Captain W.E. Johns - Biggles - Air Detective

CONTENTS

THE CASE OF THE VISITING SULTAN .

OPERATOR

THE CASE OF THE WOUNDED AGENT .

THE CASE OF THE BRILLIANT PUPIL .

THE CASE OF THE MURDERED APPRENTICE .I 05

THE CASE OF THE STOLEN AIRCRAFT .

As Detective Air-Inspector Bigglesworth, better known as "Biggles", entered the office of the chief of his department, Air Commodore Raymond, Assistant Commissioner of New Scotland Yard, waved him to a chair and at the same time introduced a blackcoated gentleman with whom he had been in conversation.

"Bigglesworth, this is Mr. Videll, Liaison Officer between the Board of Trade and His Majesty's Office of Customs and Excise," he said. "He has come here hoping thatwell, if we can't give him any information you might give him the benefit of your expert opinion."

Biggles sat down. "What's the trouble?"

Mr. Videll answered. "The trouble, in a word, is nylons." Biggles looked incredulous. "Nylons? Do you mean women's stockings?"

"Yes."

Biggles threw at his Chief a glance in which indignation and reproach were present. "For heaven's sake!" he exclaimed. "Don't tell me that we're expected to" The Air Commodore held up a hand. "Don't

jump to conclusions. Hear what Mr. Videll has to say. Nylons may be bigger business than you suppose. Go ahead, Videll."

The Liaison Officer explained. "We're worried by a serious leakage through our Customs barriers. American nylons are coming into this country in numbers far beyond the official quota. They're affecting the home market. The hosiery trade is complaining, and we've got to stop it."

"What are a few pairs of stockings, more or less?" murmured Biggles, looking slightly amused.

"Somebody is making a packet of money out of them, anyway," asserted Mr. Videll with asperity. "We're wondering if they're being smuggled in by aircraft. That's why I'm here."

"But surely if anyone was going seriously into the smuggling racket they'd choose a more profitable line than stockings," opined Biggles. "I doubt if an aircraft capable of doing the transatlantic run could be operated to make a profit out of them. Can you give me any figures? What do nylons weigh?'

"A pair of real Du Pont Crystal nylon stockings weigh less than half an ounce," stated the Liaison Officer. "Say three pairs to an ounce, or forty-eight pairs to a pound. A parcel weighing a mere fifty pounds would contain two thousand pairs of hose. They could probably be bought in America, wholesale for less than ten shillings a pair. Here, they are retailing in the black market at anything from

twenty-five to thirty shillings a pair, which means that a fifty-pound parcel would show a profit of something in the order of 2,000. Work that out in quantities and you'll see that nylons are by no means mere chicken-feed."

"You surprise me," admitted Biggles. "Are you sure the stuff isn't trickling through in the kit-bags of foreign merchant sailors?"

"A number were being brought in that way at one time, but since we got the big stick out it has pretty well dried up. No, these consignments are coming through in bulk. While they last they nearly flood the market. Then there's a gap until the next consignment arrives. That's been happening at the rate of four times a year for the past twenty months.

"

"And you've no clue as to how this racket is being worked?"

"We thought we had, but somehow we can't make it fit. Intensive investigation revealed that the appearance of the nylons invariably coincided with the arrival of a certain cargo boatthe Siroccowhich, flying the Panama flag, takes the north route to Liverpool. It must have been coincidence, because the last time the Sirocco came in we were waiting for her. We searched the ship and every man on herand that's a job we know how to do. The nylons weren't there. We checked every parcel leaving the dock, yet within a couple of days a fresh lot of nylons were on sale in the London black market." Biggles took a cigarette from his case and tapped it thoughtfully on the back of his hand before lighting it. "Hm! Coincidence is always interesting. In my experience there's usually something more to it than just coincidence. Where's the Sirocco now?"

"Two hundred miles out in the Atlantic, heading for Liverpool."

"Which means that you're expecting another load of nylons to arrive pretty soon?" Mr. Videll shrugged. "Another consignment is about due, but I don't see how the Sirocco can have anything to do with it. Personally, I believe the stuff is being flown over, but I couldn't guess how."

Biggles shook his head. "I doubt it."

"Why?"

"To start with, we're watching the sky pretty closely. Of course, I couldn't swear that there isn't an unlicensed machine about, but I'm pretty sure it couldn't operate regularly without being spotted sooner or later. Apart from that, it's a matter of simple mathematics. I doubt if it would be possible to operate an aircraft, capable of crossing the Atlantic, for the sole purpose of importing nylonsI mean, to show a profit and make the risks worth while. Aircraft are expensive toys. Or put it this way. If such a machine was operating the pilot would choose a more profitable line of goods than nylons. Again, if an aircraft was being used surely

the nylons would arrive in a steady stream instead of only four times a year. That's the rate of a tramp steamer. An aircraft could easily make the trip forty times in the same period. Then, what about petrol? You can't buy petrol by the thousand gallons without somebody getting inquisitive." Biggles looked at the Air Commodore. "That's my opinion, sir, but we can go into the thing more closely if you like."

"I wish you would just covering the air angle, of course," answered the Air Commodore. Biggles got up. "Very well, sir." He turned to the Liaison Officer. "If aviation does come into this, it shouldn't take us long to pick up the scent. I'll get cracking on it right away." He left the room and returned to his own office, where Air Constable Ginger Hebblethwaite was on duty. "What's the weather report for sea area Rockall, Malin and the North Channel?" he asked.

Ginger went over to a flag-labelled map that covered most of one wall. "Fine and warm. Wind moderate, north to north-east. Sea calm. Conditions likely to persist."

"Good enough," returned Biggles. "Get your hat. We're going to have a look at it. I aim to be there about dawn. I'll tell you why on the way."

"That looks like her."

The speaker was Ginger, and he spoke from the

second pilot's seat of an Air Police Service Saro amphibian, which, as indicated by the instruments, was cruising on a westerly course at an altitude of a thousand feet. Biggles was at the controls. Dawn was just breaking. Below lay the Atlantic, cold, dreary and monotonous, in the half light, rolling away to the edge of the world on all sides except to the east, where dark smudges marked the coastlines of Northern Ireland and the Western Isles of Scotland. In all that vast expanse of ocean only two ships could be seen. Far to the north a destroyer was outward bound on the King's business. Several miles to the south a typical salt-water tramp was ploughing her way westward with a wisp of grimy smoke hanging like a feather from her funnel. Behind her, as far as the eye could see but fading in the distance, was her track, a broad line of oily water sprinkled at intervals with garbage.

"Yes, that must be the Sirocco," said Biggles. "Keep your eyes skinned. I'm going to back-track her." He altered his course slightly, and throttled back, losing a little height. Ginger, with powerful binoculars to his eyes, studied the track, as Biggles, still heading seaward, took up a course a little to the right of it.