10 Biggles and Co Read online

  'Well, I think the same as you,' returned Algy, 'so there seems to be no object in pursuing the debate. "No" it is, as far as I'm concerned. Cronfelt will have no difficulty in finding some one else to do it.'

  'Good, that's settled then; let's—' Biggles broke off as a knock came on the door.

  It was opened to admit Mrs. Symes, the housekeeper. 'There's a lady to see you, sir,' she said.

  • During the First World War, pilots who dew aeroplanes to and fro scroll the Channel were known as try pilots'.

  'A lady!' Biggles frowned. 'What sort of a lady?' 'Oh, quite a lady, sir.'

  'But I don't know any ladies. She must have come to the wrong house.'

  'Oh, no, sir, she asked for you personally.'

  'What is her name?'

  'She didn't give her name.'

  'Oh, come on, Biggles, you can't keep a lady waiting,' protested Algy.

  'No, I suppose not,' agreed Biggles awkwardly. 'All right, Mrs. Symes, ask her to come in. And don't stare at the door as if you'd never seen a lady before,' he added, turning to the others.

  There was a curious silence as the door was pushed open and a remarkably pretty girl, who wore an expensive fur coat over her evening gown, walked in.

  'Good evening, Major Bigglesworth,' she said without hesitation, looking directly at Biggles.

  'How did you know which was me?' asked Biggles in surprise.

  'I've had you pointed out to me; in fact, I've seen you several times,' replied the visitor.

  'I'm afraid I can't return the compliment,' replied Biggles slowly.

  The girl laughed. 'You're not very gallant, are you?' she protested. 'You have seen me, but you may not have noticed me.'

  'Where?'

  'At Heston and Hanworth. I think I saw you once at Brooklands. I do a little flying myself, you see.'

  Biggles pulled out a chair. 'Is that what you've come to tell me?' he inquired.

  The girl shook her head. 'No,' she said, suddenly becoming serious. 'I rather wanted to talk to you—alone.'

  'You're the second person who has said that to me to-day,' Biggles told her.

  'I suppose Mr. Cronfelt was the other?'

  There was a momentary silence. 'Cronfelt? Who's Cronfelt?' asked Biggles, a trifle harshly.

  'My father's partner. My name is Carstairs, Stella Carstairs. I act as my father's private secretary. I was present when Mr. Cronfelt returned to the office this morning and discussed the result of his conversation with you at Brooklands.'

  Biggles sat down suddenly. 'Well?' he said suspiciously.

  'That's what I've come to see you about.'

  'Then perhaps it will save you some time and trouble if I tell you right away that we have decided not to accept his proposal,' said Biggles quietly.

  The girl caught her breath sharply. 'Oh, I am glad,' she cried.

  Biggles frowned. 'Would it be impertinent to ask why?' he said curiously.

  'No. I am glad because this thing is much deeper than you have been given to understand.

  Large sums of money are at stake between men who are utterly unscrupulous, men of a type that you may never have met, and would not understand if you did. They're—

  pagans. Twentieth-century infidels who worship the golden calf with such fervour that life, death, and suffering mean nothing to them.'

  'Come, that's a bit steep, isn't it? Have you forgotten that your father is a bullion dealer?' murmured Biggles.

  The girl's nostrils quivered. 'He is,' she admitted.

  'But, please God, he won't be one much longer. He's lost most of his money, and I am hoping that he'll yield to my entreaties to withdraw from the concern before he loses everything we possess.'

  `How about Cronfelt?'

  'I know nothing about his financial affairs except that, unlike my father, he has more than one interest.' `You don't like him, eh?'

  `Why do you say that?'

  'It just struck me that way, that's all.'

  `Perhaps you're right, but it would be only fair to say that my prejudice—we'll call it that—is due to purely personal reasons.'

  A hard look came into Biggles' eyes. 'Alt, I see,' he said softly. 'But there,' he went on quickly, 'we're not going on with the show, so there is really no point in discussing these things, Miss Carstairs, is there?'

  `None at all. I'll be going. Kindly forget my visit and its object. My only excuse for coming is that I have been very worried lately, and I hated to see other people drawn into our affairs. I know about your war record, and I just couldn't let you walk into this trap, for that is what it is, without warning you—' She broke off as the telephone whirred shrilly.

  Biggles picked up the receiver. `Bigglesworth here,' he said.

  'Hold the line, please,' came the voice of the operator. 'Long distance call for you....

  Hello, Berlin ... here you are.'

  'Is that Major Bigglesworth?' said a quiet voice in perfect English.

  `Bigglesworth speaking. Who are you?'

  'Pardon my seeming discourtesy if I do not tell you,' replied the voice. 'Regard me as a friend, an admirer, who is sincerely anxious for your safety. I have rung up to say, do not in any circumstances accept the proposal that has been made to you today. Believe me, I speak with real sincerity. Keep out, and the incident, as far as we are concerned, is closed. Go on with it, and you may pay for your temerity with the life you have been so fortunate to keep for so long. Good-bye.'

  Biggles' face hardened as he jangled the instrument. 'Hello ... hello.. ..'

  'The line's cleared,' came the voice of the operator.

  Biggles put down the receiver and turned slowly to where the others were watching him.

  His face was set and a trifle pale.

  'Who was it?' asked Algy sharply.

  Biggles repeated the conversation as nearly as he could recall it, and then turned to where Stella Car-stairs was still standing just inside the door. 'One thing is very clear,' he observed. 'The Intelligence Service of your father's enemies leaves nothing to be desired.'

  'Seems to have shaken you,' ventured Algy.

  'It has,' confessed Biggles. 'You see— I thought—'

  'Well?'

  'I thought I'd heard that voice before—a long, long time ago.' Biggles put his hand to his forehead. 'Where? ... When?'

  He swung round as the telephone again clamoured its summons. 'What a night we're having,' he muttered as he picked up the receiver. 'Hello ... hello, yes,' he called, glancing at the clock. 'Bigglesworth speaking. Oh, it's you, Cronfelt ... quite right; it's exactly ten o'clock. Yes, I've thought the matter over and reached a decision. My answer is—yes!

  Good-night.'

  Chapter 2

  The First Round

  Exactly a fortnight later Biggles stepped out of the lift in the Lombard Street offices of Cronfelt & Carstairs, Ltd., and ignoring the general inquiry bureau, made his way briskly to a door on which was affixed a small framed notice bearing the single word 'Private'.

  He rapped lightly, and without waiting for the reply, entered. "Morning, Miss Carstairs,'

  he called cheerfully to the sole occupant of the room. 'Is the head lad about?'

  'Mr. Cronfelt is with my father in his office,' she smiled. 'They're expecting you. Go right through—you know the way.'

  Biggles walked across familiarly to the inner office, for during the past two weeks he had found it necessary to call several times to discuss contingencies that had arisen in connexion with the scheme. But at the door he paused. 'Feeling better about things now?'

  he asked quietly, glancing back over his shoulder.

  Stella Carstairs sighed. 'Yes—and no,' she answered enigmatically. Suddenly she left her work and crossed the room swiftly. 'For the last time, don't do it,' she breathed earnestly, with her eyes on the door. 'Cry off; there is still time. My father won't mind, I know.'

  'How do you know?'

  'Because I have told him what I think about all this.

  I've tol
d him what I told you: that I am convinced that the project will arouse the antagonism of forces of which we know nothing, but will prove to be far-reaching in their influence. I can't tell you why, but I'm—afraid.'

  'You mean, for your father?

  'And for you. I hate to see you being drawn into this war, for it is nothing less than that.'

  'I know a little of war,' Biggles reminded her.

  'You may, but not of this kind,' she replied swiftly. 'In the war that you know you could see your enemy. You always knew where to look for him; and when you found him it was legal for you to strike him down. This is different. The enemy may not be where you expect to find him. He may be behind you all the time. And when he strikes he will use weapons more deadly than those you know, because they are unseen and unsuspected.'

  'Well, those I know can make an awful mess of a fellow,' smiled Biggles.

  'You laugh, but it is no joking matter. Please withdraw from this crazy scheme—for my sake. You see,' continued Stella quickly, 'if you refuse to go on, my father will leave this firm. He is only staying now because you are associated with us. I think it was something Colonel Raymond told him about you that makes him so confident of your success. Be that as it may, there is no doubt that he takes an entirely different view of the whole thing now that he has met you and knows that you are handling our transport business.'

  'Which is all the more reason why I can't let him down,' Biggles told her seriously. 'No, Miss Carstairs, what I start I finish. Your father has taken some hard knocks, financially.

  Never retire when you are getting

  hard knocks. The thing is to go on, and do a bit of hard knocking yourself—at least, that's my way.' 'And this is your last word?'

  'It must be.'

  'Then I have nothing more to say.'

  Biggles watched her return to her desk, and then knocked on the door.

  'Ah! There you are, Bigglesworth; dead on time,' greeted Cronfelt genially.

  'An old military custom,' smiled Biggles. 'Good morning, Mr. Carstairs,' he added, turning to a frail, aristocratic old man who sat at the far end of the table.

  'Good morning, Bigglesworth,' replied Carstairs. 'I hope you have come to tell us that you are all ready for action.'

  Biggles threw his hat into the corner and pulled up a chair. 'Yes,' he said cheerfully, 'we'

  re all ready. You asked particularly that the show should be ready to function to-day, so I take it there is a job of work on hand.'

  'Quite right,' replied Carstairs tersely. 'The money market has worked out just as I expected it would, so we shall have to make a shipment of metal to Paris. You've got everything you require in the way of equipment?'

  'Everything. There has been no difficulty in organizing on the lines I set out in my schedule. We're registered as a private company with a hangar of our own at Hardwick Airport. The machine we shall use for shipments is a Cormorant twin-engined biplane of the ordinary communication class. Normally, it is a six-seater, but as we shouldn't be likely to want all the seats I've cleared out four of them to make room for freight, although there is a compartment in the rear for luggage. It—'

  `Never mind the details,' broke in Cronfelt. 'If you're satisfied, then we are. What about staff?'

  `Four is the total, including myself. I've got Lacey and Hebblethwaite as extra pilots, although Hebblethwaite is a very good ground engineer as well. My old flight sergeant, Smyth, is the only other member. He's an expert fitter and rigger, and well able to do the ordinary maintenance service we shall require. In the case of anything serious the machine would, of course, go back to the makers. That's customary.'

  Ì see. Oh—I meant to have asked you. Under what name have you registered the company?'

  Biggles smiled, took a slip of pasteboard from his pocket and tossed in on to the table.

  Cronfelt picked it up, and as he read it a sudden frown puckered his forehead.

  `What's this?' he said. 'Biggles & Co?'

  `That's it. Anything wrong with it?'

  Èr—no, I suppose not. It struck me that it sounded a little bit frivolous, though, that's all.'

  `There are some people in the world who will not find it in the least frivolous,' replied Biggles slowly. `We had to find a name, and for reasons of my own—call it conceit if you like—I wanted to be associated with it. But Bigglesworth is a bit long-winded.

  Moreover, people might wonder who it was. Those who really matter know me as Biggles.'

  Ì understand. And you are all ready to operate today?'

  `Just as soon as I can get back to the aerodrome.'

  `Splendid! Then you'd better get off and stand by.

  A big consignment of metal will reach you by road at twelve o'clock. The bank in whose van it will arrive will be responsible for the gold until it is placed in the machine. From then on you will accept full responsibility until you obtain a receipt for it from the manager of the Bank of France, in the Place de l'Opera, Paris. The French bank will send up their van to meet you; it is painted green so that you will be able to recognize it. There will be an official and two gendarmes for escort. You will see the bullion put into the van and accompany it to the bank, where you will be presented with a receipt. The receipt you will bring back here. Is that all quite clear?'

  `Perfectly,' replied Biggles. 'I assume the gold will be in those little wooden boxes with rope handles, like the one you showed me the other day?'

  `Yes.'

  `Just one more question. Does any one outside this room, except the bank officials, know that this shipment is being made?'

  `No one. That is, not as far as we know—not that we have any reason to suppose that any one else knows.'

  `You would have said the same thing about the previous shipments,. I take it—those that went wrong?'

  `Why—er—yes; I suppose we should.'

  `That's all I wanted to know, thank you. My engines will be ticking over at twelve o'

  clock,' Biggles promised, as he got up. 'And I shall be back here at six, or thereabouts, with the receipt. Good morning, gentlemen.'

  At five minutes to twelve Smyth started the engines of the Cormorant. For two or three minutes he allowed

  them to warm up, and then, with his eyes on the instrument board, he opened the throttle slowly to its limit. Satisfied that the engines were giving their full revolutions, he climbed down and walked round to the nose of the machine to where Biggles, Algy, and Ginger, dressed in flying kit, were standing.

  `So you didn't say anything about your going to see Raymond?' Algy was saying.

  `No,' replied Biggles. Ìt would only have led to long explanations. Naturally, Cronfelt would have wanted to know what Raymond said, and so on, and on this jaunt I don't propose to tell any one outside ourselves what anybody said, in so far as it relates to plans. Once started, I should have had to tell him about acquiring an old R.A.F. Bulldog*

  fighter for escort purposes, and how Raymond wangled us a couple of machine-guns, and all the rest of it. After a11, that's our affair, not Cronfelt's; I warned him I should run things my own way, anyway. I want to keep this escort business dark. No one must see the machine on the ground, so no one must be allowed in the hangar. The door must be kept locked, except when we are moving machines in and out. Now that we have fixed up living quarters in the hangar somebody will always be there, so no one can get in without our knowing it.'

  Ì wouldn't have flown otherwise,' declared Algy. `The only aspect of this show that scares me is the thought of any one tampering with the machines. Structural failure in the air is something no man — '

  Àll right, laddie, that's enough of that sort of talk,' broke in Biggles. `We've decided never to leave the

  *Single-seat fighter with twin machine-guns synchronized to fire through the propellor.

  hangar unguarded, so I don't think we need worry on that score. Hello, this looks like our cargo arriving,' he went on quietly, with his eyes on the gate.

  A dark-painted, closed van
drew in, ran smoothly along the tarmac, and pulled up beside the waiting aeroplane. A door in the back opened and three men stepped out. The first, in civilian clothes, came towards the pilots, while the other two, in sober uniforms, began pulling out a number of small, but obviously very heavy boxes.

  `Major Bigglesworth?' inquired the civilian. Biggles stepped forward.

  Ì'm Grant from the South Central Bank. My instructions are to deliver these boxes to you. Will you kindly sign this receipt?'

  Biggles counted the boxes as one by one they were placed on the floor of the cabin.

  When the tally was complete he signed the receipt form and handed it back to the bank official, who, with a word of thanks, returned to the car.

  Two men in dark clothes and bowler hats stepped out from the side of the hangar, and after a friendly nod to Biggles, got into the car, which was backed clear of the slipstream.

  Biggles watched it go with a queer expression on his face. 'Those two fellows must be detectives,' he said quietly to Algy. 'But they might have been a couple of gunmen for all we knew. I didn't see them standing there, did you? Nor did I see them arrive.'

  Algy shook his head. 'No, I didn't see them, either,' he confessed.

  `Which should be a lesson to us. We shall have to keep a sharper look-out,' observed Biggles grimly, as he turned towards the Cormorant. 'Now, laddie, you know what to do,' he went on quietly. 'Keep us in sight, but don't get too dose. I don't want anybody to suspect that you are acting as escort. If you see another machine coming towards us, come right in and act as circumstances suggest best. Without knowing what is likely to happen, I can't advise any particular line of action if anything does happen. Use your own judgement. Come on, Ginger, let's be going.'

  `Funny, isn't it?' he continued, as they climbed into their seats. 'No more formality than if we were taking over a crate of eggs. I expected some sort of parade, with a band playing and all the rest of it.'

  He felt for the throttle. The machine moved slowly over to the far side of the aerodrome, turned into the wind, and at a signal from the control tower, rose gracefully into the air, afterwards turning in a wide circle until her nose was pointing south.