Biggles (38 page)

‘We will, sir,' answered Biggles. ‘But I'd say you'll have your work cut out trying to find anyone like us. Algy and I are quite unique. Aren't we Algy?'

‘I like to think so, but we'll do our best.'

‘Excellent!' said Raymond, beckoning for the bill. ‘We'll be in touch then. You can get me at the Yard. Same old number as before.'

The flat in Mount Street hadn't changed perceptibly during the years of war — except to become a little shabbier. Some of the windows had been broken in the bombing, and the sitting room ceiling still bore the scars of an incendiary bomb that nearly set
the place alight, but otherwise it all remained as familiar and chaotic as ever. Biggles and Algy had kept it on throughout the war, although they rarely saw it while they were serving with the R.A.F. The indomitable Mrs Symes, now widowed, had moved in. Friends used it for odd nights when they were on leave in London, the rent was paid each month by banker's order, and that was that.

But for Biggles and Algy, Mount Street was home. It was where they kept their old civilian suits, their souvenirs and all the clutter of a lifetime, and now that the war was over, it was to Mount Street that they automatically returned, since their service with the R.A.F. was coming to an end. Officially they were both on ‘demobilisation leave', but in effect they were both free men and were glad to be away from Tangmere and the gloomy business of disbanding their beloved Squadron.

At first, the days passed swiftly. They had old friends to see and were occupied getting the flat in order. But post-war London was a somewhat dreary place. Restaurants were bad, theatres packed, and pubs impossible. There was no petrol, so the famous Bentley stayed where it had been throughout the war — on blocks in the coach-house down at Lewes. Algy was trying to keep up a desultory romance with a W.A.A.F. called Anthea. She was another of his large, blonde amazons, and worked as a coding clerk at the Air Ministry in Whitehall, but she too had been affected by the ending of the war. Her eyes were clearly set on marriage, and Algy's were becoming shifty.

‘Nice girl, Anthea,' he'd say to Biggles, ‘but for some bally reason she keeps nagging me to take her down to Lewes. Wants to meet the parents. For the life of me I can't think why.'

(Finally, the problem solved itself when Anthea transferred her favours to a man called Smith who owned a garage on the Kingston by-pass.)

Within a week or two it was obvious that the cousins were getting on each other's nerves. Algy was restless. Biggles still talked about his cottage down in Dorset, but did nothing about it. Both of them drank too much, and there were several minor rows.

There had been no news from Air Commodore Raymond since they had seen him down at Brighton. Biggles had taken him at his word, and recommended half a dozen names of likely members of his Squadron, but without acknowledgement.

‘Drat him!' said Biggles. ‘The old devil could at least have telephoned.'

‘Forget him,' counselled Algy. ‘He must be furiously busy and there's no earthly reason why he should now be bothered with the likes of us.'

But Algy was wrong, and the very next morning an official-looking letter turned up on the breakfast table inviting them both to dinner two days later at the Blazers' Club.

‘Ah, James, Algy, quite like old times, what!' exclaimed the Air Commodore as he met his guests in the pillared entrance hall of his exclusive London club. But he was being over-optimistic, for the Blazers' Club, like most of London, had patently seen better days. The walls were dingy and unpainted, and old Tatham, the legendary head-porter (once described by the Prince of Wales himself as ‘the discreetest man in London') had died, so it was said, of drink. Raymond, too, was looking distinctly the worse for wear — quite different from the ebullient individual the chums had seen in Brighton just a month before.

‘And a great treat to be back here, sir,' said Biggles brightly. ‘Both of us have been looking forward to it since we received your invitation, haven't we Algy?'

He nodded ‘How's the new job going, sir? We've often thought about you.'

‘That's decent of you, Algy,' the Air Commodore replied, with a somewhat weary smile. ‘I feel in need of all the sympathy that I can get.'

‘Difficult?' asked Biggles.

‘Diabolical!' replied Raymond with a fleeting frown. ‘Still, I mustn't burden you two with my troubles. Come and have a drink.'

Two pink gins and twenty minutes later, the friends were seated in the famous Adam dining-room, their taste buds quivering in keen anticipation of the treat in store.

‘Well now, let's see,' said Raymond as he screwed his monocle in place with a well-remembered gesture, and turned his attention to the menu.

‘Rather good, tonight! We even have a choice. Rissoles or shepherd's pie. Frankly, I think I would advise against the
rissoles. Never quite sure what goes into them. There are rumours...'

‘Quite,' said Biggles, doing his level best to hide the disappointment in his heart. ‘I always have been one for shepherd's pie, ever since I was a boy. Good old nursery food. Can't beat it!'

‘Absolutely,' echoed Algy sadly. ‘Shepherd's pie for me sir, if you please.'

‘Capital,' said Raymond. ‘And with any luck the wine waiter might be able to produce something suitable to go with it.'

‘The Moroccan red, Air Commodore?' inquired the Club
sommelier
respectfully.

‘I think so, VVarburton. And please make sure that it's at room temperature.'

‘Of course, Air Commodore,' replied the old retainer.

The shepherd's pie fulfilled their worst forebodings — ‘I think they must have put the poor old shepherd
and
his blinking dog into it,' said Algy afterwards — and the Club Moroccan, even when beautifully decanted, looked and tasted like red ink. It hardly helped the conversation, and the first half of the meal passed in dismal silence, interspersed with ill-directed shafts of Algy's so-called wit. Finally, Biggles could bear the atmosphere no longer.

‘What's up, sir?' he asked as gently as he could. ‘What exactly has gone wrong with this new job of yours? It sounded absolutely corking when you told us all about it down in Brighton.'

Raymond pushed the grey remains of the shepherd's pie away and shook his head.

‘Afraid I spoke too soon, James my boy. A weakness I suppose I've always had. No, it's turning out to be an absolute fiasco, and it's really my own fault.'

‘Why on earth?' said Biggles, with quite genuine amazement.

‘I can only suppose I'm losing my grip, James, or perhaps I'm just too old a dog to learn the new tricks that the job requires. Truth is, there's an awful lot of jealousy at Scotland Yard — I'm telling you all this in strictest confidence, of course.'

‘Of course,' said Biggles. ‘But who's being jealous?'

‘Most of the senior officers. Quite incredible, you know, that grown men could behave like so many silly spinsters, but it appears that there is considerable resentment at the way I was
appointed over their heads. Never had to deal with this sort of thing before and I'm not very good at it. Also, politics comes into it. The airlines are anxious to have their own security organisation and have done their best to keep me out. Can't find the personnel I need, and the long and short of it is that the whole confounded shooting match looks like becoming a disaster.'

‘But what about the actual crime wave in the air that you were telling us about the other day? Somebody must be tackling it,' said Algy.

‘Ah-ha! You'd think so, wouldn't you dear boy. But not so,' replied Raymond bitterly. ‘Tell you the truth, that's what really worries me. I'm not particularly concerned about my own career. I've got my yacht, and it would quite suit me to retire for a bit and cruise around the Med. Might even write my memoirs. But the fact is, Algy, that the actual situation's far, far worse than I imagined. Already with the ending of the war, several really big-time international crooks have moved into the airlines, and there's one area in particular that worries me.'

‘What's that?' asked Biggles quickly.

‘Dangerous drugs. Chiefly heroin but also morphine and cocaine. There are fortunes to be made by smuggling them from the East through Britain to America, and I know that already quite a large part of the traffic goes by air. That's what I want to stop.'

‘Why don't you have a go then, sir?' asked Biggles.

‘That's what I want to do, of course,' the Air Commodore replied, ‘but I've got no one to rely on. It takes far longer than you'd imagine to train up the sort of organisation we require, and amateurs would do more harm than good. No, what I need are two or three professionals who can really carry through a complicated case, but it's dashed difficult to find them.'

There was a silence, and Biggles looked inquiringly at Algy, who nodded back at him.

‘I think I know just the chaps you're looking for,' said Biggles thoughtfully.

‘You do, James? Capital! Who are they then?' the Air Commodore replied.

‘A pair called Bigglesworth and Lacey. I think I can recommend them.'
There are conflicting versions of the beginning of the Special Air Police, but the truth is that this world-famous organisation really began effective life that night in the dining room of the Blazers' Club. Nothing was put down on paper and the whole arrangement was informal to a degree. The chums accepted what Air Commodore Raymond termed ‘a temporary attachment' to the force, which suited them ideally. Their work soon proved to be a logical continuation of the sort that Biggles and Co. had done for Raymond in the years between the wars. Neither of the chums really needed the money, which was just as well, since their official salaries would barely have paid the rent in Mount Street — let alone their extras and their self-indulgences, such as Algy's Bentley (a generous petrol allowance proved to be one of the perks of the job), their dinners at the Ritz (they didn't like the changes that the war had brought to the Café Royal), and Biggles' hand-made Turkish cigarettes. On the other hand, the Special Air Police undoubtedly did give a point and purpose to their lives, and let them continue with that life of ‘flying and adventure' they had always wanted.

All this lay in the future though, and neither of the chums had much idea what they were in for when they descended from their taxi on the Embankment at nine o'clock next morning, strolled past the Duty Sergeant at New Scotland Yard, and had themselves directed to the sixth floor abode of their new lord and master.

Somewhat to his chagrin, the Air Commodore had not succeeded in reclaiming his pre-war office with its splendid view across the river. (In his absence it had been firmly nabbed by the Scotland Yard solicitor-in-chief who was determined to hang on to it.) But, although his surroundings were less imposing than they used to be, Raymond himself was very much the office martinet they remembered, and behind his desk that steely presence was quite different from the discouraged figure they had dined with just the night before.

‘James, Algy, good to have you back on strength!' he barked as they entered.

‘Quite like old times, sir,' replied Biggles with a grin.

‘Well, yes and no,' replied Raymond, with a frosty smile. ‘I think you'll find that it's a tougher world than it used to be, and certainly the gang that we are up against in this heroin racket
seem better organised than any of the criminals we've dealt with in the past. I warn you, it will be a tough assignment.'

‘But we really have a free hand, do we sir?' inquired Biggles.

Raymond nodded.

‘That's what we agreed last night, but I must warn you that I need results. As I told you, everybody's breathing down my neck, and that's not a situation I particularly enjoy.'

‘What information do you have already, sir?' asked Biggles.

‘Precious little. That's the trouble. All that we have to go on at the moment are the reports we've been receiving from the narcotics branch of the American Treasury Department, complaining that a great deal of their illicit traffic comes through Britain. Also, the Customs boys at Heathrow recently arrested a B.O.A.C. steward, boy by the name of Hinds, with half a million dollars' worth of heroin on him.'

‘How was he carrying the stuff?' asked Biggles.

‘Hidden inside a tube of shaving cream. Old trick of course, but something about the boy aroused the officer's suspicions and he gave him a thorough going over. Very smart of him. First real break we've had.'

‘And what about this steward. Has he admitted anything?'

Raymond shook his head.

‘That's the devil of it all,' he said. ‘I've had a go at him myself, but all that the little blighter will admit is that the stuff was given to him during a stop-over in Rome by a man he'd never seen before. He was to be paid a hundred dollars to deliver it to someone who would meet him in New York.'

‘No hint of who this someone was?'

‘Of course not. He would be waiting by a news stand in Times Square, but by the time we told this to the F.B.I, the gang had obviously heard their fellow was arrested, and the bird had flown.'

‘That's all we've got to go on then?' said Biggles thoughtfully.

‘Afraid it is, dear boy. I told you it would be a tough assignment.'

During that first day at Scotland Yard, Biggles and Algy had to spend most of the time doing what Raymond called ‘getting acquainted with the ropes'. This included meeting the
Commissioner himself, learning their way around the building, and finding out what resources the Special Air Police had at its disposal. It was soon obvious that there were precious few. Biggles and Algy had been allocated a cramped little office on Raymond's floor, and had to share it with several dark green filing cabinets and a hefty secretary called Brenda. They were also introduced to various other members of the section.