Biggles Takes The Case Read online

  Biggles pushed his way to the front, his camera raised. An instant later came a blinding flash followed by a dense cloud of white smoke which enveloped visitors and spectators alike in its reeking coils.

  The chorus of startled cries and shouts of alarm that arose were heard plainly by Ginger, sitting in the cockpit of the Mosquito a hundred yards away. Watching, with nerves braced, he saw Biggles burst out of the crowd, the blue case in his left hand, and start to run, followed closely by another man who groped in his pocket as he ran. The man’s hand came up. A pistol cracked. Biggles swerved, but raced on towards the Mosquito, swerving again to spoil the aim of the man who was shooting at him.

  By this time Ginger’s pistol was out; but he hesitated to shoot for fear that Biggles’ pursuer was a member of the Rajah’s staff, or a genuine detective. Then, seeing that Biggles was in real danger, he fired two quick shots into the ground close to the feet of the pursuer. This had the desired effect. The man stopped, hesitated, then fired at the aircraft, without hitting it, however.

  Biggles raced up, panting, and took a flying leap into the Mosquito. “Get going,” he said tersely, dropping into the spare seat.

  Ginger was ready. The motors bellowed. The Mosquito quivered as it moved.

  The tail lifted, and a moment later the machine was in the air, skimming low over the boundary fence. For a few seconds Ginger held the aircraft down; then he eased the control column back in a climbing turn and took up the prearranged course.

  “What happened?” he demanded. “Were the crooks there?”

  “They certainly were,” answered Biggles, who, with the jewel case on his lap, was still breathing heavily. “They nearly beat me to it. I was just moving in when there was a bang as a smoke bomb exploded. Actually, it helped me. I grabbed the case and bolted.”

  “Who was that fellow after you—the little dark chap?”

  “I think he was one of the crooks, but I’m not sure. He made a grab for the case just as I did—in fact we both got hold of it together; but I socked him on the jaw, got clear and ran. Go easy while I have a look behind. We mustn’t get too far in front in case they lose sight of us.”

  Biggles studied the sky astern for a minute before he spoke again. Then he said: “Okay; they’re after us. It’s the red-painted Volting. I thought that might be the machine. Keep going, but don’t let them get too close in case they’ve machine guns aboard.”

  Ginger settled down for the run to France.

  The flight passed without incident. The Volting hung on the Mosquito’s tail, but Ginger, in the faster machine, took care that it was never close enough to do any mischief.

  Eventually, with the Margon airfield on the horizon, under Biggles’ instruction Ginger, as if suddenly aware that he was being pursued, forged on ahead, and while the American machine was still a speck in the sky, landed and taxied up to the airport buildings. The only other machine on the landing ground was a drab-looking Tiger Moth.

  The airport manager was waiting. It turned out that, at Biggle’s request, he had been warned by Scotland Yard, via Police Headquarters in Paris, of what was afoot, so when Biggles had shown his credentials he announced that he was ready to co-operate in any way. Biggles thanked him, told him that there was nothing he could do and would be well advised to keep out of the way. Then, leaving the Mosquito where it stood, taking the blue jewel case with him Biggles led the way to the refreshment room.

  There were two other people present, sitting at separate tables, each with tea in front of him. One was a parson, presumably a French curé, and the other, a mechanic of some sort, dressed in blue overalls with beret pulled on at a rakish angle. After a perfunctory glance Ginger paid no further attention to them, his interest being taken up by the Volting which, he could see through the window, had just landed and was taxiing tail up towards the Mosquito.

  A neat waitress came from behind the refreshment counter and asked the travellers what they would like. Biggles ordered tea and some biscuits, which were quickly brought.

  Biggles sipped his tea and took a bite out of a biscuit.

  Ginger, with his eye on the door, said softly, “Here they are. There are three of them. They’ve left their motor ticking over so I imagine the pilot is still in the machine. That makes four of them altogether.”

  “Okay,” murmured Biggles. “Keep calm.”

  Ginger reached for a biscuit, but his mind was certainly not on food. He was wondering just how they would be approached by the jewel thieves— for that they would be approached he had no doubt whatever.

  His mental question was soon answered. The three newcomers, one of whom he recognised instantly as the little dark man who had chased Biggles at Gatwick, strode up to the table at which they sat. Biggles did not move. He appeared to be unaware of their presence.

  One of the men, presumably the leader, as he was slightly in front, a tall good looking man with cold grey eyes and a hard mouth, spoke briefly but to the point. “Come on,” he said harshly. “Hand ‘em over.”

  Biggles glanced up. “Are you talking to me?”

  “I am,” was the snapped reply.

  “What do you want?” inquired Biggles.

  “You know what I want—hand them over,” rapped out the man. And as he spoke he reached out for the blue case which lay on a spare chair close to the tea table.

  But Biggles was first. He put his right hand firmly on the case. “That is not your property,” he said quietly.

  “Quit quibbling,” snarled the man, and knocking Biggles’ hand aside he snatched up the case.

  Biggles shrugged. “And just what do you think you are going to find in that case?” he inquired evenly.

  There was a moment of brittle silence, and Ginger braced himself for the clash which he felt was imminent.

  The little dark man spoke in a voice with a curious foreign accent. “Open der case and make sure de pearls are in it,” he rasped.

  Biggles shook his head sadly. “If it’s the Rajah’s pearls you’re looking for you’re on the wrong track,” he said.

  Again a nasty silence fell. Nobody spoke. Then, moving quickly, with his eyes on Biggles’ face, the man who held the case snapped it open. It was empty. He drew a deep breath. “Where are they?” he grated through his teeth.

  “In the strong room at the Savoy Hotel, London, I imagine, by this time,” replied Biggles calmly. “At my suggestion the pearls were put in another bag before this pretty blue case left the machine.”

  Another silence. The tall man stared at Biggles as if fascinated. “Who are you?” he managed to get out.

  “Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth of Scotland Yard,” replied Biggles. “Are you coming quietly?”

  The tall man had a pistol out in a flash. Cursing viciously he pointed the muzzle at Biggles’ head. A shot crashed. But Biggles did not move a muscle. Instead, the tall man staggered, clutching at a shattered arm while his pistol thudded on the floor.

  Ginger, amazed, looked round, and saw that the man whom he had taken to be a priest was standing up, a smoking revolver in his hand and a monocle in his eye. Ginger gasped as he recognised Air Constable Bertie Lissie.

  The mechanic was also on his feet, pistol at the ready. Ginger recognised Algy Lacey.

  The pilot of the crook aircraft, having apparently heard the shot, dashed into the room. “What goes on?” he demanded.

  “You’ll find out,” answered Biggles curtly. “Stand still, I want you too. And let me warn you all, if you still fancy your chance of getting away, that there is a cordon of French police round the building—all burning to avenge their comrade whom you murdered last week in Paris.”

  Nobody moved.

  Biggles stood up and took out his handcuffs. Algy and Bertie closed in.

  The handcuffs clicked. Biggles whistled. A French inspector of police, followed by several gendarmes, bustled in.

  “Here are your men, Monsieur,” said Biggles. “I’ll leave them with you for the time being. I shall have to be gett
ing back to Scotland Yard.” He turned to the others with a faint smile. “All the same, I think we have time to finish our tea before we go.”

  Ginger sat down limply. “Well I’m dashed,” he breathed. “I said it was a fine day for doing something exciting.”

  “And as it turned out, it was,” returned Biggles, reaching for the teapot.

  [Back to Contents]

  AFRICAN ASSIGNMENT

  AIR COMMODORE RAYMOND, Assistant Commissioner of Police at Scotland Yard, looked up from some papers on his desk as Biggles walked in and closed the door behind him. “‘Morning, Bigglesworth,” he greeted curtly.

  “‘Morning, sir.”

  “Busy?”

  “Not frantically, at the moment.”

  “How would you like a run out to Central Africa?”

  Biggles’ face expressed no surprise as he took a cigarette from the box the Air Commodore had pushed forward. “What is it this time?” he inquired.

  “I don’t know,” answered the Air Commodore frankly. “That’s what I want you to find out. I have here a report from the Colonial Office. They don’t know, either. I happened to be dining with the Colonial Secretary last night and he hinted pretty broadly that he would like to know.”

  “I gather an aircraft comes into the picture?”

  “In a vague sort of way.”

  “Tell me how an aircraft can be vague?” invited Biggles. “Either there is one or there isn’t.”

  “Sit down and I’ll give you the gen.”

  Biggles pulled up a chair and lit his cigarette.

  “The area with which we are concerned,” began the Air Commodore, “is a small native reserve just inside our territory near the boundaries of Kenya, French Equatorial Africa and the Belgian Congo. It is known as the Ubeni Reserve. It is occupied by a tribe of that name who live mostly in a village of that name.”

  Biggles smiled faintly. “That simplifies the name aspect, anyhow.”

  “The village is situated on the shore of Lake Kulu, a piece of water about forty miles long which occupies the centre of the reserve,” continued the Air Commodore. “These people apparently, have always been a bit backward. A few were recruited as labourers for the mines at Kimberley some time ago, but not liking work they returned home. We’ve never had any serious trouble in the Reserve, largely, perhaps, because the Head Game Ranger has closed his eyes to the poaching of protected game. There’s nothing unusual about that. Most natives are poachers by nature, but we don’t mind as long as the thing is kept within reasonable limits. On the whole the Ubeni are a surly lot, for which reason they seldom have visitors—I mean white men. So much for the place and the people.

  “The first indication that things were not normal came in a report from Captain Callingham, the Assistant Game Ranger into whose district the Ubeni Reserve falls. He looks in about once a year just to remind the people that he exists; for Ubeni, you must understand, is not an easy place to reach on foot. Being a government official, Callingham has never been what you might call welcomed with open arms; but on the last occasion he went there, some months ago, he detected an atmosphere of definite hostility. There was no actual violence, but Callingham knew from experience that he was on thin ice, and, wisely perhaps, retired. The reason for such a reception was not disclosed, but that there was one we need not doubt. Something, or someone, was responsible, and Callingham, wise in such matters, suspected the influence of a white man.”

  “Was a white man known to be in the district at the time?” inquired Biggles.

  “Yes, but as far as the behaviour of the natives is concerned he can be ruled out, since he was, there is reason to suppose, their victim. He was a well known character, a Scot by the name of Angus Soutar, a widower, and a trader of the old school who, being thoroughly trustworthy, worked under a government licence. His native name was Sootoo. He has a son, Thomas, a boy of sixteen. This lad, having been educated in England, joined his father about six months ago on what was to be his first trading trip. I suppose the old man was getting on in years and wanted to teach his boy the business with a view to his taking over when he himself was past it. It’s a hard life, this trekking round the outlying districts with no home but an ox wagon, bartering trade goods for anything of a commercial nature. Still, apparently the old man liked the life. He, like the Game Ranger, looked in at Ubeni about once a year. He called there a little while ago and he hasn’t been seen since. His son came home, and it was the story he told that has resulted in this conversation.” The Air Commodore reached for another cigarette before he continued.

  “About two months ago, this boy, Tommy Soutar, turned up, alone and on foot, at Juba, in Equatoria, with a strange story, but one that was confirmed by his condition, for he was pretty well all in. He said that with his father he had been to the Ubeni Reserve where they had found the natives off-hand to the point of being insolent. It was clear that they were not wanted. It was the first time that the old man had met with such a reception and he was upset about it. Some of the natives appeared to be drunk, and, in fact some empty gin bottles were seen. Some had bedecked themselves with empty sardine tins, jam jars, and similar hardwear, and the conclusion Soutar came to was that either a white man had given them these things in return for services rendered, or else they had encountered and robbed someone. Perceiving that if he stayed he might himself be robbed, Soutar decided to move on.

  “They went on, Tommy says, for about ten miles, following the edge of the lake to keep in touch with water for their oxen, and then outspanned for the night. Just at sundown a native, a Ubeni, appeared on their trail. His manner, the boy described as furtive, as if he was afraid of being followed. The old man spoke to him in his own language, which the boy did not understand. As a result of a conversation Angus Soutar went into the wagon, brought out a considerable quantity of tobacco, and gave it to the fellow. In return, Tommy noticed, he received a small oblong tin with a blue lid. The native departed. The old man took the tin into the wagon. Tommy never saw it again. He has no idea of what was in it. It struck him that his father seemed worried, for he sat, deep in thought, as if pondering a difficult problem. At last he got up and said: ‘There’s dirty work going on at Ubeni and I’m going to get to the bottom of it. Wait here till I come back.’ Then, as an afterthought, he added: ‘If I don’t come back go to the District Officer.’ With that he went off in the direction of Ubeni. Tommy never saw him again.

  “The boy waited up all night. When at dawn his father had not returned he set off to look for him. He went, he thinks, about three or four miles, and then came upon something that threw him into a panic—as well it might. It was the native who had come to their camp. He was dead— speared to death. The tobacco had gone. Tommy ran back to the wagon. He was sure now that disaster had overtaken his father, but what could he do, alone? He couldn’t take on the whole tribe of Ubeni single-handed. In the end he did the most sensible thing—the thing his father had advised. He inspanned the oxen and drove off in the hope of finding help.

  “Later that day he saw something which has resulted in my telling you this story. It was an aeroplane. It was well out over the lake, coming from the direction of Ubeni. It disappeared to the north.”

  “He didn’t by any chance recognise the type?” interposed Biggles.

  “No. He was not particularly concerned with it beyond the fact that he wondered what it was doing there. But let me finish the boy’s story. That night came the final calamity. The oxen were attacked by lions, and those that weren’t killed, stampeded. Without any means of transport Tommy did the only thing he could do. He loaded himself up with all the food he could carry and set off on foot. A fortnight later, near starvation, he was lucky to meet some friendly natives who took him to the nearest white settlement, from where he was passed on to Juba, where he told his story.”

  Biggles stubbed his cigarette. “And what does all this add up to?”

  The Air Commodore shrugged. “Simply this. Something is going on at Ubeni. Ther
e’s a chance that an aircraft may be involved. If it is, that’s where you come in.”

  “Is there any reason why the District Officer shouldn’t go out, with an escort, to probe the mystery, and find out what happened to Soutar?”

  “Yes. It would be impossible for an official safari to approach the Reserve without its presence becoming known, in which case the culprits would vanish and the Ubeni would pretend to know nothing.”

  “From the evidence it rather looks as if the kernel of this particular nut might be found in the box that Soutar accepted from the native in payment for tobacco. Did the boy make no effort to find it?”

  “No. He was too concerned about his father and his own safety to bother about what then seemed a mere detail.”

  “Where is Tommy Soutar now?”

  “He’s still at Juba, working on a farm there. His statement was forwarded to Whitehall with a request for instructions. The business is really outside our province, but it struck me that you might slip down as the quickest way of clearing the thing up. Your arrival on the spot would at least be unexpected. Juba is on the main route to the Cape so you could be there in two or three days. It would take the police a month to reach the place from Nairobi. If you took a marine aircraft you could use the lake as a landing ground. That’s why I mentioned it.”

  Biggles considered the matter for a minute. “The proposition is still a bit vague,” he averred. “What’s the main issue? I mean, am I to find Soutar, or merely ascertain why the Ubeni have turned nasty?”

  “If,” answered the Air Commodore slowly, “you can ascertain who is supplying these people with gin, and why, you may find the answer to both questions. It would be interesting to know if the aircraft young Soutar saw comes into the picture.”