Biggles And Co Page 3

  Biggles counted the boxes as one by one they were placed on the floor of the cabin. When the tally was complete he signed the receipt form and handed it back to the bank official, who, with a word of thanks, returned to the car.

  Two men in dark clothes and bowler hats stepped out from the side of the hangar, and after a friendly nod to Biggles, got into the car, which was backed clear of the slipstream.

  Biggles watched it go with a queer expression on his face. ‘Those two fellows must be detectives,’ he said quietly to Algy. ‘But they might have been a couple of gunmen for all we knew. I didn’t see them standing there, did you? Nor did I see them arrive.’

  Algy shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t see them, either,’ he confessed.

  ‘Which should be a lesson to us. We shall have to keep a sharper look-out,’ observed Biggles grimly, as he turned towards the Cormorant. ‘Now, laddie, you know what to do,’ he went on quietly. ‘Keep us in sight, but don’t get too dose. I don’t want anybody to suspect that you are acting as escort. If you see another machine coming towards us, come right in and act as circumstances suggest best. Without knowing what is likely to happen, I can’t advise any particular line of action if anything does happen. Use your own judgement. Come on, Ginger, let’s be going.’

  ‘Funny, isn’t it?’ he continued, as they climbed into their seats. ‘No more formality than if we were taking over a crate of eggs. I expected some sort of parade, with a band playing and all the rest of it.’

  He felt for the throttle. The machine moved slowly over to the far side of the aerodrome, turned into the wind, and at a signal from the control tower, rose gracefully into the air, afterwards turning in a wide circle until her nose was pointing south.

  It was a perfect flying day, without a bump2 in the air or a cloud in the sky. Not another machine was in sight.

  For twenty minutes the Cormorant flew on. The wide expanse of Ashdown Forest came into view, but soon gave way to the curious regular pattern of the Kentish hopfields. Presently the Channel loomed up like a low, dark blue cloud, and in obedience to a signal from Biggles, Ginger left his seat and disappeared into the cabin. But he was back before the coastline of France appeared.

  ‘Can you see him?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Yes. At least, I can see a machine on our quarter, about two thousand feet above us. It’s about three miles away, flying in the same direction as ourselves.’

  ‘Yes. That’ll be Algy right enough,’ declared Biggles. ‘Anyone else in sight?’

  ‘Can’t see anything else.’

  ‘Good enough. Keep your eyes skinned for strangers, all the same. If you see another machine, let me know.’

  ‘O.K., Chief,’ returned Ginger, as he settled himself once more in his seat.

  They were passing over the long, multi-coloured, hedgeless fields of northern France now. Several times Biggles relinquished control to Ginger and scrutinized the sky carefully, section by section, paying particular attention to that part which was more or less cut off by the blinding rays of the sun; but with the exception of the one tiny speck far above and behind them, not a mark of any sort broke the cloudless blue of the sky.

  The time passed slowly, as it always does in the air when there is no incident to break the smooth, swift rush through space. The long, narrow fields began to give way to small market gardens and isolated groups of houses, while in the distance the dull haze that always hangs over big towns marked the position of the French capital. Once Biggles started as three machines swept down out of the haze, but it was only a formation of French military machines, and he smiled at Ginger as they roared away towards their unknown destination.

  ‘Well, here we are,’ he observed, as Le Bourget came into view. ‘All very simple, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Ginger. ‘If we never have any more trouble than this, we shan’t have much to worry about.’

  Biggles throttled back, glided past the control tower, and on receiving permission to land, touched his wheels gently in the centre of the aerodrome, afterwards taxiing slowly to that area of the tarmac reserved for arrivals. ‘Take a look and see if you can see Algy,’ he ordered.

  Ginger stood up. ‘Yes,’ he said quickly. ‘He’s coming in.’

  ‘Good,’ replied Biggles. ‘Meet him as soon as he lands. You know what you are to do.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That looks like my barrow over there,’ continued Biggles, pointing to a dark-green painted van with three men in uniform standing beside it looking in the direction of the British machine.

  ‘Two of them are gendarmes, anyway,’ replied Ginger, as Biggles taxied up dose to the van and switched off his engines.

  One of the men stepped forward while the other two followed slowly. ‘Major Bigglesworth?’ he inquired in perfect English.

  ‘Yes, you expected me, I think,’ answered Biggles.

  ‘That is correct. I am of the Bank of France; here are my credentials. The car is waiting.’ He handed Biggles a small leather wallet with a seal attached.

  Biggles read the document carefully and handed it back. ‘Very well, m’sieur,’ he said. ‘Everything seems to be in order; here is the cargo.’

  Assisted by the driver of the car, the bullion boxes were swiftly transferred to the van under the watchful eyes of the gendarmes and the curious stares of two or three mechanics and aerodrome officials. The driver took his place at the wheel; the bank official sat beside him, while the two gendarmes entered the back of the van and sat on the side seats with the boxes at their feet. Automatically Biggles followed, seating himself opposite to them, and making himself comfortable for the tiring forty minutes’ ride through the narrow traffic-thronged streets that led to the centre of the city and their destination. The door slammed and the van glided forward easily.

  Now it is a fact beyond dispute that many pilots develop a curiously alert sense of direction, rudiments possibly of the same faculty that the carrier pigeon possesses to such a remarkable degree. Biggles was no exception, as he had proved on more than one occasion when thick weather had obliterated all signs of the earth—an unpleasant state of affairs which did not, however, prevent him from reaching his objective. On the ground this feeling of direction was not so acute, but it still existed in a modified form, and it was no doubt due to this that there began to form in his mind an uneasy sensation that the driver of the van was not following the main road to Paris. The only window was in the rear of the van, set in the door, and it was too high up for him to see out without standing up. The feeling first occurred when the vehicle had been on the move for about a quarter of an hour or so, and they should, according to his calculations, have passed the Coty works, the factory where the world-famous perfumes are made. Subconsciously, he had been looking up at the window, knowing that it would be possible, as they passed it, to see the trade-mark on the top of the building. That they had not passed it he was quite sure, and when, at the end of another five minutes, it had still not come into view he suspected that something was wrong. The car took a sharp turn to the left and doubt became certainty.

  Calmly, he stood up and looked out of the window. As he more than half expected, the scene was strange to him. Instead of the busy, stall-lined streets, they were speeding through a narrow slum. He spun round with a glint in his eye, lips parted to demand an explanation; but at the sight that met his eyes the words died away and a bitter smile spread over his face. Neither of the gendarmes had moved, but in the right hand of each was an automatic, with the muzzle pointing towards him.

  He nodded slowly and resumed his seat. ‘So that’s it, is it?’ he said quietly.

  ‘Oui, m’sieur; c’est ça,’3 replied one of the gendarmes. ‘Do as you are told and you will not be hurt. But if—’ The man shrugged his shoulders expressively.

  Biggles did not reply. To tackle two men armed with automatics, who were covering him at a range of not more than three feet, would have been an act of the sheerest folly. In fiction, or in a screen-picture, s
omething might have been done, but in cold fact, no, and his common sense prevented him from taking steps that could only end in disaster. That they would shoot if he offered resistance he had no doubt whatever, and at such a range they could hardly miss. He bit his lip as he looked at the boxes on the floor and then back at the men. There was nothing he could do. There was nothing he could say.

  He wondered where he was being taken, and was contemplating asking the question—not that he expected an answer—when, with a grinding of brakes, the van skidded to a standstill. A moment later the door was thrown open, and the man whom he had assumed to be a bank official appeared. There was a mocking smile on his face as he invited his prisoner to descend.

  Biggles had no choice but to comply. He stood up, put his foot on the step, and was about to step down when a heavy weight struck him in the small of the back. The attack was so utterly unexpected that he was thrown off his balance, and measured his length on the ground. Before he could pick himself up there was a clash of gears; the van leapt forward, and by the time he was on his feet it had swung round the corner and disappeared from sight. He ran swiftly to the point at which it had disappeared, but, as he expected, there was no sign of it, so he looked about him.

  He found himself standing in an ordinary suburban street of private houses. There were one or two people in sight, but they paid no attention to him; only a paper-boy with a bicycle, who had evidently witnessed the occurrence, stood on the edge of the pavement laughing at his discomfiture. Biggles walked over to him and spun a two-franc piece in the air. ‘Where is the nearest garage?’ he said swiftly, in French.

  ‘In the Rue Michelinos, m’sieur,’ replied the boy.

  ‘How far away is it?’

  ‘Half a kilometre.’

  ‘Ride there quickly and ask them to send me a car or a taxi. Hurry! I will wait here.’

  In a few minutes a taxi whirled round the corner in typically French fashion; a little way behind was the paper-boy, pedalling furiously. Biggles gave him his two francs and jumped into the cab.

  ‘To the Bank of France, Place de l’Opéra,’ he directed.

  In twenty minutes he was there, and, jumping out, saw Algy and Ginger standing on the pavement beside another taxi. He paid his fare and joined them. ‘Don’t ask questions; I haven’t time to answer them now,’ he said tersely. ‘They were on the job right enough. Everything all right?’

  ‘Quite O.K.,’ replied Algy.

  ‘Fine! Then stand fast.’ Biggles hurried into the bank.

  It was at once apparent that the robbery was known, for two gendarmes stood on duty at the door, and there were others inside. ‘I must see the manager at once,’ he told a nervous-looking clerk.

  ‘I am sorry, monsieur, but it is not possible. He is engaged,’ was the quick reply.

  ‘Go and tell him that Major Bigglesworth wishes to speak to him.’

  The clerk nearly fell off his stool. He took one amazed look and then bolted to the rear. ‘This way, monsieur,’ he called a minute later.

  Biggles walked through to manager’s office, where he found the official he sought in earnest conversation with a short, stout man in dark clothes. They both stared at him as he entered. ‘Where have they taken it, do you know?’ asked the manager bluntly.

  Biggles looked puzzled. ‘Taken what?’ he said.

  ‘The gold.’

  ‘The gold? I don’t understand. I have the gold here; will you please accept it and give me a receipt.’

  The manager staggered back, while a frown furrowed the forehead of the other man, who stepped forward and tapped Biggles lightly on the chest. ‘Allow me to present myself,’ he said. ‘Detective Boulanger, of the Paris Sureté.’4

  ‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ replied Biggles. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘This robbery—’

  ‘What are you talking about? There has been no robbery.’

  The detective looked at the manager. ‘What is this?’ he snapped.

  The manager ran his hands through his hair. ‘But the van was taken,’ he said. ‘The driver and the gendarmes who were to act as escort were kidnapped. The driver has rung up to say—’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I know nothing about that,’ interrupted Biggles. ‘I’ve brought the gold along in a taxi. It is waiting outside. May I suggest that it is brought into the bank? You’ll find my assistants with it.’

  The manager departed quickly, and Biggles turned to find the detective regarding him quizzically.

  ‘Young man, you know more about this affair than you pretend,’ he observed shrewdly.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Biggles. ‘And in fairness to you, I will tell you what happened. In fairness to me, will you please regard the matter as confidential? You must take any steps you think proper, of course, but it would be better from my point of view if the story was withheld from the newspapers. That will leave the—er—crooks wondering what is going on.’

  A look of understanding came into the detective’s eyes. ‘Ah-ha! Quite so, m’sieur,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You see,’ explained Biggles, ‘I shall probably run into them again one day. They work in the dark. We, too, will work in the dark.’

  ‘Precisely! It shall be as you say.’

  Briefly, Biggles told him what had happened, and was just finishing as the manager returned; his face was beaming.

  ‘All in order,’ he cried. ‘Here is the receipt. I have not yet rung up your firm in London; I must do so—’

  ‘Please do nothing of the sort,’ broke in Biggles, glancing at the receipt and putting it into his pocket. ‘I am returning immediately, and will make my report in person. If you use the telephone someone may overhear, and I would prefer that those who attempted the robbery work things out for themselves. These affairs have had too much publicity in the past. Monsieur Boulanger will explain what I mean.’

  ‘Very well, m’sieur, it shall be as you say.’

  ‘Thank you. Good day, gentlemen.’

  The detective looked curiously after Biggles’ retreating form; then he turned to the manager and winked. ‘He is no fool, that one,’ he muttered. ‘We shall hear of him again, I fancy!’

  At ten minutes past five Biggles opened the door of Stella Carstairs’ office. He was humming softly to himself, but he broke off when he saw her for her face was pale and her eyes suspiciously red. ‘Why, what’s the matter, Miss Carstairs?’ he said quickly.

  ‘So they got it after all,’ she replied, looking at him miserably.

  ‘Got what?’

  ‘The gold.’

  Biggles inclined his head. ‘Who told you that?’ he asked softly.

  ‘Who told me? The story is all over the City. Haven’t you seen the newspapers?’

  ‘To tell the truth, I haven’t.’

  Stella beckoned him towards the window. ‘Look,’ was all she said.

  Biggles walked swiftly to the window and looked down. On the opposite side of the road a newsboy’s placard displayed in bold type the words

  ‘ANOTHER GREAT GOLD ROBBERY.’

  ‘It looks as if they’re speaking out of their turn,’ he observed.

  Stella sprang to her feet. `Do you mean to say that the gold has not been stolen?’ she gasped.

  ‘I delivered the gold to the bank and have the receipt in my pocket, so I don’t see how it can be,’ replied Biggles casually.

  Stella sat down suddenly and laughed a trifle hysterically.

  Biggles bent forward; his face was very serious. ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘do you know who started this story?’

  ‘No. Somebody rang up, from the Stock Exchange, I think, and told my father. He is terribly upset. You see, everyone in the City knows what the loss would mean to this firm, and our shares have slumped, which means that as they stand now my father is ruined. The ten-pound shares in Cronfelt & Carstairs, which were worth eight pounds this morning, have fallen to five pounds—and they are still falling. I’ve been watching them on the tape machine. All my father’s mone
y—all he has left—is in Cronfelt & Carstairs.’

  ‘When it is known that there has been no robbery the shares will recover,’ answered Biggles. ‘Listen,’ he went on swiftly. ‘Have you authority to buy shares in your father’s name?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then ring up your brokers and buy five thousand shares at the lowest price. Get going. If somebody is trying to bust your firm, and that’s what it looks like to me, they are due for a shock. I’ll talk to you again later on. I must go now.’

  He walked through into the inner office. Cronfelt was sitting with his elbows on his desk and his chin in his hands; Carstairs was slumped in an armchair staring unseeingly into the fire, but they both sprang up when they saw him.

  ‘You here!’ gasped Cronfelt.

  Biggles tossed his hat into a chair and sat down in another. ‘Certainly,’ he replied. ‘Why not? I’m a few minutes late I’m afraid, but I was delayed by the traffic.’

  ‘Well, it’s a bad business,’ returned Cronfelt sombrely. ‘I’m sorry, Bigglesworth, sorry for your sake—’

  `Don’t ever be sorry for me, sir,’ interrupted Biggles shortly. ‘What are you talking about, anyway?’

  ‘This robbery—the gold.’

  Biggles frowned. ‘There’s a lot of talk going on about a robbery,’ he said slowly. ‘Too much, in fact. I should like to know where it started. Who told you there had been a robbery, Mr. Cronfelt?’

  ‘But every one knows of it.’

  ‘Funny how these rumours get about, isn’t it? Looks as if someone expected a robbery but was a bit premature, eh?’

  ‘Stop talking in riddles,’ cried Carstairs. ‘How did they get it?’

  ‘They didn’t,’ Biggles told him, and tossed the receipt on the desk. ‘The gold went straight to the Bank of France.’

  The two men stared at him in a hush in which the ticking of the clock on the mantlepiece sounded curiously loud.

  Cronfelt was the first to recover. He picked up the receipt, stared at it, and then at Biggles. ‘Will you please tell us all you know about this alleged robbery,’ he said briskly.