Читать книгу Biggles and the Noble Lord - W E Johns - Страница 3

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‘Take a seat, Bigglesworth,’ greeted Air Commodore Raymond, as his chief operational pilot walked into his office and closed the door behind him. ‘It’s time we had a little chat. Help yourself to cigarettes. We may be some time.’

Biggles took the usual chair in front of his Chief’s desk, lit a cigarette and waited.

The Air Commodore, head of the Special Air Police Section at New Scotland Yard, went on. ‘The other day you told me that in your opinion the large-scale criminal activities of the past year were carried out by the same organization; I won’t call it a gang because the way these jobs have been done suggests a more efficient, and a more ambitious, set-up.’

‘That is correct, sir. I haven’t changed my mind,’ Biggles said.

‘Have you thought any more about it?’

‘Not a lot, sir, since so far there has been no indication that these crimes come into our particular line of country.’

‘You still believe there’s a master-mind in the background who does the planning?’

‘I do. What else can we think? I know there was a time when master-criminals existed only in popular fiction. But times have changed, and it rather looks as if one has popped up. So far there hasn’t been a hitch; not a slip; not a blunder in these raids, which all points to careful planning and perfect timing. An ordinary common-or-garden gang falls short of such a standard. When we get to the kernel of this particular nut, if ever we do, we shall find an educated man, one with a brain and who knows how to use it. It could be a man with a military background; one accustomed to precision. A general, for instance. In that case it’s unlikely he’d go out on the jobs himself, so it follows that he must have a staff of highly trained operatives who carry out orders without questioning them. These men are probably experts in their own particular field.’

‘Why?’

‘You have only to look at the ground that has been covered. Bank raids, jewel robberies, gold bullion—it’s all the same to this wizard. Everything organized like a plan of campaign. Nothing left to chance. But there’s still one aspect that puzzles me.’

‘What’s that?’

‘What does he do with the loot?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Tot up the stuff he’s got away with. Of course, jewellery in small quantities can be disposed of through fences who are prepared to handle this sort of hot merchandise; but what do you do with gold in bulk or bank-notes in millions. It might eventually be unloaded; but that would take time. Gold, for instance, is heavy stuff; and bulky. Not easy to move by the ton without someone spotting it. I’m thinking particularly of the ingots. An idea has crept into my mind that some joker may be doing this for fun.’

The Air Commodore looked astonished. ‘For fun! What fun can he get out of it?’

‘It may tickle him to take the mickey out of the police.’

‘What on earth gives you such a fantastic notion?’

‘For what other reason could he be doing it?’

‘The obvious one. For easy money.’

‘That’s what one would naturally suppose. But if I’m right in supposing that this epidemic of crime, clever crime, springs from the imagination of one man—and that’s what the overall pattern suggests—he must already have more money than he can spend. Why does he go on? Why not pack it in while the going’s good, without taking any more risks? However smart he may think he is, there must always be a risk of something coming unstuck.’

‘There doesn’t seem to have been much in the way of risk so far,’ the Air Commodore pointed out, dryly.

‘He must employ men to carry out the raids he dreams up. That’s always a risk. If ever there’s an argument one might give him away.’

‘I suppose that could happen,’ conceded the Air Commodore.

Take one of his activities; the hijacking of commercial vehicles,’ went on Biggles, presumably to support his theory. ‘The last was a load of whisky on the way south from Scotland. Ten thousand gallons of the stuff due for export. What’s he going to do with it? Where’s he going to put it? He couldn’t drink it. Why nick it, anyway, when he must have enough ready cash to buy more than he could ever need for his personal use? That’s the trouble. Unlike the normal criminal he jumps from one racket to another.’

The Air Commodore thought for a moment. ‘There may be something in what you say, but it doesn’t answer our problem. How are we going to catch him?’

Biggles shrugged. ‘No use asking me, sir. We can only hope that one of these days he’ll go too far. Given enough rope he may hang himself.’

‘He’s had enough rope already to do that; but it hasn’t happened yet.’

‘It may. Success could go to his head. That’s when he’ll slip.’

‘In the meantime the public are beginning to think we must be a bunch of nitwits.’

‘We can hardly blame them for that. You’ve asked my opinion, sir. I’ve told you. That’s as much as I can do about it.’

‘Is it?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean? You’re not suggesting that I set myself the task of clipping the wings of this fly bird?’

‘You might give the matter some thought.’

‘I’ve already done that, sir,’ protested Biggles.

‘Well, go on thinking.’

Biggles smiled as he got up. ‘Okay, sir, I suppose I could do that without suffering too much discomfort or burning a lot of petrol. Meanwhile you can tell the Commissioner what I think, and if he feels in the mind he can turn the regular Force on to it.’

‘What exactly am I to tell him?’

‘You can say I believe this super criminal is some sort of crank. He has a cache somewhere—a dump if you like—where all this loot can be stored until the time comes to release it: little by little, of course, otherwise he’d flood the market. Small fry, like round-the-corner pawnbrokers, might buy gold by the ounce, or even a pound or two; but the only people who can handle gold in big quantities are governments, or bankers, and they don’t get up to tricks.’

‘All right,’ said the Air Commodore. ‘Let’s agree there must be a dump somewhere. Where are we going to look for it?’

Biggles face creased in a smile. ‘Excuse me, sir, while I laugh. I haven’t the foggiest notion. But if I know anything it won’t be where we think it might be. This villain has brains, don’t forget. He’s already got more money than he can spend, which leads me to think he’s now collecting wealth merely for the sake of it; or for kicks. To some people money can become a drug. They become addicts. The more they have the more they want. This is the bug that makes misers. That leads us to another point that’s worth remembering. A miser likes his money easily accessible, where he can get to it, count it, and gloat over it in secret.’

‘Never mind the philosophy,’ cut in the Air Commodore. ‘Let’s be practical. What are we going to do about it? The Force is being made to look like a bunch of amateurs.’

‘I’m afraid that’s how they’ll continue to look until it can produce a man with a brain equal in size to the one they’ve been looking for.’

‘Do you feel like having a go at it?’

Biggles looked pained. ‘Have a heart, sir. I don’t remember saying anything which might suggest I have a brain of the size the case demands. Nor have I ever indicated that aviation may come into the picture.’

‘It might.’

‘I agree, it might, although too much gold on the floor of an aircraft is a good way of knocking the bottom out of it. Actually, that has happened, between Paris and London. Give me a lead and I’ll follow it.’

‘If there was any sort of lead the regular police could follow it. I’m afraid you’ll have to find your own.’

‘You realize this load of loot might be anywhere.’

‘Well, you have a means of getting around.’

‘Thank you, sir.’ With a bleak smile Biggles departed.

Back in his own office he found his three police-pilot assistants engaged in an acrobatic contest with mini-planes made of folded notepaper, with a paper clip as a power unit to provide the necessary momentum and stability.

‘Okay, that’s enough,’ he interrupted. ‘Sit down and pay attention. I’ve got a question for you. When you’ve heard it you can answer it in turn.’ He waited for them to get settled and went on. ‘This is the question. If you had a million pounds in gold, notes and jewels, and wanted to hide it, where would you put it?’ He went over to his desk, sat in the chair and lit a cigarette.

Ginger was the first to speak. He looked puzzled. ‘Is this some sort of game?’

‘No.’

‘A riddle?’

‘No. It’s a serious question. Somewhere there’s an answer—if it can be found. Take your time, but we haven’t got all day.’ He waited.

There was silence for a minute or two. Then Algy was the first to come through with his answer. ‘I’d buy a house in the country with a lily pond in the garden. I’d pack the stuff in plastic bags and sink it in the pond. Then I’d buy a few ducks to paddle on the pond to keep the water muddy, so the bottom couldn’t be seen. How’s that?’

‘I wouldn’t call that an original idea,’ was Biggles’ opinion. ‘It’s been done too often. It was a common trick during the war, in the occupied countries when the enemy marched in. In France people are still fishing for some of the things they submerged, even their best wine, before the Nazis could get their hands on it. Think again. I want something simple but original.’

Ginger came next. ‘I’d take a house with a cellar, put the stuff in the cellar and pile a ton of coal on top of it.’

‘I don’t think that’s very bright, either,’ Biggles said. ‘You’d have to carry the ton of coal yourself or the coalman would see the stuff and wonder what you were up to. I want something really clever.’

‘Well, let’s say a house with a cave in the garden.’

‘Where are you going to find a house with a cave in the garden?’

‘There must be some.’

‘And what would you do with the treasure while you were hunting up and down the country for one? You couldn’t leave it lying around or hump it about with you. You can think of something better than that.’

Bertie took his turn. It began with a question. ‘Do I have time to prepare a hiding-place before I get the money, and what have you, or do I have to find the hiding-place after I’ve got it? It makes a difference.’

‘A reasonable question,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘You can say you knew you were going to get the stuff in time to make the necessary preparations for hiding it.’

‘Then it would be easy, old boy,’ declared Bertie, breathing on his monocle and polishing it with his handkerchief. ‘I’d buy a farm well away from anywhere. In one of the sheds I’d put an old horse cart. I’d put the stuff in the cart and cover it with a load of cow dung, or something equally beastly, to discourage any nosey parker from getting inquisitive.’

‘Suppose you yourself wanted to get to the money? You’d have a dirty business on your hands. Perhaps I should have said that the stuff would have to be easily accessible.’

‘Hm. I didn’t think of that,’ confessed Bertie. ‘Well, instead of the dung I’d cover it with straw, or turnips, or something of that sort.’

‘First you’d have to grow a field of corn to get the straw, or a few acres of turnips, and that would take time. What would you do with the stuff while you were waiting for the harvest?’

‘Yes, I see your point,’ Bertie said sadly.

Ginger came back. ‘Would I be right in thinking there was some purpose in this quiz programme?’

‘You would.’

‘Then as you can only sit there and find fault with anything we suggest, why don’t you have a go at it yourself?’ Ginger said tartly.

‘I have,’ stated Biggles.

‘Then what’s the answer?’

Biggles grinned. ‘I don’t know it. That’s why I’m asking you.’

‘But someone knows?’

‘I’m pretty sure of it.’

Algy came in again. ‘I take it there’s some reason for this footling exercise?’

‘There certainly is.’

‘Then don’t you think it’s about time you quit flying on half throttle and put us on course!’

‘Fair enough,’ Biggles agreed. ‘I’ve just had a session with the Chief. He’s having a spot of bother. You know about this super-crook who’s helping himself to other people’s property as and when he feels like it, so we needn’t go into that. The Air Commodore has been handed the problem on a plate, without a knife and fork, and, naturally, he’s passed it on to us. In a word, I’m afraid I opened my big mouth too wide, with the result that I’ve been invited to find the place where this modern Dick Turpin is hiding his ill-gotten nicker. As I haven’t a clue I thought one of you might come up with a bright idea of where we might start. That’s all there is to it. Don’t tell me that’s plenty to go on with. I’m perfectly well aware of that. Let’s talk about it.’