buy his stores locally?’

  ‘None of it. A feller who behaves like that ain’t much use to the local tradesmen.’

  ‘Where did he get all this stuff?’

  ‘London, most of it.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Some of the cases was marked Garrards, which I’m told is one o’ those big stores in London.’ The mariner turned a shrewd eye on Ginger. ‘You got some interest in the Cordelia?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Thought mebbe Brandt owed you some money.’

  ‘Owe me money?’

  ‘He owes money here. He slipped out without paying his dues, and without paying me for the work I did for him.’

  ‘Aye. A lot of people would like to know where Cordelia went after she left here,’ put in the second sailor.

  ‘That was queer behaviour for a man as rich as Brandt,’ went on Ginger.

  ‘There was a lot o’ queer things about that craft,’ stated the first speaker, significantly.

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Look at the crew, for a start. You never see such a lot. Never spoke to anyone. Couldn’t get a word out of ‘em. Never went into a pub. I reckon they must have had all they wanted aboard. One day when I was helping load I asked one of the Lascars what it was all about. Snapped me nose off. Told me to mind me own business.’

  ‘He wasn’t a proper Lascar,’ put in the second sailor. ‘He was a West Indian.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘One day when I was in the post-office drawing my pension he came in with some letters to post. He put ‘em on the counter while he took out the money to pay for the stamps. I was standing next to him and tried to get a squint at where the letters were going. He was too smart. He’d put ‘em down with the addresses face downwards. I says to myself, I can be as smart as you, sailor, so I accidentally knocks ‘em off the counter with me elbow. Sorry, I says, and stoops to pick ‘em up. But he was too quick for me. He was after ‘em like a flash o’ greased lightning. I managed to get one, though. Before he snatched it out of my hand I see in big letters at the bottom, British West Indies.’

  ‘Jamaica?’ guessed Ginger. ‘There are a lot of islands in the West Indies.’

  ‘No. It wasn’t Jamaica. I only got a glimpse of the name of the particular island. Place I’d never heard of. It was short and began with a K. Karuli, or something like that.’

  ‘I’ll tell you one thing they took aboard which made me wonder what was going on,’ resumed the man in the peaked cap. ‘There was no mistaking it. Paint. Drums of it. Enough to paint a battleship. It had come off the train at Truro. I know that because it was one of the Truro railway lorries that brought it here. I thought that was a funny thing. They could have got here all the paint they wanted.’

  ‘What colour was this paint?’ asked Ginger, casually.

  ‘Mostly black, but there was some red, too. Had it been white I wouldn’t have given it another thought, Cordelia being a white ship.’

  ‘Did all this stuff arrive together?’

  ‘No. It was a’coming on and off for weeks. I couldn’t help but notice it. Got a bit of a nuisance at times. That German skipper was always in such a darn hurry to get it under hatches, as if no one else had anything to do. We’re busy here in the summer, you know, what with holiday people and the ferries at it all day with full loads. A lot of people weren’t sorry to see the stem o’ the Cordelia, I can tell you. She wasn’t no use to the town. They didn’t even buy their tobacco here.’

  ‘Must have had plenty on board,’ said Bertie.

  ‘Aye. I reckon so.’

  ‘Do you mean to say they bought nothing at all, no gear or anything, from the ships’ outfitters and chandlers?’

  ‘Never heard tell of it. Bit of a mystery, was Cordelia.’

  Ginger agreed. He stayed a little longer chatting on general subjects, and then, with Bertie, strolled on.

  ‘That wasn’t a bad start,’ he said. ‘Biggles was right about the old salts being ready for a yarn. I bet they’ve done a fair bit of gossiping between themselves about the Cordelia. The only thing is, I’m afraid we’ve got in one go all the information we’re likely to get in Falmouth. If none of the things put on board were bought here there isn’t much point in asking questions at the outfitters. Had there been any other items of interest those two old boys would have known about ‘em.’

  ‘Obviously Brandt didn’t want anyone here to know what he was doing. What about that paint? It was delivered in drums, so he couldn’t very well prevent it from being seen.’

  ‘It wouldn’t be hard to guess what he wanted it for. When you’re at sea in a ship there’s only one thing you can paint, and that’s the ship itself, or something in it. I think we might as well go back to London. If those cases came from Garrard we should be able to find out what was in ‘em.’

  Bertie agreed there was no object in staying on at Falmouth, so they returned to the hotel, packed their kit, and took the next available train home. As they had a little while to wait, Ginger put a call through to Biggles and told him the position. Biggles agreed they might as well return to London, so on arrival they took a taxi to the office where they found Biggles waiting for them.

  Between them Ginger and Bertie narrated all they had learned at the Cornish port, and not until they had finished did Biggles comment.

  ‘It all goes to confirm what is suspected,’ he said. ‘Brandt must have known for some time what he intended to do and made his plans accordingly. I imagine the entire crew had a pretty good idea of what was going on, too, and had been told to keep their mouths shut. That’s the only way we can account for their surly behaviour. Seamen don’t normally behave like that. Apart from that you’ve made three points that give us something to think about. First, and the most important, is this business of paint in bulk going aboard. What else could it be used for other than paint the ship? Secondly, at least one of the coloured members of the crew came from the West Indies and wrote a letter home in which he may have said what his movements would be. Pity you couldn’t get the name of the actual island. Large and small, there are a lot of islands in the West Indies, some of the smaller ones being privately owned or let on lease to people who can afford that sort of luxury. Thirdly, we have the name of the store in London that appears to have supplied the Cordelia with most, if not all, of the stuff required for the voyage.’

  ‘What can we do about that?’ asked Algy.

  ‘I’ll slip along tomorrow morning and have a word with them. They may jib at naming the articles bought by a customer, but I don’t think they’ll refuse to give me the information if I go in an official capacity. I may learn something or nothing. No doubt the main ite
ms were food, preserved in one form or another.’

  ‘Will you do anything about the paint?’

  ‘I don’t think we need bother to try to find out who supplied it. It’s unlikely the firm would know what it was for. Paint is paint, and I see no reason why Brandt should divulge what he wanted it for. The important thing is we know the colours, because if it’s to be used to alter the appearance of the ship we can reckon the Cordelia will no longer be all white but have some black and red about her. Mind you, a ship like the Cordelia isn’t an easy thing to disguise. It isn’t enough to change the colour of the paint and alter her name. New papers must be faked. But Brandt would know all about that and do what was necessary with the same thoroughness as he appears to have done everything else.’

  ‘And you’ll go to Garrards in the morning?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll go alone. It should simplify matters.’

  So the following morning, soon after opening time, found Biggles at the big London store where, at his request, he was shown into the general manager’s office. Having shown his credentials he went straight to the point of his visit. ‘I believe Mr Otto Brandt has an account with you?’

  ‘That is correct. He is a very valued customer.’

  ‘So I imagine,’ returned Biggles, dryly. ‘During the last few months he has placed a large number of orders, the goods to be consigned to his yacht lying at Falmouth.’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘I would like to know what you sent to Falmouth.’

  The manager frowned. ‘Customers’ accounts are treated —’

  ‘In confidence. I know. But the circumstances are unusual. It may be to your own advantage to tell me what I want to know.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Mr Brandt’s bill must be a heavy one.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Has it been paid?’

  The manager smiled. ‘We’re not worried about that. Mr Brandt is a millionaire, and as such has unlimited credit.’

  ‘You haven’t answered my question. Has the account been settled?’