Another Job For Biggles Read online

  Hamud knew about the drug. That, at least, was an established fact. If he had worked for Ambrimos in the hashish racket he would certainly mention it to him, because, if for no other reason, if the gurra proved popular it might put hashish off the market altogether. Hamud might even have gone to Ambrimos with a view to marketing the stuff, this being beyond his own financial or organising ability. It was even possible that he had gone straight to Ambrimos when Darnley had paid him off, and Ambrimos had sent him back to collect a supply of gurra forthwith. That Hamud had told someone was almost certain or he would not have behaved as he had. Had he merely required some gurra for his own use there was enough in the wadi to last him a life-time. Why, therefore, should he attempt to murder his companions? And why should he bother about collecting seeds?

  Biggles’s problem, of course, was not so much to find Hamud, who alone could not do much harm, as the man in whom he had confided his secret. That man, decided Biggles, would almost certainly live in Aden, Hamud’s home town, and the place where Darnley had paid him off. The only clue—a slender one admittedly—pointed to Ambrimos, who had seen him, yet now denied it. If Ambrimos had already dabbled in hashish, as rumour alleged, he would not be beyond trafficking in gurra. Moreover, he would have a ready-made organisation for smuggling the stuff into Egypt, or wherever it was going in the first place. The channels that had been used for hashish could could equally well be used for gurra.

  Following the same line of thought, it was clear that as the Sultan had never been caught dealing with hashish, his method of handling it was clever; so if he was now starting on a new line in gurra it would be no easy matter to catch him at the game.

  Reaching the gates Biggles stopped to light a cigarette as a new thought struck him, one that needed consideration, for on it depended which way he should go—to the Club, to his hotel or to the native quarter. How much did Ambrimos know about his own movements? That he knew a certain amount was evident. He had mentioned aircraft. Did he know that he, Biggles, had brought Zahar in from the desert, for no attempt had been made to hide the Arab when he had landed? The need had not arisen. He was inclined to think that Ambrimos did not know of Zahar’s return. At all events, his surprise when Biggles, announced the fact had seemed genuine. But if he knew from Hamud the circumstances in which Zahar had been abandoned—which would account for his surprise when he learned he was back—he would soon make it his business to find out how Zahar had performed the apparent miracle of getting home without a camel and without water. If he learned, as he almost certainly would, that Biggles had brought him back in an aircraft, then Biggles’s own enquiries about the man would be exposed for what they were worth. The Sultan’s suspicions could hardly fail to be aroused. He would find out just who Biggles was, after which his spies would never take their eyes off him.

  Norman had said that his spies were everywhere and the man himself had practically boasted of it. Indeed, it had already been demonstrated. The waiter at the Club was in his pay. That was certain, or how else could Ambrimos have known about his excuse that he was looking for oil? For it had only been made up on the spur of the moment during the conversation with Norman—when, Biggles recalled, the waiter had been serving drinks.

  It followed, therefore, that if Ambrimos was in fact the man he was looking for, the man who was exporting gurra, then he, Biggles, had unwittingly put Zahar’s life in danger. Ambrimos could not afford to have Zahar walking about Aden spreading the news of Hamud’s treachery, for this would involve the reason for the trip to the Wadi al Arwat.

  Someething would have to be done about that. Zahar would have to be warned, and very soon, before Ambrimos could get on his track.

  Biggles made up his mind. He would go to Zahar right away. He owed it to the man. And there were other reasons why he was anxious that no harm should come to the Arab. Zahar was the only living witness of what had happened at the Wadi al Arwat. He might, when he had fully recovered, recall some remark made by Hamud that would throw light on the case.

  But before Biggles had taken half a dozen paces there came a sound from the direction of the big house that caused him to turn his head sharply in that direction. A car door had been slammed. What car? Whose car? Was Ambrimos going out after all, although he had said he was not? Retracing his steps quickly, by the time he had reached the gates the glow of moving headlights had appeared at the top end of the drive. Realising that in another moment they would be on him, and preferring not to be seen, he ducked into the shrubs. And there he crouched while the lights came on slowly, presently to pass within a couple of yards and turn into the main road.

  He saw little of the car or its occupants. All he could make out in the moonlight was a big, dark-painted saloon, with a vague figure at the wheel. A curtain covered the rear window.

  Biggles hesitated, aware of a sudden sense of alarm and urgency, for which, as he told himself, there was really very little cause. But with Zahar on his mind his fears for him were redoubled. Ambrimos, he was sure, was not a man to waste time. If he was fearful of what Zahar might divulge he would act quickly to prevent it. In vain did Biggles tell himself that such fears were groundless—that the car might have gone out on anyone of a hundred errands. But he could not rid himself of the thought that he had put Zahar’s life in jeopardy, and if his fears were realised, he would never forgive himself. Yet there was nothing he could do. Zahar lived some distance away, in the native quarter. Whatever he did he could not get to the man’s house before the car, if that was in fact the objective for which the car was making. Nor was there any way in which he could get in touch with Zahar. Controlling his impotence, not without difficulty, he lit a cigarette.

  For a moment he toyed with the idea of rushing to the house in the hope of finding the garage open and another car in it, for he remembered that Norman had mentioned that Ambrimos owned two or three. With a car, by speeding, he might still race the dark saloon. But common sense forced him to abandon this scheme. The circumstances did not justify such a desperate expedient. Had he been in a position to prove that Ambrimos was engaged in the drug traffic he would have risked it, knowing that Ambrimos would not dare to complain that a car of his had been stolen—for that is what it would amount to. But what if the Sultan was, after all, an innocent man? In that case he would certainly kick up a fuss, for which he could hardly be blamed. Nor would Biggles’s excuse, that he suspected the man of drug-running, improve matters. No, decided Biggles. To put himself, a policeman, on the wrong side of the law was a risk he dare not take. It looked as if he could do no more than wait for the car to return.

  Yet what purpose would that serve, he pondered? He would learn no more than he had when the car went out. He thought of closing the iron gates. That would force the car to stop. But even then he would not be able to see inside it. The interior would still be in darkness, and he had no torch. That was his real problem.

  Sitting on the bank to think the matter over, he estimated that if the car had gone to the native quarter it should be back in half an hour. If the man in it had killed Zahar he could do no more than try to bring the murderer to justice. Actually, he did not think this would happen, although it might happen later. It was far more likely that Ambrimos would want to talk to Zahar, if only to find out who had brought him back to Aden. He would be anxious to know if Zahar had told his rescuer about Hamud, and the reason for the visit to the wadi. With this information in his possession the Sultan could liquidate the Arab at his convenience.

  That would be better than murdering the man in his own home, which would bring in the police. No. Zahar was a man who often disappeared for long periods. If he went away and did not come back no one would worry about him.

  Feeling slightly better for this comforting thought, Biggles dropped his cigarette and put his foot on it.

  He still had not worked out how he could see the inside of the car when it returned. All he wanted to know was if Zahar was in it. If he was not, well and good. If he was, then he would soon have
him out of it, or it was unlikely that he would ever be seen again. How this was to be done without being seen himself at first appeared impossible. If he were seen, the fact would be reported to Ambrimos even if the Sultan himself was not in the car. Ambrimos would guess the reason for his interference and take warning. It would then be open war between them. Still, it was a risk that would have to be taken, resolved Biggles, for the thought of Zahar dying as a result of his own indiscretion lay heavily on his conscience.

  He looked at his watch. He still had a quarter of an hour to wait. If the car was not back in an hour, he might, he thought, assume that he had been mistaken in its purpose, in which case he himself would go to Zahar and move him to a safe place.

  Still thinking, and regretting that he had not brought his torch, an idea occurred to him. There was, after all, one way in which a light could be thrown on the scene. It involved risks, but since a man’s life was at stake they were worth taking. Making up his mind quickly he set about putting the plan into action.

  Moving quickly but quietly, keeping in the deepest shadows, he returned to the Villa, but instead of taking the carriage-way to the front door, kept to a secondary road which, as he expected, took him to the courtyard at the rear, around which the outbuildings were situated. The double doors of a big garage gaped like a cavern. There was no one about although some of the windows of the house showed lights, so without hesitation he went straight over to the garage and walked in. A match, quickly extinguished, revealed three cars. The most convenient looked like a new American Buick. He got into the driver’s seat, closed the door quietly and started the engine. The only sound it made to indicate that it was running was a gentle purr. Without switching on the lights he took the car out into the courtyard, turned, and without being challenged ran it down the drive stopping just inside the gates. Here he put on the hand-brake and switched off, so that the car effectually blocked the drive. Satisfied with this arrangement he got out, and leaving the door open took up a position in the shrubs near at hand. In the darkness the car was no more than a vague silhouette. Not a sound broke the silence of the sultry night.

  Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. No one came into the drive. No one left the house. Biggles was not concerned anyway. If the car did not soon return he thought he could go home with a fair assurance that he had been mistaken in its mission.

  However, things did not fall out that way. Shortly afterwards he heard a car approaching the drive, and from the way it slowed down he knew it was going to turn in. This, of course, confirmed his suspicions concerning its errand, and he moved quickly. First, he switched on the lights of the Buick, sending a white blaze straight down the drive. Then, bending low and keeping in the shrubs, he hurried to the gates, a matter of perhaps a dozen paces. By the time he had reached them the driver of the black saloon finding himself confronted by another vehicle which blocked the road, had stopped. He sounded his horn impatiently. As nothing happened he sounded it again. A few seconds later, as this had no effect he behaved as would any driver in such circumstances.

  He flung open the door, got out, and walked towards the offending vehicle to see what was happening. Biggles, who could of course see everything plainly in the head—lights, noticed that the man was a negro, in the usual uniform of his trade.

  This was the moment for which he had waited.

  Everything depended on the next few minutes. Stepping out of the shrubs behind the black saloon he looked in through the nearest window. One glance was enough, for in the blinding head-lights of the Buick the interior of the car was as brightly illuminated as he had hoped it would be. Three Arabs were sitting on the back seat. The middle one was Zahar.

  Feeling now on safer ground Biggles went to the nearest door and threw it open. “Hallo, Zahar!” he said. “You’re the very man I’ve been looking for.”

  “He no come,” rapped out one of the others harshly.

  “Oh yes he can. I want to talk to him,” said Biggles curtly. “Come on, Zahar.”

  Zahar moved, looking somewhat bewildered by this unexpected event.

  One of the other Arabs held him back.

  Biggles’s manner became brittle. “Come on, Zahar, I want you,” he said tersely.

  One of the Arabs thrust a hand into his gumbez, where, Biggles did not doubt, he carried a dagger.

  But Biggles had his automatic out before he could produce it. “None of that,” he snapped. Then, to Zahar: “Come on!”

  Zahar, looking uncomfortable, obeyed. His escort scowled but did nothing, for which Biggles was glad, because out of the corner of his eye he could see the chauffeur returning; and the last thing he wanted was a fracas which could hardly fail to have awkward after-effects.

  As soon as Zahar was out of the car Biggles slammed the door, caught the Arab by the arm and dragged him round the corner. “Quick,” he muttered, “those Arabs were going to kill you.”

  “But Sahib, they asked me to come with them to Ambrimos, who has backsheesh for me.”

  Biggles, still walking, answered: “In that house you would have died. Ambrimos is the man who ordered Hamud to leave you in the sands.”

  This, as Biggles realised, was rather stretching the point, but he was anxious that Zahar should be aware of his danger. The Arab did not answer. Apparently the statement had given him food for thought. Looking back Biggles could see the chauffeur and his companions standing in the road, apparently at a loss to know what to do. He took a side turning and saw no more of them.

  In a way he was sorry about what had happened, for it would inevitably tell Ambrimos more than he was ready for him to know. But there had been no alternative. He could not calmly stand there and watch Zahar go to his death—for he was positive that had the Arab entered the Villa he would never have left it alive. He could only hope that Ambrimos, in his alarm that would follow the incident, would make some blunder, some hasty move, that would incriminate him. For that the Sultan was concerned with Hamud and the gurra racket was no longer in doubt. His anxiety to get hold of Zahar was proof of that.

  As soon as he thought they were safe from pursuit, Biggles stopped. “What story did those Arabs tell you?” he asked his companion.

  “They came to me like friends—may God forgive them,” answered Zahar. “They said to me, our master has heard that you have suffered in the desert and would know the truth of it. For this he will reward you with backsheesh.”

  “I have reason to think it was he who sent Hamud to the Wadi al Arwat with orders to collect the gum, and afterwards leave you to die,” said Biggles. “Doubtless he thought you were dead, for that is what Hamud would tell him; but learning that you had returned he would have questioned you, and when he had learned all that you could tell him his Arabs would have cut your throat so that you could tell no one else about what happened at the wadi.”

  “May God punish him,” muttered Zahar fervently.

  “I shall be God’s willing tool in this matter,” promised Biggles grimly. “That is, if you will help me.”

  “Wallah! You may rely on it,” swore Zahar.

  “If you will enter my service you will be well paid and there will be no risk of prison at the end of it,” suggested Biggles.

  “It shall be as you say, Sahib.”

  “Then tell me this,” requested Biggles. “Have you ever worked for Ambrimos?”

  Zahar hesitated. “Thus was it written,” he admitted sadly.

  “What work did you do?”

  Again the Arab hesitated.

  “Shall I tell you?” murmured Biggles softly. Zahar looked startled. “It is said,” went on Biggles distinctly, “that you carried hashish for him.”

  “I cannot deny it,” admitted Zahar. “But how could you know of this?”

  “Never mind how I know. Many stories come to my ear,” asserted Biggles tritely. “Was Hamud in this business with you?”

  “He was, and it is only because the traitor tried to kill me that I will speak of what I know, for my lips were sealed,” an
swered Zahar. “Always we worked for the Sultan at the time our camels were moulting. We stuck the kief on their skins and on it the hair that had fallen off, so that no one guessed what we carried under our baggage.”

  “Kief?” queried Biggles. “What is this?”

  “It is the best of all hashish, made from the flowers of the plant and therefore worth most money,” explained Zahar. “It is true that the Sultan would sell the top leaves of the plant, which is the common hashish, or the gum, which is called charas. But the rest of the plant, which is called gunjah, the Sultan threw away, because he wanted only the best hashish.”

  “Then the Sultan not only sells hashish but is a producer of it?” prompted Biggles.

  “That is the truth.”

  “And you would, no doubt, remember the place from where you fetched it?”

  “We fetched it from the place where the accursed plant was grown, O sahib,” stated Zahar.

  “Grown!” Biggles stared, knowing that the cultivation of the hemp plant, from which hashish is derived, is confined mostly to Turkey, Greece and Afghanistan. “Do you mean the Sultan grows his own plants in this part of the world?”

  “He grows it in the country of the Danokali, on the other side of the Red Sea, at a place called El Moab,” declared Zahar. “There, in a wadi, he has a great store of water saved from the time of the rains, and this makes it possible to grow the plant even in the dry season.”

  To Biggles this was news indeed. “Just where is this place, El Moab?” he asked.

  “It is in the desert behind Marsa Mekel, which is a small port on the coast, Sahib. From El Moab, most of the hashish goes by camel, but some goes straight to Egypt by aeroplane.”