Captain W.E. Johns - Biggles Hunts Big Game

Chapter 1

Biggles States The Case

"WHAT'S the idea? Don't tell me that you've started collecting stamps! "

The question was asked by Constable Hebblethwaite (more often known as "Ginger" to his comrades of the Special Air Police Department of Scotland Yard) from the sitting-room door of the Mount Street apartments which he shared with his chief, Sergeant Bigglesworth,' D.S.O., D.F.C., M.C., one time of the Royal Air Force. It was prompted by the spectacle which greeted his eyes as he entered the room after a spell of duty at the Yarda spectacle which nearly caused his voice to crack with incredulity.

The scene would not by ordinary standards have been judged remarkable. It was remarkable only in that Ginger, in all the years that he had known his chief, had never seen him reveal more interest in a postage stamp than was required to stick it on an envelope. Yet now, from a number that lay on the table, he had selected one which, held by a pair of tweezers, was the subject of close scrutiny through a magnifying glass.

Ginger turned to Constables Algy Lacey and Lord Bertie Lissie who, having come home with him were hanging their hats on the rack in the hall. "Take a look at this," he invited, with an inclination of his head to what was going on at the table.

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Bertie, still limping from the bullet wound in the thigh sustained in the affair of the stolen German proto-type,[1]

screwed a monocle in his eye and regarded the picture with wonder and affected alarm. "Well, blow me down! " he exclaimed. Advancing into the room he continued, "Here, I say, old boy, go easy. If that bally stamp collecting bug gets its teeth into you our happy days of fun and frolic will be overabsolutely finished. You'll spend the rest of your life trotting round looking for little bits of paper in the hope that one of them might turn out to be a tuppenny Blue Mauritius."

"Did you say days of fun and frolic?" inquired Biggles with biting sarcasm.

"Well-er-fun, anywayif you see what I mean? " Biggles laid the magnifying glass on the table. "It may interest you to know that I've always wanted to collect stamps. As a kid at school it was a secret passsion with me. I was saving up my pocket-money to start collecting when some perisher started a war, and I haven't had a chance since. Stamps are more interesting than most pieces of paper ten times their size. Besides teaching you more geography than an atlas they're pretty to look at. I'm getting browned off rushing round the world without getting anywhere, particularly since we got roped into this detective busiiness; one day, when the brass-hats turf me out to graze on a pension, I'm going in for stamps in a big way."

"Then you haven't started yet?" Algy asked the question.

Biggles sighed. "Not yet."

"Then what's all this? " Algy pointed to the stamps that lay on the table.

[1] See Sergeant Bigglesworth, C.l.D.

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"Oh, that's another story," saId Biggles sadly.

"When did it happen?"

"This morning. Shut the door and pull up some chairs. I shall have to tell you about it sometime so it might as well be now. It's a depressing tale." Biggles lit a cigarette while he was waiting.

When the others had gathered round, selecting a stamp from those on the table he held it up and continued, "This stamp, valued at one franc fifty centimes, was issued by the government of France." He dropped the stamp and picked up another. "This one, to all appearances identical, is an imposter. It was fabricated by unauthorised persons at some place unknown."

"In other words, it's a fudge," put in Ginger. "

"It is, and yet it isn't," returned Biggles. "A fudge is an imperfect copy of an original, imperfect because, as the materials of which official issues are composed are kept secret, there is a difference, even though it is not apparent at first glance. In this case there is no difference. The paper is the same as that on which the government issues are printed. The design is the same; the chemical constituents of the gum and the ink are the same. In short, if a number of these stamps, genuine and spurious, were mixed, no one could sort them out againunless he had a keen sense of smell. The bogus stamps have a queer odour hanging to thema sort of musty smell mixed up with moth-balls. To the stamp collector this may be a matter of small importance, but for the French government it is very serious. It means that the Post Office is being swindled out of its revenues, the sum lost being in proportion to the number of dud stamps put into circulation. Such perfect reproductions as these would certainly be put out in large page 12

numbers, which means that France is every day losing a considerable sum of money. And that state of affairs will go on until the illegal printing press is discovered."

"In other words, a gang of clever counterfeiters are at work in France?" put in AIgy.

"Counterfeiters are certainly at work, but where the work is being done is a question not so easy to answer," replied Biggles. "Forget the stamps for a moment and look at this." Emptying the contents of an envelope on the table he selected a small piece of paper almost entirely covered with a design printed in mauve ink. "You probably know what this is."

Ginger grinned. "It's a ten bob note. I had one once."

"The Treasury would be happy to give you quite a lot if you could tell them who produced that particular specimen.

Like the stamps it is spurious. Yet such a perfect copy is it of the real thing that even the experts at the Bank of England are not infallible when they try to separate the false from the true. The paper is perfect. So is the ink. Of course, all governments that issue notes know perfectly well that they will be counterfeited to a more or less extent.

There are always a number of dud notes in circulation, even in this country. Most of them come from abroad, where people are not so familiar with their appearance. They are passed in this country at places where large numbers of notes are constantly changing handsrace meetings and so on. The majority of these forgeries are easy to detect, and when they reach the banks they are of course destroyed. This is a menace that has long been accepted. They are an irritation rather than a danger to the monetary sysstem. But when counterfeit notes reach the perfection of this example that I have here on the table it can only

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mean that forgery is being practised in a big way, and that is a serious matter. A country must know, and be able to state at any time, just how many notes it has in circulation. If it can't, then it's on the road to inflation and bankruptcy.

Its trade begins to decline, because other countries, naturally, would view its transactions with suspicion. Confidence is lost. Presently shopkeepers get chary of accepting notes. The result is chaos." Biggles stubbed his cigarette.

"This morning I was called to a special meeting in Whitehall" he resumed. "Every government department of importance was represented. I went with Air Commodore Raymond, Assistant Commissioner of Police, representing Scotland Yard. The conference was convened to discuss a situation which has been developing slowly since the First World War. A lot of people have seen the trouble coming, although the newsspapers have kept the soft pedal on it for security reasons."

" You mean the Black Market?" suggested Algy.

"Pah! That's merely a side issue."

"Tell us what it was about," invited Bertie. "It sounds exciting."

"So exciting that, unless the trouble is checked, it will bust civilization as effectively as would indiscriminate bombing with atomic bombs," declared Biggles seriously. "Some years ago, when certain writers of fiction first introduced into their crime novels a sort of king crook, a paramount chief of the underworld, the plots were generally regarded as entertaining but improbable flights of fancy. Yet that very thing has not only come to pass, but has far outstripped in scale and scope anything that these far-seeing writers visualized. Of course, petty crime still exists, as it always has page 14