40 Biggles Works It Out Read online

  I

  BIGGLES HAS SOMETHING TO SAY

  A COLD east wind blustered across the home airport of the Special Air Police, bringing with it ragged curtains of trailing nimbus cloud that dripped their contents in a dreary drizzle on the shining concrete runways.

  From the window of the Operations Room, Air Constable "Ginger" Hebblethwaite watched without real interest the blurred silhouette of a departing continental "

  Constellation". Algy Lacey sat hunched in a chair near the stove, turning the pages of the current issue of Flight. Bertie Lissie, with his feet on a corner of the table, yawned audibly as with a circular movement that had become mechanical he polished his rimless eyeglass. Biggles sat at his desk, chin resting on the back of his left hand as with the other he turned over one by one a collection of newspaper clippings. A slender spiral of cigarette smoke made its way towards the ceiling from a cylinder-head that served as an ashtray.

  He had been silent for so long that Ginger's curiosity eventually wore out his patience. "

  What's on your mind?" he asked.

  Biggles lifted his cigarette and flicked the ash off as he looked up. "Natural history," he answered simply.

  Ginger's expression turned slowly to one of questioning incredulity. "What did you say?"

  "I said," replied Biggies evenly, "I was thinking about natural history—or in terms of it, anyway."

  "Birds, beasts, butterflies, and all that sort of thing," murmured Bertie.

  "Exactly; but beasts, mostly," Biggles told him.

  "What about 'em, old boy?" queried Bertie. "Tell us. This disgusting weather is binding me rigid. I mean to say, don't let the jolly old beasts get you down. I know how it feels. When I was a kid I used to dream a tiger was after me. There I was, all alone, no gun, nowhere to go, not even a bally tree to climb, with the horrid brute, all teeth and hair, getting closer and closer till I could feel its hot breath on my "

  "Okay—okay," broke in Biggles impatiently. "What are you trying to do—give yourself a nervous breakdown? I gather it never caught you?"

  "Not quite. I always woke up just in time."

  Biggles sighed. "What a pity."

  Bertie looked hurt. "I take a dim view of that remark," he protested. "What do you mean—a pity?"

  "Well, if it had got its teeth into your neck you could have relieved the tedium by telling us how it felt to be a tiger's breakfast."

  Algy stepped in. "If you two are trying to convulse me with mirth you're nowhere near it,

  " he said coldly. "What is all this rot about beasts anyhow?"

  "Do you really want me to tell you?" inquired Biggles. "Go ahead," prompted Ginger. "

  This place is getting the atmosphere of an overcrowded mortuary."

  "All right," agreed Biggles. "Here we go. Those of you who know anything about natural history may have noticed that as civilization advances across the wide open spaces, the most dangerous beasts retire before it. That is to say, those that refuse to behave themselves must either submit to captivity or retreat to some inaccessible spot where they are reasonably safe from pursuit. Were they content to remain there no one would worry them; but they aren't; they want it both ways. Sooner or later they start making raids on the domestic animals that have taken their places on the ground which, on account of their unpleasant natures, they themselves have been forced to vacate."

  "By Jove! That's good," declared Bertie admiringly. "You talk like a book."

  Biggles's expression did not change. "Let us for a moment say I am a book," he agreed. "

  Don't interrupt, or I shall forget where I was."

  "Sorry old boy—and all that," murmured Bertie apologetically.

  Biggles continued. "The example of the wild beasts has been followed by a species of human being, and I don't necessarily mean native races. Most of those have now been tamed, although there are still a few that, having retired to a distance, by means of fast horses or camels play a merry game of tip and run with their hard-working brothers of the plains. We've seen this in Iraq and the North-west Frontier."

  "Hold hard a minute," requested Algy. "What has all this to do with us?"

  "I'll come to that if you'll give me time," complained Biggles. "This is the point. I have a suspicion that the same game is being played by a certain type of man, supposed to be civilized, but who is still, under his skin, a beast of prey. Refusing to work like other fellows, he tries to live the easy way by toting a cosh and raiding the property of respectable folk. He doesn't take livestock or grain. They're too cumbersome. Gold, cash, and precious stones are the meat he seeks."

  "Is there anything new about this?" queried Algy.

  "Unfortunately for us, yes," replied Biggles. "Finding the cities too hot to hold them, these well-dressed savages have, I fancy, retired to a distance where they are safe from pursuit, yet from where they can still help themselves to the property of the civilized communities. They don't use horses. They would be too slow, and the distances to be covered too great. It's my guess they are using the fastest means of transportation yet devised—the aeroplane."

  "You really think this is going on?" put in Ginger.

  "I haven't the slightest doubt about it," returned Biggles. "It's the only answer to some of the clippings I have here. After all, why not? Why need a crook remain near the scene of his crime, when between sunset and dawn he can put himself five thousand miles away?"

  No one answered.

  "Unfortunately for him there's one snag in his scheme," continued Biggles. "When his aircraft isn't in use he can tuck it in a hide-out far away where it's not likely to be seen; but—and this is the point—when he makes a raid he must park it on the ground somewhere near the scene of the operation. That's his danger. When a farmer finds a fox is raiding his hen-roost he sets a trap, and the fox, wily though he may be, sooner or later puts his foot in it."

  "Not always," disputed Bertie. "There's an old dog fox On my place that has been going strong for years."

  "That's because you aren't smart enough to bag him," argued Biggles.

  "This old stinker knows the names of the people who make the traps," asserted Bertie. "

  He costs the Hunt a pretty penny in compensation for the poultry he snaffles, I can tell you."

  "All right. In that case it's your job to track him to his earth and winkle him out of it,"

  averred Biggles.

  Algy stepped in again. Looking at Biggles he inquired: "Has some particular incident started this fascinating train of thought?"

  Biggles stubbed his cigarette. "There have been several incidents lately that have made me suspect that at least one big-thinking, high-flying crook is on the job."

  "Air-operating costs being what they are, I'd question if a crooked aviation set-up of any size could pay its way," opined Algy.

  "And I'd say you'd be wrong," answered Biggles. "I'm not thinking in terms of picking pockets or robbing the till. Small-time crime will always go on; but real big-scale criminal operations are on the way, if they're not already here. Since Hitler upset the European apple-cart some of the clever boys must have made fortunes out of the economic situation—gold traffic, currency rackets, transporting war stores to prohibited areas, and so on. On one occasion a whole flight of Lancasters, worth forty thousand apiece, disappeared into the thinnest of thin air. The bright lads who pulled that off don't think in fivers.

  They think in millions. But times are changing, and those particular swindles are coming to an end. What are these fellows going to do? Retire from business? Change their ways?

  Scrap organizations that have taken years to build? Not on your life! Easy money soon goes. When it's gone they'll need more."

  "Governments are tightening thi
ngs up," reminded Algy.

  "The clever crooks will always be a jump ahead," declared Biggles. "After all, what can the ordinary police do?"

  "Too true—too true," murmured Bertie thoughtfully. "It's one thing to be a cop on the old home beat, but a nag of a different colour when you have the whole bally world to cover.

  "

  "Maybe we're lucky at that," opined Biggles. "The day will come when there will have to be an Interplanetary Police Force, with headquarters on the moon, to cover the whole blooming universe. But let's stick to the present. Let us suppose that we are crooks with plenty of money in the kitty. What hope would anyone have of catching us?"

  Ginger looked interested. "Go on," he invited curiously. "What would you do?"

  Biggles took another cigarette and tapped the end pensively. "First, I'd find a remote abandoned airstrip for a hide-out. That shouldn't be difficult, because thanks to the war every continent is littered with them. I might decide on several, widely separated. With a long-range aircraft I could hop from one to the other at will. I should have no big pay-load to carry, like commercial machines, so I should have plenty of extra tankage—

  enough say, for ten thousand miles."

  "What would you use for petrol?" inquired Algy cynically.

  "With plenty of money we shouldn't have to worry about that," stated Biggles. "Enough money will buy anything—even a tanker full of hundred-octane aviation spirit. Thus equipped, with our own mechanics. who

  could catch us? We might be anywhere on earth, hopping from continent to continent overnight. An organization capable of dealing with us would cost millions. It would mean air-police patrols and control stations all over the globe. Even supposing I was seen, what could the police do? Police can stop a car on the road and look inside, but you can't stop an aircraft in the atmosphere and ask the pilot for his licence."

  "You can follow it," contended Ginger.

  "How far would depend on the fuel capacity of the pursuit plane. As a smart guy, I should see to it that my machine could outfly anything that the police had."

  "The police patrol could radio the next station to pick you up," persisted Ginger.

  "That's assuming I'm travelling in broad daylight with perfect visibility," countered Biggles. "Knowing where the police controls were, I should keep clear of them, anyway.

  "

  "What about radar?"

  "The police would need thousands of control stations to cover the globe, and since most governments are broke, no one would dare to vote the money for such a scheme."

  Algy shook his head. "You'd need an awful lot of money to pay for a crook outfit on the lines you're suggesting."

  Biggles smiled. "I should have a lot of money—while the going was good," he declared.

  "Unless I've missed my guess, some of the coups the big crooks have brought off lately have been more in the nature of wartime operations than mere bank busting or bag snatching. That's why I'm sure aviation must come into the picture. The old-fashioned highwayman has become a skywayman in a big way. To be more specific, I fancy the bushranger has become a cloud-ranger."

  "What exactly do you mean by that?" inquired Ginger.

  Biggles turned over the clippings on his desk and selected one. "I'm thinking about this business in Australia the other day. Here, broadly speaking, is the story. Apparently there exists in the outback of the Northern Territory a smallish gold-mining concern that has been operating for some time with a good deal of success. Its name is Barula Creek.

  Owing to its output it has had a lot of publicity in the newspapers, which may have been responsible for what has happened there. As the mine is a long way from anywhere, the gold is transferred to Port Darwin, about three hundred miles away, four times a year.

  Later, it goes to Sydney—but we needn't bother with that. For the overland journey, from the mine to Darwin, two jeeps are used. Apparently the country is rough, with some areas of desert. There's no real road. The personnel of the convoy consists of two driver mechanics, a spare driver, and two guards, all armed. That's five men all together; enough, it was thought, to deal with any trouble. The last convoy left Barula Creek just over a fortnight ago carrying nearly half a ton of gold. It didn't arrive. When a search party went to look for it they found a wrecked jeep, a damaged jeep, and five dead men.

  The leading jeep had been blown to bits either by a mine or a bomb. The gold had gone.

  Black trackers were brought in. They found some foot-marks—but nothing else."

  "If there were foot-prints they would lead somewhere," interposed Ginger.

  "In this case they didn't. They ran for some way into an open desert area and then faded out. As one of the reporters put it, the murderers might have dropped from the sky. That may be nearer the literal truth than he imagined."

  "If an aircraft had landed there, there would have been wheel tracks," put in Algy.

  "Not necessarily. A machine can obliterate its tracks in dusty ground by its own slipstream."

  "How about going out and having a look round?" suggested Bertie hopefully. "Be an excuse for getting out of this foul weather—if you see what I mean'?"

  "If native trackers couldn't find anything, it's unlikely that we should," answered Biggles drily. "Still, one never

  knows. Native trackers wouldn't be thinking in terms of aviation. I might speak to Raymond. He could contact the authorities in Australia to see how they felt about it. This is an international, rather than a national, affair."

  "Why are you so sure an aircraft was used for the job?" asked Algy.

  "To my mind it sticks out like a sore finger," returned Biggles. "How was the stolen gold carried? The robbers wouldn't be likely to carry half a ton of gold on their backs across hundred of miles of waterless country. A vehicle must have been used, and any vehicle except an aircraft would have left tracks that an aboriginal could follow, no matter how carefully they were covered up. I say this was a carefully planned raid by men who had at least one big aircraft and knew how to handle it. As soon as the robbery was discovered the police threw a net round the whole area. When it was pulled tight there was nothing in it." Biggles smiled grimly. "By that time the birds had not only flown, but were probably roosting quietly thousands of miles away."

  "But surely an aircraft would have been seen by somebody?" said Ginger.

  "One would think so. But Australia is a big country," reminded Biggles. "Moreover, if the raiders were as clever as they seem to have been, they would have climbed to the ceiling, where they would not have been noticed. Or, since they had no reason to hurry, they could have waited for darkness before hitting the breeze."

  "There can't be many men able to pull off a job like that," observed Algy.

  Biggles shrugged. "It wouldn't be difficult for a man who during the war was on Special Air Service operations over enemy country. We've handled more difficult briefs ourselves if it comes to that. But for the murders I should have said it was a nice clean job."

  "Why murder the guards, anyway?" muttered Ginger.

  "In my view they were murdered simply and solely to prevent them from saying how the job was done. The

  longer these crooks can work without anyone suspecting the employment of an aircraft, so much the easier for them."

  "They must be a bunch of thugs," growled Bertie. "The modern thug can be a very charming fellow when he's not working," said Biggles softly.

  "One would think that a fellow capable of organizing an air operation on such a scale would be able to earn a comfortable living without turning to crime," opined Algy.

  Biggles shook his head. "The trouble is, too many chaps don't want a comfortable job.

  They may not even need money. What they really crave is excitement. It may be fun at first, but the humour gets a bit thin when the hangman rolls up with his rope. That's how these frolics usually end. At the best, I'd hate to spend ten years of my life in the same cell staring at the same bit of sky through a barred window. Once a fellow gets out of
step it isn't easy to pick it up again. He becomes a social misfit, drifting about without an anchor, distrusting his so-called friends, never knowing when a heavy hand is going to drop on his shoulder. What a life Our old friend Erich von Stalhein is a good example.

  He's got all it takes to put him on top of any profession: but it's too late. He knows that.

  He knows he's off the rails, and it's really anger at his own folly that makes him hate everyone who's on the level. That's why we keep bumping into each other. At the finish either he'll kill me or I shall kill him, because he'd rather die than go to jail. He might well be in this Australian affair It's right up his street. If that is so he knows it can only be a matter of time before I strike his trail." Biggles stubbed his cigarette.

  "Have there been any robberies similar to this Australian affair?" inquired Algy.

  "One, at least. I was checking these clippings for such possibilities. There was a queer business in Bolivia a couple of months ago. In that case an emerald mine was raided, apparently with the same success, although I haven't the details."

  Ginger's eyebrows went up. "Bolivia! That's in South America. Even if an aircraft was used it could hardly have been the same one that did the job in Australia."

  "Why not?" questioned Biggles, "As a matter of fact, we have now arrived at the crux of the debate. This is the angle I was considering when you first butted in. There is no actual reason to suppose that the robbery in Bolivia has any connection with the Australian affair; but if aircraft were used there's no reason why the same gang shouldn't have done both jobs. If that did turn out to be the case, maybe the government would get an idea of what the police are now up against."

  "Are you going to do anything about it?" inquired Ginger.

  "No. but I shall discuss the matter with the Air Commodore in order to be able to move fast should anything of this sort occur nearer home. One thing is certain. Someone will soon have to do something if these raids go on, because robberies on such a scale can upset the entire economy of a country. No government can afford to lose half a ton of gold."

  "But what can be done about it, old boy?" put in Bertie.