Biggles - Air Detective Page 4

  Biggles shook his head. “I am afraid that may have been a bit too obvious. We’re dealing with a wise guy.”

  “Well, what are we going to do about it?” queried the Inspector. “Can’t you go up one night and catch this fellow red-handed?”

  Biggles looked pained. “Have a heart, Inspector. How many planes do you suppose it would need to watch two thousand miles of coastline, bearing in mind that this mystery kite might be flying at anything from one to twenty thousand feet? No, that isn’t the way to catch him. But just a minute. There’s a point in your story that strikes me as odd, and it may give me a line to work on. You say Cotelli came out of gaol, did a job, and got out of the country the same night. How did he get in touch with this obliging pilot? He couldn’t have heard about him while he was inside; and it seems extraordinary that he could do that, and crack a crib into the bargain, within a few hours of being released. Somebody must have put in some fast work.”

  The Inspector nodded. “Yes, that’s true. The thing must have been all fixed up on the outside. Does that suggest anything to you?”

  Biggles lit a cigarette with thoughtful deliberation.

  “It’s right up your street,” prompted the detective.

  “I’m not denying it,” replied Biggles quietly. “Don’t worry, I’ll do something. Give me an hour or two to think the thing over. I don’t know much about men with criminal records, so I may need your co-operation. However, we’ll see.”

  The Inspector got up. “All right. We’ll leave it like that then. I’ll do anything I can. Now I must get back to the Yard. See you later. So long. So long, boys.” He went out.

  Biggles drew pensively on his cigarette for some minutes.

  “Well, what do you make of it?” asked Algy presently.

  “One thing, so far,” answered Biggles. “Cotelli didn’t find this bloke who keeps an aircraft in his back-yard. The bloke found him. If it worked that way once, it might happen again. It’s the only line we have to work on, so I think I’ll try it.”

  Two days later, for the first time in his life, Biggles sat in the cell of a British convict prison. Outside, London was just starting its day’s work, for the time was 7.45 a.m. The grey suit he wore did not fit him very well, which was no matter for surprise, for it had been issued to him only half an hour earlier from the store from which prisoners going out drew garments, should they require them.

  For the rest, the appointments of the cell did not conform to what might normally have been expected. There was a comfortable chair. Some magazines and newspapers lay on a table, with a breakfast-tray suitable for a first-class hotel.

  Smoking a cigarette reflectively, Biggles reached for one of the newspapers, one bearing the date of the previous day, and a faint smile crossed his face as he looked, not for the first time, at a small paragraph on the front page. This is what he read:

  “J. A. Bensil, the bank cashier who, it may be recalled, was sent to prison for absconding with nearly £10,000 in treasury notes, is due for release tomorrow morning, having served his full sentence rather than divulge what he did with the money, which, in consequence, has never been recovered.”

  Above this item of news was a rather blurred photograph of himself without collar or tie. The caption read, J. A. Bensil.

  The door opened,and Inspector Gaskin entered. Seeing what Biggles was looking at, he enquired: “Is that what you wanted?”

  “Just the thing,” answered Biggles.

  “Sure there’s nothing else I can do?”

  “Not a thing.”

  “You’re playing a dangerous game, you know.”

  “It won’t be the first time,” murmured Biggles. “Even so, you keep out of the way. Just stick to the programme. The man I’m hoping to meet will be smart enough to know that he’s being followed, should anyone try it. The only weak part of our scheme is, it would be natural if the police did follow me. They must still be hoping to find the £10,000 I pinched, and I’m the only man who can lead them to it. However, we’ll leave things as they are.”

  The detective shrugged. “Okay. You know what you’re doing—I hope. If you’re ready, the Governor is waiting for you.”

  The prison Governor was, in fact, at the door. “Come on, Bensil!” he said; but there was a twinkle in his eye, for he was of necessity a party to the scheme.

  Leaving the detective in the cell, Governor and prisoner walked briskly to the main gate, Biggles carrying a mackintosh on his arm. The grim portal was opened by the warder on duty. The Governor held out a hand. “I hope, after this, you’ll go straight,” he said loudly, the corners of his mouth twitching.

  “One night in that gloomy barrack of yours should be enough to last anyone for the rest of his days,” said Biggles softly.

  “I wish they all thought that,” replied the Governor sadly. “Well, good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Biggles turned away, and looking neither to left nor right, without a glance behind him, strode down the pavement.

  Not until he was in Lambeth Street was there any indication that his plan might produce results. Then, suddenly, a dark saloon car, with a rear window wound down, glided in beside the kerb. “Want a lift?” said a voice.

  Biggles turned his head and saw two men in the car. One, the driver, a small, well-dressed man, was looking ahead. The other, sitting behind, a big, fresh-complexioned type, was looking at him, smiling. “No thanks,” answered Biggles, and walked on.

  The car moved with him. “Can’t we take you anywhere—Bensil?” said the man in the rear seat.

  Biggles turned his head again sharply at this use of his assumed name. “What’s the idea?” he demanded curtly.

  “Thought you might do with a lift.”

  “No thanks, I can manage,” returned Biggles, tight-lipped.

  “You haven’t got a hope,” said the man in the car. “The cops are watching you. They’ll never take their eyes off you while you’ve got that dough.”

  The corners of Biggles’s mouth came down. “Is that so? What’s it to you, anyway?”

  “We could help.”

  “Who are you?”

  The man grinned. “Call us the P.P.A.—the Personal Protection Association.”

  Biggles glanced quickly up and down the road before he answered. “And how do you reckon you can help?”

  “You’ll see. Get in.” The door swung open invitingly.

  Biggles hesitated for a moment like a man unable to make up his mind. “Okay. I’ll try it,” he said, and ducked swiftly into the car.

  He was literally flung into his seat as the driver accelerated. Accustomed as he was to travelling at high speeds, he held his breath as the car dodged in and out of the traffic. “ Here! Take it easy,” he complained.

  “We’re only losing anyone who happened to be interested in where you were going,” said his companion. “Don’t worry. Slick’s a good driver. He’s used to moving fast.”

  Biggles said no more. He soon lost all idea of where he was, for Slick turned and turned again in a maze of narrow streets for a good ten minutes before making a lightning swerve through a narrow entrance into a yard. Even then the car did not stop, but shot straight into a garage, the doors of which were slammed by unseen hands.

  They got out. Slick opened a door in the wall. “This way,” he said casually.

  A short corridor, a flight of stairs, and Biggles found himself in a small room with one window which overlooked a street. In the brief interval of time allowed him he saw two landmarks. One was a neon sign advertising a brand of whisky, on the wall of the house opposite; the other was the top of an 11E bus. By this time a door had been opened and he was ushered into a well-furnished apartment of some size. A dark, smartly dressed man, with an unusually high forehead, was doing something with some glasses and bottles at a sideboard. Looking over his shoulder at Biggles, he said: “Have a drink! You must need one. Give it a name.”

  “I never touch alcohol, it doesn’t agree with me—thanks all the same,�
�� declined Biggles.

  “Just as you like. Sit down.” The man, and the two who had been in the car, helped themselves to drinks. With a glass in his hand, the dark man, whom Biggles had already decided was the leader of the party, dropped into an easy chair opposite the one Biggles had taken. “Here’s luck,” said he, taking a drink. “Cigarette?”

  “Thanks.” This time Biggles accepted the offer.

  “And now,” went on the dark man, “suppose we skip the preamble and get down to business. Where are you going? What are you going to do, and how do you reckon you’re going to get away with the money you hid, without the police being there to snatch it off you?”

  “That’s my affair,” answered Biggles slowly. “I’ve had plenty of time to think about it,” he added grimly.

  There were smiles at this pointed remark.

  “Now look here, Bensil, let me give you a bit of advice,” resumed the dark man seriously. “Keep away from that money or you’ll lose it. I had you picked up to help you to get it. Naturally I hope to get some for myself at the same time. I don’t deny that. But I am willing to do something for my share.”

  “And just what do you think you can do?” asked Biggles.

  “You’re finished as far as this country’s concerned,” declared the dark man. “Your lay is to go abroad, taking the dough with you. That’s where I come in. I can take you where you like, with the money, without snoopers wanting to know what’s in your bag. That’s something you couldn’t manage yourself.”

  “And what do you want for this—er—service?”

  “Twenty per cent.”

  Biggles frowned. “£2,000! That’s too much. It represents twelve months of the time I’ve done. You want it for one day’s work.”

  “I don’t get it all for myself,” was the sharp reply. “It has to be cut several ways, and expenses are high.”

  “You wouldn’t do so badly if you took a thousand,” asserted Biggles. “That’s as far as I’m prepared to go.”

  The dark man glanced at his companions. “Let’s split the difference,” he suggested. “Call it £1,500.”

  “Split it again and call it £1,250. That’s my limit,” said Biggles in a voice as if he meant it.

  “Okay—twelve fifty. Now, where’s the dough?”

  “What do you want to know for?”

  “So we can fetch it. It wouldn’t be safe for you to go near it.”

  Biggles smiled a smile that was faintly derisive. “What do you take me for? I’m nothing to you. If I tell you where it is there’s nothing to stop you taking the lot and leaving me to whistle.”

  “Quite right, only we don’t work that way.”

  “I’ve only your word for it, and as I don’t know you that isn’t enough.”

  “You can come with us. At the moment the police don’t know where you are. But they’ll be looking, make no mistake about that, and you won’t get far on your own without one of their plain-clothes men spotting you.”

  “Suppose I come with you,” replied Biggles. “What’s to prevent you, when you get your hands on the stuff, knocking me on the head and throwing me into the nearest river?”

  “Nothing,” answered the dark man, with surprising frankness. “You’ll have to trust us.”

  “What about you trusting me?”

  “How?”

  “I’ll collect the stuff and send you your share through the post.”

  The other shook his head. “I’ve told you, you couldn’t get it without being picked up.”

  “I could—if I was in the country where I hid it. The police there don’t know me.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “France.”

  The dark man whistled softly and glanced at his accomplices. “That’s something I didn’t bargain for.” He looked back at Biggles. “How did you get it there?”

  “Posted it in the ordinary way, in case the police picked me up before I could get over there myself. Knowing what I was going to do, I had an address ready to post it to—a little flat in Paris owned by a relation of mine. So before we can carve up the stuff, we’ve got to get to it. How are you going to manage that?”

  “Easy. I’ll fly you over. That happens to be my line of business.”

  “All right,” agreed Biggles slowly. “You fly me over. We’ll go to the flat. I’ll give you your cut, after which we can go our own ways. I shall stay in Paris.”

  “Fair enough,” agreed the dark man.

  “When do we go?”

  “Tonight. The sooner the better. Obviously we don’t work in daylight.”

  “That’s okay with me,” confirmed Biggles.

  “Meanwhile, you’d better stay here out of harm’s way. We’ll make you comfortable,” promised the dark man. “Incidentally, if you want to change your sterling into francs I’ll tell you the name of a man who’ll give you the best rates and no questions asked.”

  “He’s in the black market, eh?”

  “In it?” The man laughed scornfully. “He’s the king of it. Now you can take it easy while we get things fixed up. Just one last point.” The man’s dark eyes found Biggles’s. His hand went to his pocket to reveal the butt of an automatic. “No funny stuff—or else.”

  Biggles smiled. “That’s a good argument, anyhow,” he murmured, helping himself to another cigarette.

  At eight o’clock the same evening the dark man —whom Biggles had heard referred to by his assistants, appropriately, as Darkie—came in and announced that it was time to move off. The others were not there, and Biggles wondered if they were to be left behind, but when they got to the car, using the same route by which they had gained admission to the house, the driver of the morning was in his place. The fresh-complexioned man did not put in an appearance.

  The car set off. Where it was going Biggles had no idea. All he knew was that his destination was about an hour’s run from London. The night, he saw, not without misgivings—for like most pilots he detested being flown by anyone he did not know—was dark and overcast. The car left London on the Great West Road; but he learned no more than that, for shortly afterwards his companion drew the blinds and he could think of no reasonable excuse for demanding that they should be lifted.

  It was about an hour later that the car made a sharp turn and at the same time slowed down on a piece of road so rough that it was obviously a lane or farm track. Within five minutes the end came suddenly. The car stopped. “This is it,” said Darkie. “Come on.” He got out.

  Biggles followed, and found that the car had halted in a stubble field of some size. Close at hand, near a clump of elms, was a double line of corn-stacks. The car did not wait. With its head-lights dimmed, turning in the field, it went slowly down the lane that gave access to it.

  Darkie walked briskly to the corn-stacks. Biggles went him, and there, under a tarpaulin stretched between them and covered with straw, stood an aircraft—a Puss Moth of ancient vintage. There was nobody with it. The only light shone from the window of a cottage or farmhouse about two hundred yards away. But a minute later twin beams of headlights cut a flare path across the field, and Biggles smiled in the darkness as he realised that the car had simply moved to a position from which it could act as a beacon.

  Darkie opened the door of the aircraft. “Get in,” he ordered.

  They got in. The door slammed. The starter whirred. The engine sprang to life. A minute passed, with the engine idling. Then it roared, and the aircraft raced across the field. Darkie was staring into the darkness ahead; and so, for that matter, was Biggles, who was by no means happy. However, the wheels were soon off the ground. The machine swept up and round in an unnecessarily steep climbing turn, and then, still climbing, settled down on a southerly course.

  Looking down, Biggles saw what he had undertaken the flight to ascertain—the location of the secret airfield. The Great West Road, with its streams of traffic lights and an illuminated sign on the factory of a firm of publishers, told him the position of it exactly.


  “Ever been up before?” asked Darkie.

  “Once or twice,” murmured Biggles blandly.

  “You ought to learn to fly yourself, you never know when it may come in handy,” advised Darkie.

  “I shall have to think about it,” returned Biggles in a steady voice. “Have you been flying long?” he enquired.

  “Seven years. I used to be a night-flying instructor.” The man laughed bitterly. “They threw me out because I brought a few things home from France—and forgot to declare them. True, I made money out of it—but who wouldn’t, given the chance? A few bob a day service pay was no use to me.”

  “And you think you can get away with this?”

  “What’s to stop me? Pah! It’s money for old rope. I’ve got the mechanic who used to unload the stuff I brought from France giving me a hand.”

  Biggles said no more. There was no need. He knew, now, all he wanted to know.

  In half an hour they were over the Channel, Darkie having cut his engine to glide over the coast. Ten minutes later this manoeuvre was repeated as he crossed the coast of France. Rather more than an hour later the machine touched down at a spot which Biggles judged to be not more than a twenty minutes’ run by car from Paris. The machine ran to a standstill near some farm buildings. “I’ll leave her here,” said Darkie. “I shall be back again presently. Don’t worry about the farmer—he’s all right. One of the gang, in fact.”

  “How do we get to Paris?”

  “Car. I keep one here. Simple, isn’t it?” Darkie laughed again, presumably at his own cleverness. As they got into the car he asked: “What’s the address?”

  “Forty-one rue Chantonesse. It’s by the river near the Ile de Paris. I’ll show you.”

  The short drive passed without incident, and under Biggles’s direction the car pulled up against the kerb in a quiet, dimly-lighted street. Biggles went to the door and knocked. The concierge, an elderly man, answered, and stood aside to allow the two callers to enter. Biggles led the way to the first floor, entered a room the door of which stood ajar, and switched on the electric light. “Here we are,” he said cheerfully, and going over to a cupboard took out a suitcase which he put on a table. He was about to open it when he started, staring at something Darkie held in his hand. It was the automatic.