Biggles Flies Again Part 11

he broke off. staring over Biggles's shoulder.

A drab destroyer was bearing down on them at full speed, two white ostrich-plumes of spray leaping up from the knife-like bow. While still a hundred yards away it swung hard over and then churned up a whirlpool of foam as it went aback. Almost before it had stopped a small boat had dropped from the davits and was skimming towards them under the swift strokes of half a dozen pairs of oars; an officer sat in the stern.

"Who are you?" he said curtly, as the boat ran alongside.

Biggles frowned. "I'll give you two guesses," he said. "Who are you anyway?"

"H.M.S. Scud. Captain Watkins wants a word with you. Bring your papers-step along, please," was the peremptory reply.

"Who are you ordering about?"

"You," snapped the Lieutenant. "Step lively, now, unless you want to be blown out of the water."

Biggles swallowed hard. Quivering with rage, he put his log-book in his pocket, jumped into the boat, and a moment later scrambled up the ladder that had been lowered to receive them. He flushed as two blue jackets fell in, one on either side of him, and marched him briskly to where the Captain awaited him.

"Your name?" said the Captain coldly, holding out his hand for the "Vandal's" log.

"Bigglesworth," replied Biggles icily.

The Captain started. "No relation, by any chance, to a fellow who served in 266 Squadron during the war, are you?"

Biggles nodded. "I was in 266, he said wonderingly.

"Good heavens! My young brother was with you. He told me a lot about you before he was-"

Biggles stared and then thawed. "Watkins-of course," he mused. "A good lad," he went on. "We called him the Professor. Lacey-who is with me now-the Professor and I did many shows together. We were with him when he went-west."

Captain Watkins rose and extended his hand. "Pleased to meet you," he smiled; "but what are you doing here? Don't you know that this is a prohibited area?"

Biggles's eyes opened wide. "I'm dashed if I did," he admitted, and forthwith related briefly what had happened from the moment they had met Stampoulos in Alexandria.

The Captain exchanged a quick glance with the Lieutenant, who had entered the room. "

Sounds a grim business to me," he observed. "Tell me, what was he like, this Stampoulos?"

Biggles described him, and again the eyes of the Captain sought those of the second-in-command.

"And this Sheikh-what did you say his name was, Abd-el-Ahmud----what was he like?"

Again the pilot drew a rough description, and the Captain pursed his lips. "I wonder," he said softly, "I wonder." He unlocked a safe, took out a docket, and selected a photograph.

Covering the top part of the head and the body with his finger and thumb, he beckoned to the pilot. "Was he anything like that?" he asked.

"That's the man," began Biggles, but broke off with a gasp of amazement as the Captain lifted his hand and exposed the rest of the picture. It was a well-dressed middle-aged man 'in European clothes. "Who is he?" he asked.

"He has many names," replied Watkins, "but his real one is Lafoix, Rene Lafoix; our people got this snap of him in Paris. He came out here about twenty years ago as a French secret-service agent. He still works for the French, of course, but he has developed some profitable sidelines in pearls, slaves and has.h.i.+sh. Stampoulos, by the way, is his agent in Alexandria. We've had Lafoix in our hands a dozen times, but he's slipped through our fingers; an eel is a roll of sandpaper compared with him.

The trouble is he's played the Arab so long that he is one. When we catch him he's got an honest-to-goodness load of hides on board; when we nab his dhows with dope or slaves he isn't there It isn't that which annoys us as much as his infernal nerve in writing a book about it, saying how he's fooled us It made France rock with mirth. Our people said nothing to France about it, but they said something to us about it, believe me. We've got to get him, and when we do we'll see who laughs last and longest.

"We're watching for him now," he went on quickly. "We know he's along the coast here somewhere, waiting for a chance to slip up to Greece for another load of dope; it all comes from there. To get it to Egypt, where it is as much in demand as tobacco at home, he s.h.i.+ps it to Syria, brings it overland by camel to the coast hereabouts, and then rushes it across the ditch in dhows, which come back with a load of slaves. The dope disappears; broken up into small parcels, it gets into Cairo a thousand different ways. You see, the trouble is, even if we do nab him going north, he'll only laugh at us, because he'll have a clean bill of lading. But when we spot him this time we shall never take our eyes off him again, and he knows it."

"He's got a dhow there now," interrupted Biggles, "but he wanted me to fly him to Azir,"

"He did? I begin to see the drift of this. Stampoulos got wind that we were watching and came down here to warn him. I'll bet you any money the Greek knew all about your aircraft before you spoke to him; the pearl business was only an excuse to get in touch with you.

He knew he couldn't get down here any other way through the net we've drawn about the place. They then got the idea of flying out of it-pretty good. They've got spies everywhere. Every Arab on both sides of the water is in with them. What are you going to do about your pearls?"

"I was just wondering," replied Biggles slowly. "Have you got a machine-gun on board?"

"But you can't go and shoot them up! It would start another European war-"

"I wasn't thinking of anything so crude," broke in Biggles, "but if you'll help me to get my pearls I'll help you get his body. Listen-"

HI.

Biggles landed the "Vandal" near the grove of date-palms, handed the controls to Algy, and jumped lightly to the ground. The engine roared again and the machine soared up into the blue.

He made his way quickly towards the trees, and ignoring a scowling group of Arabs strode up to the entrance of the palace. "Are you there, Stampoulos?" he called loudly. A dozen Arabs began to edge towards him, but paused as they looked into the muzzle of a revolver.

Stampoulos entered, dressed in Arab clothes. "What do you want?" he said, his eyes glinting evilly.

"In the first place, my pearls," replied Biggles, replacing his revolver and lighting a cigarette.

"Is that all?" sneered the Greek.

"All for the moment," replied Biggles coolly. "Where's the Sheikh? I've a proposal to make-ah, there he is! Now, listen, Stampoulos," he went on; "translate as I go. I don't like the company I'm in, and the sooner I'm out of it the better I shall be pleased. You've got my pearls, and you were pretty smart, I'll admit. You give them back to me-no, wait a minute, I haven't finished-give me my pearls plus one hundred pounds, gold, and I'll fly you and your Sheikh to Azir right away."

The Greek laughed, a short, unpleasant laugh.

"Do you think you are in a position to dictate terms?" he scoffed.

"I certainly do, or, not being entirely a fool, I should not have returned to this den of thieves."

"What is to prevent me killing you now?" asked the Greek, with an evil smile.

"Come here and I'll show you," said Biggles, imperturbably, crossing to the window.

The other followed. "I'm going to show you what will happen if I'm not back in my machine in half an hour," he went on, waving his handkerchief through the window.

The "Vandal", circling above, swept down in a steep dive near the palm-grove. A sheet of orange flame leapt upwards and a deafening detonation shook the palace to its foundations. The "Vandal" made a quick stalling turn and Smyth could be seen crouching low over a Vickers gun.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat- The sand flew up in a long line as the mechanic put half a belt of ammunition into the ground as the machine roared past.

Biggles saw the Arabs running for cover. "My friends have had quite a lot of experience at this sort of thing." he observed casually, "and if anything happens to me I can promise you that neither this building nor any man on the oasis will be standing by the time they'

ve finished. The dhow in the offing will also make a handy target. Furthermore," he bluffed as an afterthought, "I have told them if :they want any a.s.sistance to call up R.A.

F. machines by radio from Aden and Khartoum. Every gunboat within five hundred miles will pick up the call and hurry along to see what it's all about."

"Where did you get that gun?" snarled the Greek, with an evil scowl; "it wasn't "Bos.h.!.+" snapped Biggles. "Do you think we show pa.s.sengers all our equipment? Well, what are you going to do about it?"

The mention of the Royal Air Force and the gunboats seemed to shake the Greek, for his face turned a pale olive-green, and he spoke rapidly to the Sheikh for some minutes.

"Very good," he said at the end; "we accept your terms. When would you be ready to go?"

"Now," replied Biggles. "It will be dark before we get there if you don't look sharp. Put the pearls on this table and count out the money, and I'll give you my word that I'll fly you direct to Azir without any further conditions or argument. Make yourselves look respectable -if you can. I don't want any questions from the authorities if they happen to be about."

"Nor I," said the Greek involuntarily.

"I thought you wouldn't," agreed Biggles. "Well. come on, let's be moving."

Two hours later, Biggles, with the pearls reposing in his breastpocket and a bag containing one hundred sovereigns; on the seat beside him, peered ahead into the glare of the setting sun for the coastline of Egypt. He turned a little to the north as it came into view and shortly afterwards picked out the white domes and minarets of the mosque at Azir. He saw something else, too, something that brought a faint smile to the corners of his mouth. A small rakish destroyer lay alongside the ramshackle pier.

He throttled back, landed on the water, taxied quickly towards the pier and switched off.

A buzz of conversation came from the cabin. "What's the matter?" he asked, as he ducked through the low doorway.

"Why is the British destroyer here?" asked the Greek venomously.

"They know best," replied Biggles vaguely. "Why, you've nothing to worry about, have you?"

"No, but they may ask questions," protested Stampoulos, uncomfortably.

"Well, I can't help that," replied Biggles gravely. "We've got to go ash.o.r.e, because I have no more petrol. If they ask anybody questions, it will be us, not you, and our papers are all in order," he went on. "But to be on the safe side we had better say you are our servants. That will sound reasonable enough-eh, what do you think?"

"A good idea," cried the Greek quickly.

"All right; we'll go first, and you follow with our suitcases; here are the keys."

An obsequious Egyptian was waiting for them at the mud-built office at the end of the pier.

"Anything to declare, effendi?" he asked, with an ingratiating smile.

"Nothing," replied Biggles, and walked on.

The Sheikh and the Greek were about to pa.s.s with the suitcases when an officer in white ducks, with two bluejackets in attendance, stepped out of the office.

"Anything in those bags?" he asked casually.

"Nothing," replied the Greek, inserting a key and throwing back the lid of the suitcase he carried, with a mocking bow. Look," he said, with a theatrical wave of his hand and a smile that held a sneer he could not conceal. The smile died on his lips as he followed the officer's eyes to the suitcase. He stared, and his jaw sagged foolishly.

The suitcase was packed solid with a dark substance, from which arose a faint but peculiar aroma.

"Nothing, did you say?" exclaimed Watkins incredulously. "Fifty pounds of has.h.i.+sh seems to me to be something-catch him!"

The Sheikh, after one fleeting glance at the contents of the case, leapt at Biggles like a tiger, a knife in his hand, but a bluejacket tripped him up and he crashed headlong. Half a dozen sailors poured out of the office and threw themselves on him.

Stampoulos could only stand and stare at the contents of the second suitcase, which had revealed another load of the narcotic. He seemed to be dazed, and followed the sailors unresistingly.

"Got your pearls, Bigglesworth?" asked Watkins, smiling.

"Yes, and you've got the body," grinned Biggles. "Empty that dope of yours out of our suitcases; we want, to be getting along. See you later."

CHAPTER 12.

YELLOW FREIGHT.

WITH his goggles swinging lightly from the finger of his left hand, Biggles, with Algy at his side, walked slowly along the tarmac of the sun-scorched aerodrome at Heliopolis to where the "Vandal," with Smyth standing by the propeller, rested in the shade of a hangar, in readiness for the trip to Benghazi, the next port of call on their homeward journey.

Before they reached the machine, however, their attention was attracted to a mechanic hurrying towards them.

"Looking for us, or I'm a Dutchman," observed Biggles curiously. "I wonder what he wants?"

"Beg pardon, sir, but will you please have a word with Colonel Grivin; he's waiting in the office."

"What office?"

"The Nile and North African Aviation Company, sir." Biggles raised his eyebrows. "

Lead on; we'll follow," he said.

A tall, spare, grey-haired man with a troubled face rose to meet them as they entered the offices of the well-known Egyptian operating company.

"Come in, Bigglesworth, come in," he said tersely, leading the way to an inner office. "

Pleased to meet you," he, went on quickly when they were seated. "I heard a lot about you during the war; I was at Wing H.Q. when you were in 266 Squadron."

Biggles nodded. "Yes, I remember your name now, sir. Can I do something for you?"

Colonel Grivin drummed nervously on his desk for a moment before replying. "I don't know," he muttered anxiously. "It's difficult-very difficult. The fact is, I'm in a jam, and I'm just about at my wits' end." He leaned forward suddenly. "You had a pretty good record in the war, Bigglesworth; you seemed to have a knack of-er sorting things out. I want you to think this over. When I've finished you can either stand by me or you can walk out of that door, and I shan't say a word. Did you know Trevor Dawlish?"

"I've heard of him, but I don't remember ever meeting him. He used to be in 56, didn't he?"

"He was. Until a short time ago he was my best pilot. He left here a month ago for Benghazi, on a trip to Paris, with a special freight. He never got there. Service machines found his crash a fortnight ago in the mountains, near El Farosha, about four miles the other side of Karouma, which is the first emergency landing-ground on the run. He was-well, it was a heck of a crash-burnt out."

The Colonel paused for a moment before continuing.

* "Three days ago Bert Makins, another of my pilots, headed east on the same trip, also with freight. It seems as if he tried to get in at Karouma but made a mess of it. He finished up by cras.h.i.+ng into the rocks on the north side of the landing-ground, and was burnt up before he could get out."

"Bad show."

The Colonel's jaw set grimly. "It's worse than that, Bigglesworth," he said in a strained voice. "Poor Trevor and Bert were murdered."