Biggles in Mexico Page 4

  ‘Very well,’ agreed von Stalhein. ‘I’ll tell you as much as I know, which isn’t a great deal, for diamonds did not come within my province. I think I know your man, and I can tell you right away that he is a most unpleasant fellow. At the time I was associated with him he didn’t speak English very well, for which reason I once had to accompany him to the United States, ostensibly as an interpreter, and also, I fancy, as an escort, in case he bolted with the diamonds he went to buy. He improved his English later, and now, I believe, speaks it very well.’

  Biggles smiled cynically. ‘Your people couldn’t have trusted him very far.’

  ‘They trust nobody. They can’t afford to.’

  ‘Was this diamond deal legitimate?’

  ‘I don’t know. Schultz got the diamonds and I returned with him to Moscow, much to his annoyance.’

  ‘Why was he annoyed?’

  ‘He suggested to me that we split the stones between us and kept them, saying they had been confiscated by Customs Officers.’

  ‘So he’s that sort,’ sneered Biggles. ‘I take it you wouldn’t play.’

  ‘I would not.’

  ‘Did you report this when you got to Moscow?’

  ‘No’.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Schultz had friends in high places. I would have been sticking my neck out.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘I wonder you lasted as long as you did. But tell me. How did Schultz get the stones through Customs?’

  ‘He’s an expert smuggler. That’s one of the reasons why he was chosen for that, and similar jobs. He’d been doing it all his life. One day, many years ago, he made a bad mistake. He shot a French Customs man at Marseilles. He was caught and went to prison for life. When Germany occupied France in the last war he was released by the Gestapo who employed him on smuggling missions. After the war he fled to Russia where he had no difficulty in getting the sort of work at which, from long experience, he was an expert. He knows all the tricks. Also, he knows the shady corners of most of the big cities of the world like no other man I ever met. Apparently he is still going strong. Be careful of him. He’s a dangerous man.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘He carries a gun and is always ready to use it.’

  ‘What is he like to look at?’

  ‘He’s about fifty now, tall and heavily built, clean-shaven, going bald in front. He’s short sighted, for which reason he wears spectacles, and that, with a large round face and calm expression gives him the appearance of a rather benevolent professor. In fact, one of his poses is as a Professor of Heidelberg University. He carries, of course, forged papers to support that. But you should easily recognize him because he has a deformity. As a young man he was involved in a car accident. One leg is now rather shorter than the other and when he walks he is inclined to drag it.’

  ‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘That information is most helpful. Anything else you can think of?’

  ‘No. I think that’s all. Oh, one little thing. One country he keeps clear of as far as possible is France. He has a fear that he might be recognized, in which case he would of course be arrested to finish his life sentence.’

  Biggles got up. ‘Well, I’m much obliged to you, von Stalhein. This fellow you’ve told me about may or may not be my man, but from his character he fits well into the picture.’

  ‘Are you going to look for him?’

  ‘No. If he has already collected the diamonds they will probably be in Russia by now.’

  ‘If the stake was large enough he may have collected them — and kept them.’

  ‘The value of the stones is reckoned to be in the order of a hundred and fifty thousand pounds.’

  Von Stalhein pursed his lips. ‘Very nice. That should be quite large enough. Indeed, this may be the chance he has been waiting for.’

  ‘Chance for what?’

  ‘To make his pile and get out.’

  ‘You mean — out of Russia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then he doesn’t like it there.’

  ‘No more than I did. But it has suited him to stay there, as for a time it suited me. Remember this. Russian agents are not just let loose with vast sums of money in their pockets. They are watched. As I have told you, on one such mission Schultz was watched by me, although officially I was supposed to be improving his English.’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ said Biggles, thoughtfully. ‘Now I’ll be getting along. I have already taken up a lot of your time. Is there anything I can do for you?’

  ‘No thank you. I manage very well. It is very pleasant here after Onor. I have just received a long book to translate which will keep me going for some time.’

  ‘Who from?’

  ‘Air Commodore Raymond.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘He must be trying to keep you out of mischief.’

  Von Stalhein smiled wanly. ‘He needn’t worry about that. No man who has seen the inside of a Russian political prison takes a chance on going back. How are your three able assistants?’

  ‘They’re very well, thanks. I think they miss you. Life has been rather dull for them since you came over to our side of the fence.’

  ‘There may be plenty for them to do when the vacancy caused by my retirement has been filled,’ said von Stalhein, seriously.

  Biggles walked to the door. ‘Well, good-bye for now. I shall be going abroad for a little while but I’ll look you up when I get back.’

  ‘I shall be interested to hear if you encountered Schultz,’ said von Stalhein as he opened the door.

  Smiling whimsically, Biggles went down to the street, called a taxi, and returned to his office.

  He found his staff awaiting his return with a curiosity which was pardonable in the circumstances.

  ‘Did you find him in?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Biggles, hanging up his hat and going to his chair behind the desk.

  ‘Still as frosty as ever?’

  ‘No. He’s gradually thawing out.’

  ‘You know, old boy, this getting all pals together with old Erich takes a bit of getting used to,’ said Bertie, automatically polishing his monocle with a handkerchief. ‘Did he give you any gen on this guy Schultz?’

  ‘More than I expected. He seems to be a nasty piece of work.’

  ‘And what’s the drill now?’ inquired Algy.

  ‘I shall go to Mexico with Ginger as soon as I can get reservations.’

  ‘Why only Ginger?’

  ‘I can’t see what there would be for four of us to do. We don’t want to look like an invading army.’

  ‘Oh, dash that for a tale,’ protested Bertie. ‘Don’t hog all the fun for yourself. Let us go with you as far as ‘Frisco. I’ve heard so much about the place I’d like to see it. Besides, I might be useful, you never know.’

  ‘That goes for me too,’ put in Algy.

  ‘All right, if that’s how you feel,’ conceded Biggles. ‘Ritzy may have gone back to San Francisco to meet Schultz there; so there’s no harm in you having a look round for them while I go on to Eltora with Ginger. We shouldn’t be away long. It might be a good thing for one of you to be always available on the phone in case I should need help. As you say, one never knows.’

  ‘How are you going about this?’ asked Algy.

  ‘My idea is to follow in the track of Tricky Adamson. That is to say, in San Francisco or Los Angeles I shall buy a car, probably a second-hand one since we shan’t need it for very long. In it Ginger and I will cross the border and make our way to Eltora. There I shall arrange a breakdown to provide an excuse for delay and try to locate the gang. It’s only a small place, so that shouldn’t take long. I’m working on the assumption that Ritzy is still there. If he’s gone we shall have to try to follow him.’

  ‘You won’t know if he still has the diamonds,’ said Algy.

  ‘If he’s still in Eltora I shall reckon he still has the stones, because if he’s disposed of them he would have no reason for staying in
such a dead-and-alive hole. If he’s gone I shall, as I say, try to find out which way he went. It would probably be to San Francisco, to meet Schultz. I’d keep you and Bertie posted about my movements, of course. You might have to look for Schultz in ‘Frisco, or find out if he’s been and gone. But we’ll deal with that when the time comes.’ Biggles walked over to a map that lay open on the table.

  ‘According to Tricky,’ he went on, ‘he crossed the border at Sonoyta and had to abandon the car on a secondary road soon afterwards. It was a Ford with a Californian number plate. That’s the road I intend to take in which case we shall arrive in Eltora as he did, although not, I hope, in the same state. But that’s enough for now. Let’s get organized.’

  CHAPTER 5

  ELTORA

  How Biggles and Ginger came to be in a country so far removed from their usual zone of operations having been explained, the story can proceed.

  The flight out to San Francisco by the regular services had been without incident. From there, leaving Algy and Bertie to await instructions, they had continued on to Los Angeles, where Biggles had bought a second-hand car, a Studebaker, that appeared to be in good order. Still working to the plan, he and Ginger had gone on to the frontier town of Sonoyta where, if there was any truth in Tricky Adamson’s story, he had entered Mexico.

  There had been some pointed questions at the Customs offices on both sides of the border. Not only were their passports checked and stamped but their baggage was thoroughly searched. This may have been normal procedure. Biggles didn’t inquire. When questioned as to why he was crossing the border the reason he gave was that he was looking for a location for some film shots. This, perhaps, because they were no great distance from Hollywood, was accepted. So the Studebaker had gone on its way, on a road that had quickly deteriorated, with what result has been narrated in an earlier chapter.

  Stranded, still in doubt as to whether they were on the right road, Biggles and Ginger passed an uncomfortable night. Ginger was bitten on the hand by an insect of some sort and the irritation kept him awake most of the time. At dawn, stiff and cold, for the thin desert air was bitterly cold at that hour, they shook themselves and prepared to walk to the top of the hill to see what lay beyond. There was, of course, no question of washing, or otherwise making any sort of toilet.

  ‘We shall arrive looking like a couple of hobos,’ muttered Ginger, disgustedly.

  ‘No matter what we look like, let’s get there,’ replied Biggles. ‘We shall feel better after some food and a drink.’

  As it happened they did not have to walk up the hill. As they were about to start, over the brow came a large party of Indians, men, women and children, clad in garments of the most brilliant colours.

  ‘Our luck’s in,’ said Biggles. ‘They must have been to Eltora, shopping. They may give us a hand.’

  The crowd hurried forward to the car, which seemed to amuse them. They stopped to look. Biggles asked them how far it was to Eltora, and was informed, to his relief, that it was in the valley beyond the hill. It did not occur seriously to him that this motley but cheerful crowd would be able to help them in a practical way. The most he hoped for was that one of them would go to Eltora and advise the local garage, assuming there was one, of their predicament. But the Indians, who seemed to take the situation as a joke, had their own ideas of how to handle it: they crowded round the car and started to push. Seeing what they were trying to do Biggles jumped into the driving seat and started the engine to give them as much help as possible. It was enough.

  Seeing the car moving Ginger got in beside Biggles and with much cheering reached the top of the gradient. A girl gave him a tomato. He took it gratefully, for his mouth was parched.

  Biggles thanked these kind people, and to cries of adios and gracias allowed the car to begin coasting down a long slope towards their destination, which could be seen nestling among orchards, palms and cultivated fields, in a valley through which ran a river.

  ‘Thank goodness we can see houses again,’ said Ginger in a relieved voice. ‘I was getting worried. What’s the drill now we’re here?’

  ‘First we’d better find somewhere to park ourselves, take a bath if there’s one available, and have something to eat. Then we’ll look for a garage to see if anything can be done about the car. It’s no earthly use as it is.’

  ‘According to Tricky he must have arrived looking very much as we do.’

  ‘I intended to fake a breakdown to give us an excuse for staying here a little while, but as things have turned out that won’t be necessary,’ said Biggles. ‘We may be here longer than I reckoned on.’

  The car cruised to the bottom of the hill and ran on into the village street.

  Eltora now revealed itself to be two straggling rows of flat-roofed, whitewashed adobe houses built on either side of a dusty track on which a mangy cur sat scratching itself. A few scrawny fowls hopefully examined the dry earth. An occasional cottonwood tree offered a welcome patch of shade. There was a little general shop and a hardware store, indicated by sundry pots and pans outside the door. Beside them in a chair sat a gaunt, lean old man with a face the colour of leather. With a hooked nose he looked rather like a dying bird of prey.

  Dirty and dilapidated though the pueblo looked as a whole, there were a few places where, after the sterile mesa beyond the hill, it was more like a miniature paradise, notably in the gardens of the few detached villas. Grapevines hung on the trellises that screened patios and verandas. Scarlet tomatoes glowed like little balls of fire in clearings protected by fences of green cactus. Yellow gourds sprawled in a riot of flowers, some, such as dahlias and nasturtiums, familiar, others unknown. Orange groves could be seen beyond. There were some patches of maize, half smothered by weeds. High up in a dead eucalyptus tree, its bark peeling in long untidy strips, a group of buzzards sat hunched in the fast-mounting heat of the sun.

  By a pump, against a hitching rail to which he had tethered a wiry-looking pony, leaned a handsome young man, swarthy, on his head an enormous silver-braided sombrero. He wore an embroidered shirt, open at the throat, and leather chaps. His boots were heeled with long-rowelled spurs. A cartridge belt hung on his hips, a pearl-handled revolver projecting from the holster. Over his shoulder had been thrown a red sarape.1 A black-papered cigarette smouldered between his lips. His expression, as his dark eyes rested on the newcomers, while not hostile was not exactly friendly.

  Biggles nudged Ginger. ‘Everything seems to be laid on for you,’ he bantered. ‘Here’s your gunman. Ask him if he can knock the spots out of the six of spades.’

  ‘Not me,’ retorted Ginger. ‘He wouldn’t see the joke. From the expression on his face, if he thought I was pulling his leg he might knock the spots off me.’

  Biggles stopped the car and got out. ‘Buenos dias, señor,’ he greeted. ‘Can you tell me the way to the best hotel?’

  The man replied as politely, but the expression on his face did not change. ‘Buenos dias, señores.’ He pointed a little way down the street to a house that rose a trifle above the others. He went on in English with an American accent. The Casa Grande, the local posada2 is the only place here where you will find accommodation.’

  Biggles thanked him, and as he went on towards the building indicated Ginger remarked: ‘He seemed to be peeved about something.’

  ‘If he was it had nothing to do with us,’ answered Biggles.

  He stopped at the posada. A sign over the door carried its name. Casa Grande — the big house.

  On the patio, under a screen of woven reeds, seated in wicker chairs two men were engaged in earnest conversation. There was a small table between them. On the table were two glasses and a bottle.

  One of the men was a corpulent individual, very dark, with piggy eyes and a flowing black moustache. Ginger took him to be a mestizo, half Spanish, half Indian. He was hatless, in his shirt sleeves, and wore a crimson cummerbund round his middle. The other was younger, perhaps thirty, slim, clean-shaven, with longish hair, b
rushed flat, as black as the wing of a raven. He, too, was dark, although not as dark as his companion, and had it not been for the well-cut suit he wore he, too, might have been born in the country. Ginger suspected he might be an American.

  Apparently Biggles thought that, for having got out of the car he spoke to him in English. ‘Excuse me, but is this the hotel?’

  The answer came back in the same language. ‘This is the local pub, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘Can we get a meal here?’

  ‘Such as it is.’

  ‘And a bed?’

  ‘Are you thinking of staying here?’ The man seemed surprised.

  ‘We’ve no alternative,’ Biggles told him. ‘We’ve broken down. We were stuck out on the desert, and would have been there now had it not been for some friendly Indians who pushed us up the hill.’

  ‘What’s the trouble?’

  ‘The clutch has gone. Is there a garage or a repair station here?’

  ‘No. You might get some petrol. Old Lorenzo, over the road, usually keeps a few cans in his store.’ The man indicated the old Mexican with the hooked nose, sitting outside his shop.

  ‘He doesn’t stock spares?’

  ‘A few nuts and bolts is as far as he goes. There wouldn’t be much demand for spare parts here.’

  ‘Are you an American?’ asked Biggles, somewhat bluntly.

  The man smiled faintly. ‘More or less.’

  By this time the other man had stood up and donned a faded uniform cap. He now approached the visitors with an air of authority.