Sergeant Bigglesworth C.I.D Read online

  A quick examination of the room yielded only one more item of interest. In a small toilet attached to the office Ginger found shaving kit that had recently been used. Judging from the state in which it had been left the user had been in a hurry. Biggles recovered a number of long fair hairs from the grid at the top of the waste pipe.

  “A man doesn’t shave his head,” he observed. “It looks as if Preuss has taken off his moustache.”

  “That won’t be much of a disguise,” sneered Ginger.

  “I don’t think that was the idea,” returned Biggles. “Remember the tuft of hair in Schneider’s hand? We assumed it was torn from Preuss’s head, but in view of this I’d say it came from his moustache. Rather than walk about with lopsided whiskers Preuss has made a clean job by taking the lot off—at least, that’s how it looks to me.”

  A close scrutiny of the wall map did not reveal the pencil marks Biggles hoped to find. Nor was there anything of interest in, or on, the desk, which was furnished with the usual office equipment. The only unusual object—not unusual, perhaps, considering the proximity of the drawing-office—was a pair of dividers, which lay on the blotting-pad with legs wide apart. Ginger would have picked them up, but Biggles stopped him.

  “Just a minute,” he said. “We may have something here. I’ve used a pair of dividers a good many times to plot a course—so have you. Preuss probably used these for the same purpose. The trouble about using dividers is that one is apt to prick the map, particularly at one’s base, which is always the central point—for which reason maps captured from airmen are highly esteemed by the Intelligence Branch. If the distance between the points of this instrument are in relation to the scale of the map, Preuss has gone a long way— not less than a thousand miles, for a guess. Let’s try our luck.”

  Crossing to the map he lifted it from its nail, and standing behind it held it up against the electric light globe. “Ah,” he breathed. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Come and look at this.”

  Joining him, Ginger saw a number of tiny points of light where the map had been punctured, most of them grouped closely around one that was larger than the rest. At some distance lower on the map there was a single isolated puncture.

  “The large hole will, of course, be Augsburg,” said Biggles. “It’s larger than the rest because whatever journey is intended it is always used. Those surrounding it are so close that they must be other aerodromes in Germany. Bear in mind that over a period of time several people have probably used this map. The hole that interests me is this little fellow all by itself, way down south.” Biggles applied the dividers, and clicked his tongue triumphantly when the points of the instrument precisely covered the gap between it and Augsburg.

  The back of the map was, of course, plain; there was nothing to indicate the geographical position of the localities marked. But these were soon ascertained. Biggles ordered Ginger to go round to the front of the map and name the places where a point of the dividers appeared.

  “That should be Augsburg,” he averred, making his first point.

  “Quite right,” confirmed Ginger.

  “What about this one?” Biggles inserted the point in the lower puncture.

  “You’re in Africa—North Africa,” answered Ginger in a tense voice.

  “North Africa is a big place—kindly be a little more precise,” invited Biggles.

  “Tripolitania—close to Tripoli,” said Ginger. “By gosh! I’ve got it. It’s Castel Benito aerodrome.”

  “We’re getting warm,” declared Biggles. “I’m not interested in the other places—they’re all more or less local. I don’t think the map will tell us any more.” He re-hung it on the wall.

  “You think Castel Benito is the base from which the gang is operating?” inquired Ginger eagerly.

  Biggles shook his head. “No. They may use it—in fact, that seems certain. But so do other people use it. I should say it’s more likely that Castel Benito is the jumping-off place for the real hide-out. No matter, we’re on the track.”

  “How about running down to Castel Benito on the chance of finding Preuss there?” suggested Ginger.

  “If he follows his usual procedure he will already be on his way back,” Biggles pointed out. “Apart from that, we can’t leave here until we get the message from Algy. We’ll wait for Preuss to come in—we may learn something. We could always run down to Tripoli later on. But let’s get out of this while the going’s good.”

  They left the office as they had entered, locking the door behind them and leaving the key in the lock. As they dropped through the window to the tarmac the hum of the power plant in the workshop died away. Dawn was just breaking.

  Biggles glanced at his wrist-watch. “Six o’clock,” he observed. “The men are knocking off work.”

  “Aren’t you going to try to find out what they are doing?” asked Ginger.

  “I don’t care much what they’re doing,” answered Biggles. “The knowledge wouldn’t help us. These fellows are only accessories; they may not even know what the gang is doing. Neither do we, for certain, if it comes to that. Let’s go over to our hangar and get out of sight.”

  “If we’ve got to search the whole of Tripolitania looking for the Renkells we’ve got a big job in front of us,” remarked Ginger, as they walked on.

  “I’m hoping it won’t come to that,” replied Biggles. “When we know where Baumer and Scaroni served during the North African campaigns I fancy we shall be on the right track. I’ll tell you what. There’s no need for both of us to stay here on the aerodrome. You stick around and watch for the Swan to come back. Make a note of what Preuss does and try to get a dekko at the machine. If it’s been in the desert there should be sand stuck on the oil stains, for instance. I’ll go down to the hotel and wait for the messages. If I see Howath I’ll ask him to use his private wire to get a signal through to Alexandria asking Algy and Bertie to stay there pending further instructions. There’s no point in their coming all the way back. If I miss Howath, you can ask him to send the signal when he comes in. I also want to get in touch with the Yard, to see if they’ve discovered anything about Scaroni. I’ll join you later. Call me on the telephone if Preuss comes back.” Biggles departed.

  It was nine-thirty when he returned to the aerodrome, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise when Ginger told him that the Swan had not shown up.

  “In that case I’ll take over while you slip down to the hotel for breakfast,” suggested Biggles. “When you’re through, you may as well pay the bill and check out.”

  “Then you’re leaving?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about the messages?”

  “I’ve got them. Algy found the wheel marks on the sand about twenty miles north of Bahrein. He landed and measured the track. It was four metres, which confirms, definitely, that the Renkell prototypes are the machines being used by the crooks. I never had much doubt about it, but now we have concrete evidence. The chance of another machine with that wheel track—even if one exists—landing on the shore of the Persian Gulf, is so remote that we needn’t consider it. I saw Howath, and got him to send a signal to Alex to hold the Mosquito there until we get in touch. Another interesting item of news I got from the Yard is, Scaroni was an officer of the regular Italian Air Force. Nearly all his service was in North Africa. He was supply and transport officer attached to Escadrille Thirty-three, which fought in Abyssinia, and was later stationed at Benghazi, Castel Benito, and El Zufra.”

  “Where the deuce is El Zufra?”

  “I looked it up. It’s an oasis right down in the Libyan desert. The Italians must have used it during the fighting there. The most interesting thing about that is, if Scaroni was in charge of transport and supplies, he would have the handling of the petrol. Maybe he alone knows where a lot of it was hidden when the Italians were pushed out of their African Empire. Anyway, it’s a million pounds to a brass farthing that it is from such a dump that the Renkell machines are getting their oil and petrol. The thin
g begins to fit together. Baumer had the machines. Scaroni had the petrol. Gontermann, who is wanted by the British authorities anyway, has knowledge and experience of the jewel trade, and crook methods of disposing of gems. Preuss, in the Swan, runs a communication machine between the gang and civilisation, in case anything is urgently needed. Just how Renkell fits in we have yet to find out—unless he’s a sort of general mechanic.”

  “What about this alleged American?” queried Ginger.

  “That’s a puzzler,” confessed Biggles. “As I see it, one of two things happened. Either Gontermann, thinking he could use him, got him out of jail, or else Grindler—if it is Grindler—got out on his own account and came over here gunning for Gontermann—the man who had squealed on him. Having caught up with him he learned about the new racket; so instead of bumping Gontermann off, and returning to the States, broke, and a hunted man into the bargain, he joined the gang, which gave him a chance of keeping clear of the police and making a packet of money at the same time. By the way, I’ve told the Yard that we shall be leaving here shortly.”

  “Did the B.B.C. pick up anything on the air?”

  “No—not so far. They’re still listening.”

  “Have you decided definitely to go to Africa?”

  “Yes. I want to see Preuss land, first, though.”

  “Okay,” agreed Ginger. “I’ll slip down for some breakfast and bring the kit along.” He went off.

  When he returned an hour later Biggles was still sitting in the hangar. He looked perplexed.

  “Isn’t Preuss back yet?” cried Ginger.

  “Not a sign of him,” answered Biggles. “Apparently, either something has happened to keep him at Castel Benito, or wherever he’s gone, or else he’s had a forced landing.”

  “Perhaps he isn’t coming back. Maybe he’s got the wind up, and bolted?” offered Ginger.

  “That didn’t occur to me,” admitted Biggles. “I must admit it’s a possibility, although I can’t think it’s likely. I made a mistake in assuming that he was coming straight back because he has always done so in the past. It’s time I knew that it doesn’t do to take anything for granted. His non-return certainly makes a difference. For one thing, it means that unless he’s also going to break his rule about daylight flying he won’t start back until this evening, in which case we could get to North Africa before he leaves. We’ll give him a little longer. If he isn’t back by noon we’ll make a fast run down to Castel Benito in the hope of catching him there.”

  “With what particular object?”

  “It would confirm that Castel Benito is being used by the gang.”

  “He’ll see us, and tip off the gang not to use the aerodrome any more.”

  “What of it? They can’t have many landing-grounds available, and by scotching them off we shall cramp their style.”

  When noon came, and still Preuss did not show up, Biggles climbed into his seat, took off, and headed south.

  The Spur covered the twelve hundred miles between Augsburg and Tripoli at cruising speed in a trifle over four hours, arriving in sight of the hot, dusty aerodrome, shortly after four o’clock. While they were still some distance away Ginger noted two aircraft on the ground. Both were painted yellow. One was the Swan. It was just taking off. He shouted, but Biggles had also seen it, and swerved away to the west, into the glare of the sinking sun, to avoid being seen. The Swan held on a straight course due north.

  “He took off in daylight after all!” cried Ginger.

  “It will be dusk by the time he reaches the far side of the Mediterranean,” Biggles pointed out.

  Ginger turned to look at the second machine, and saw that it was streaking across the aerodrome towards the south-east. He uttered a cry of amazement, for although he had never seen the machine before he knew from its unorthodox lines that it was the Renkell transport.

  “By gosh! We’ve got it!” he cried.

  “Got what?” asked Biggles evenly.

  “The Renkell! Aren’t you going to follow it?”

  “Look at the petrol gauge,” invited Biggles.

  Ginger looked, and saw with dismay that they were down to the last few gallons. He groaned.

  “I don’t mind taking risks,” went on Biggles, “but I draw the line at starting off across the Libyan desert with an empty tank.”

  “We can fill up at the aerodrome.”

  “By the time I’ve got this aircraft on the ground, and refuelled, the Renkell will be a hundred miles away,” answered Biggles dryly.

  “Then what are we going to do?” asked Ginger, in a disappointed voice.

  “We’ll get some juice in the tank for a start,” replied Biggles, as he took the Spur down and landed, finishing his run near the control building, adding another little cloud of dust to those that had been thrown up by the departing machines.

  As they climbed out, an unshaven man in a faded, untidy Italian uniform, came to meet them. Apart from him the aerodrome was deserted. The buildings still showed marks of the war.

  “Are you in charge here?” asked Biggles in English.

  “I am da manager,” was the curt reply, in the same language.

  “I need some petrol,” announced Biggles.

  “No petrol.”

  Biggles started. “What! What about those two machines that just took off? You filled them up with petrol didn’t you?”

  “Si, signor, but they had special carnets,” was the suave reply.

  “Is that so?” murmured Biggles frostily, looking hard at the man. “Now you listen to me, amico, I’ve got a special carnet, too, so trot out your petrol, presto.”

  The Italian affected a look of distress. “But the meccanos—they are resting.”

  Biggles tapped him gently on the chest. “Signor,” he said softly, “I’m on British Government business. If my machine isn’t refuelled by the time I’ve had a cup of coffee—say, twenty minutes—I shall make a report that there is an obstructionist at Castel Benito. If I do that you can start looking for a new job. Now, do I get the petrol?”

  “Si, signor,” muttered the Italian.

  “I shall keep an eye on you through the window,” cautioned Biggles, and walked on towards a door conspicuously marked Ristorante.

  “From that fellow’s attitude I should say he’s in the racket,” remarked Ginger.

  “Of course he is,” agreed Biggles. “Or at any rate, he’s on the pay-roll. There’s no other reason why he should deny us the petrol. No doubt he would have produced some eventually, but he had no intention of doing so until those crook machines were well on their way. The Renkell, I imagine, has departed for its base, and from the line it took that might be El Zufra. The oasis lies south-east from here. The two machines met on this aerodrome. Was that, I wonder, a previous arrangement, or did Preuss dash down to warn the gang that inquiries were being made at Augsburg?”

  “Either way, no doubt he’s tipped them off,” asserted Ginger.

  “He’s bound to have done that,” agreed Biggles. “How much he has told them depends on how much he himself knows about us. One thing is certain. We’re a lot nearer to the headquarters of the gang than we were at Augsburg. I don’t suppose there will be anybody in here, so we’ll talk things over.”

  Biggles pushed open the door of the restaurant and went in.

  On this occasion he was wrong. A man, a youngish, dark-skinned man, dressed in slovenly tropical kit, was sitting at a small table drinking coffee. A peculiar feeling came over Ginger that he had seen him before, but he could not remember where. For a moment he groped in the mist of uncertainty; then, in a flash, he knew. He had seen the man, but not in life. He had seen his photograph, and he had seen it too recently for there to be any mistake. It was the Italian ex-officer whose portrait Biggles had found in Preuss’s office—Carlos Scaroni.

  Ginger glanced at Biggles, knowing that he, too, must have recognised him. But Biggles’s face, as he pulled out a chair at another table and sat down, was expressionless. However, aft
er a moment or two his eyes met Ginger’s. He winked.

  “That’s something I didn’t expect,” he murmured.

  Scaroni took not the slightest notice of them, which puzzled Ginger not a little, because even though the Italian had never seen them before, he must have watched the machine land; and if Preuss had mentioned them he would certainly have described the aircraft that had landed at Augsburg, particularly an outstanding aircraft like the Spur. At least, so thought Ginger.

  His cogitations were interrupted when an inner door was opened and a second man appeared. He was immaculately, if somewhat loudly, dressed in ultra-smart European clothes. Ginger was astonished when he joined the Italian, for they were an ill-matched pair. The table, he now noticed, was laid for two. Then the newcomer spoke to his companion.

  “Say, why don’t you run your ships on time, like we do in the States?” he drawled irritably.

  Ginger stiffened when Biggles addressed the American—it was so unexpected.

  “Excuse me,” said Biggles, “but I couldn’t help overhearing your remark. Do I understand that a regular service runs through here?”

  “Sure,” Was the easy reply. “The dagoes have got a line running from Rome to Alex, via Tripoli and Benghazi. We’re waiting for it, but like everything else in this goldarned country, it’s late.”

  “Thanks,” acknowledged Biggles.

  At this point the Italian said something to his companion in a voice so low that Ginger did not catch the words. Whatever it was, it altered the expression on the American’s face. His right hand moved slowly inside his coat towards his left armpit, and his eyes, pale and cold like those of a fish, came round to rest on Biggles’s face.

  “You figgerin’ on staying in these parts, mister?” he asked, in a thin, dry voice.

  “Maybe,” answered Biggles noncommittally.