Another Job For Biggles
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ribs. That’s what happens to people here if they start asking too many questions.” “So I believe,” replied Biggles. “But I’m satisfied that the only gurra that was brought here arrived in Hamud’s bag. Kuatim died in the desert. Zahar’s bag, and its contents, I bought from him, so we know where that is. Darnley himself we can rule out. That only leaves Hamud. If he had only some gurra I wouldn’t mind, because that would soon be used up. But he collected seeds, and while there are seeds there will
given him a week’s leave, and he’s gone sailing somewhere on somebody’s yacht.” “I see.” The Air Commodore reached for his intercom telephone. “Please ask Air Constables Lissie and Hebblethwaite to come to my office,” he told the operator. A minute later they came into the room, and after Raymond had told them to be seated, he went on: “I’ve just been having a word with Detective Air Inspector Bigglesworth and he thought you ought to be here to listen to the rest of the conversation.” There
they’re in its grip. They’re physically unable to do so.” “In what form is this stuff put into cigarettes?” inquired Biggles. “It seems that a small quantity of tobacco is steeped in alcohol in which the gum has been dissolved. This is then dried, mixed with ordinary tobacco and made up into cigarettes.” “Has it any taste?” “It gives a cigarette a slight aromatic flavour, hardly noticeable and rather pleasant than otherwise. We reckon that one grain would be sufficient to treat a hundred
of leather straps. This is pulled through the shrubs and the gum sticks to the straps.” “Very interesting,” murmurmed Biggles. “And you think that if the stuff could be destroyed in its natural home, the supply of gurra would dry up?” “It’s a reasonable assumption,” averred the Air Commodore. “But that presupposes the supply is coming from the wadi. That, in turn, means that someone has agents there collecting it. If so, they wouldn’t be likely to let you destroy it without putting up a stiff
Derby Day my resignation will be on your desk. I can find something more entertaining than counting queues of cars on cross-roads.” The Air Commodore laughed. “I don’t think it’ll come to that. We’ve already got that angle covered.” He picked up a single loose cigarette that lay on his desk and offered it. “Have a cigarette to steady your nerves?” Biggles looked at the cigarette, frowned and then lifted his eyes to the Air Commodore’s face. “What’s wrong with it?” he queried suspiciously.