Chapter Text
Singapore, December 1952.
As Biggles and his police pilots were ushered into the cool lobby of the large, rectangular building which was Police Headquarters, Singapore, Ginger let out a suppressed sigh of relief and tried not to pluck at his collar. The journey to headquarters from the civil airport by car had been sweltering, even with windows down, and his shirt was already soaked with sweat.
The uniformed Police Lieutenant, who had introduced himself as Lt Salleh, entered the room first and saluted the occupants within. “Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth, sir.”
The Assistant Commissioner of Police was there to receive them, together with an important-looking civilian whose manner was contemplative, almost professorial, but who spoke with a discreet authority. Mutual courtesies and handshakes followed, and the Assistant Commissioner introduced the civilian as Mr Clarkson, Secretary of Defense and Internal Security.
“Had a smooth flight?” (They had travelled down by BOAC.) And after Biggles’ murmured assent, “You must be wondering why we’ve sent for you,” said the Assistant Commissioner. “I asked to meet you in Singapore so that you could speak with Mr Clarkson in person, whose responsibilities prevent him from travelling upland right now. He has a problem which you might find… interesting.”
Biggles gratefully accepted the cup of tea that Lt. Salleh offered him. “I’m listening.” He did not fail to notice that the lieutenant, having carried out the hospitable niceties, put his head out of the conference room door and looked both ways, then locked it and stood with his back to it.
Mr Clarkson cleared his throat and smiled. “Our apologies for asking you down on short notice.” He leaned forward. “I need not remind everyone here that all information shared in this room is completely confidential and must not be carelessly uttered outside these premises. Have you – er – heard anything from your former wartime colleague, Li Chi*?”
(*Note: Li Chi's previous appearances were in 'Biggles Flies Again' and 'Biggles Delivers The Goods')
Biggles raised an eyebrow. “So this concerns him, does it? No, I went straight from that rubber assignment to another theatre of war. I’ve had no cause to write to him since then, nor would I know how to reach him if I wanted to. My impression was that he worked with British military intelligence after returning to Calcutta.”
Clarkson filled in the blanks. “Yes, Li Chi was very helpful to my colleagues in Calcutta after the debriefing concerned with your mission. His familiarity with the area was invaluable in helping us to work out some of the best locations for airdrops when we were sending in our special liaison units prepatory to retaking Malaya, and his people helped us retrieve a few valuable crates that were dropped off target.”
“Were you working with him in person?”
“Not me. I’d been in the jungle for three years then, doing my best to survive. We were working with the jungle fighters, the Malayan People’s Anti-Japanese Army, during the Japanese occupation, as you know.”
“That’s to say, you were friends with the Communists you’re fighting now?” remarked Biggles dryly.
Clarkson’s expression took on a shade of melancholy. “Yes, our wartime allies are our enemies now. We signed a treaty with them, you know, in the jungle, joining hands against our common enemy. Both of us knew our paths would diverge after the war. We worked very well with them during that time – they sheltered us, gave us food and protection, and in return we gave them training, arms and medicine. They were trustworthy and never gave us away. Also very successful in taking the fight back to the Japanese – their bravery in the jungle was so well known that they were lauded in some quarters by the population as the real liberators of Malaya, whereas the ‘defeated British’ were not exactly welcomed back by all with open arms. Unfortunately, they present themselves, now, as defenders of liberty - they’ve transferred the hatred they had for the Japanese to the British, whom they now view as the unlawful occupiers of this country.”
“Do the people support them?”
“That’s difficult to answer in a few words. Ideologically, the common man is largely indifferent, but in practical terms, yes. The Communists are almost all of Chinese ethnicity, and they have the support – whether freely given, or coerced by violence and intimidation – of the half a million Chinese people who, at the end of the war, were living along the jungle fringe, augmented by many who fled the towns in large numbers from the Japanese during the war. The Chinese are used to the concept of paying ‘protection money’ to secret society gangsters in return for immunity from harrassment. Right now, the Communists function as the biggest “gang” around, extorting protection money and food from the common people. They have no qualms about killing those who fail to pay up. That’s why such a tremendous effort has been spent in the past two years to relocate the people to new settlements which are fenced in and policed to give them protection from the Communists in the jungle.”
“You're not saying the British Government has been putting half a million people in new settlements and policing them.”
“That is what I’m saying.”
“How many settlements do you mean?”
“Hundreds. Each New Village contains a few hundred to a few thousand people. The relocation is still ongoing.”
Biggles gave a low whistle. “A massive undertaking. Did the Communists keep the arms you gave them after the war?”
“If you’re asking if the weapons they’re fighting us with now are the same ones we issued them with for wartime resistance activity, they are most definitely not,” said Clarkson firmly. “We went to some trouble to ensure that didn’t happen, paid each of our former allies a sum of money when they handed in their weapons after the war, and collected more than we'd recorded as distributed. But they’d definitely concealed arms that were lost in the surrender to the Japanese, and possibly some from airdrops that went astray.”
“How does Li Chi come into the picture? I gather you have lost touch with him and would like to find him again?”
Clarkson nodded assent. “My colleagues saw him as a bit of a loose cannon and were a little worried as to what might become of someone with his organising talent after the war. It would be safer to have him on our side, so to speak. Unlike our Anti-Japanese Army allies, he was never formally part of our fighting force, and we did not issue him uniforms or equipment, so he wasn’t part of our demobilisation process. His men kept their weapons which were, of course, originally theirs. There were victory celebrations, medals, important gestures for us to recognise our Communist allies publicly, you know, but Li Chi would have none of that. Amidst that hustle and bustle he faded quietly away.”
“And what manner of trouble is he in now?”
Clarkson proceeded. “Perhaps this will save some explanation. Does this mean anything to you?” He pushed over a small square of paper to Biggles.
The paper was yellowed, thin and light, around 3 by 3 inches in size, with a printed logo of a small fruit on one side, and the other covered in tiny handwriting made with a pen – rows of Chinese characters in a seemingly repetitive sequence.
Biggles had a good look on both sides, and passed it carefully over to Algy so that the others could examine it in turn. “No, this doesn’t ring a bell with me. Its size suggests that it wasn’t designed to be used as writing paper. It looks like the sort of paper one might wrap sweets in.”
Clarkson said, “Close, but you’d get a slightly different kind of sweetness if you ate what was wrapped in this! This wrapper is identical to many which were used for packaging cakes of smuggled opium which were sold illegally from Singapore to Penang before the war. The packaging differentiates it from the offical stock that was licensed for sale under the government monopoly. Care to guess the name of the smuggler most often associated with this particular wrapper design?”
Biggles, now alert, noted that the fruit printed on the wrapper was a lychee, rather than a hawthorn fruit as he’d assumed on first glance. He grimaced. “You’ve as good as told me.”
“This is how Li Chi got his moniker in the 1930s, because of that picture.”
“But – at least when I last worked with him – he had changed his ways. You’re not saying he’s returned to the opium trade?”
“No. In today’s context its discovery presents quite a different possibility.” Clarkson leaned forward. “This piece of paper was found on the body of a Communist guerilla who was shot last week in Johor when a food convoy was ambushed by a Communist blockade. The Communists are short of food after our food control policy of the past 2 years has seen successes in cutting off their food supply, and they are taking increasingly desperate risks, incurring casualties such as this one. They are also short of paper and writing materials. This is the second intercepted note we’ve found in a week written on identical paper, with this old logo.”
Biggles frowned. “But Li Chi’s no Communist. Quite the opposite.”
Clarkson shrugged. “We didn’t think so, either. In fact, we heard for some time after the Emergency was declared that he was being quite a nuisance to the Communists – a bandit to the bandits, you could say, trying to beat them at their own game and make a profit in the process.”
“That sounds a bit more like Li Chi.”
“We’ve never been quite clear as to the extent of his actions. He uses different aliases and covers his tracks. There was rumour some time back of a bandit gang in Johor that was responsible for some revenge attacks on the Communists in response to terror attacks. We confirmed some prominent Communist deaths in the wake of Communist assassinations of local businessmen and police in strikes which were not by our forces. This is the first possible proof we’ve had that he and his men could be behind this.”
“Proof? If, as you say, the Communists are desperate, they could be using any scrap material that comes their way. There’s a chance it’s a coincidence that this paper came into their hands. Or even that it was intended as a frame-up against Li Chi, if, as you say, he has been giving them a taste of their own medicine.”
“Yes, we’re keeping this possibility in mind as well.”
“What does the writing say?”
“As far as we can tell, it looks like a list of locations and contacts. They could be contacts of a courier network that supplies the guerillas with contraband - food, medicine and so on. Alternatively, the list could be of possible targets – some of the locations match raids which the Communists have conducted in recent weeks.”
“How can I help you?” asked Biggles simply.
Clarkson sat up straighter. “Nobody currently serving in the Malayan civil service or police force has personally worked with Li Chi. You have. You can recognise him, and if he’d be likely to listen to any member of the police or the military, it’s you. Now that some possible evidence of his activity has surfaced, we’d like to make contact with him to confirm if he’s still an ally. If he is the one striking at Communists in this area, we have a job for him.”
“Which is?”
“Get rid, if possible, of the second-in-command Communist operative in his area. We know him only by an alias repeated by surrendered enemy personnel, ‘Wong Ming.’ “
“That sounds odd. Why not the top Communist operative?”
Clarkson dropped his voice. “Because the number one, known as Kim Fong, is a British plant working for us. We don’t want him to get rid of the wrong fellow. And as you can imagine, it’s difficult to think of how to get the message to Li Chi.”
Biggles caught the eyes of his team. “My goodness! What a pretty kettle of fish! And if Li Chi isn’t currently keen on working with us?”
Clarkson ran a hand around the edge of his collar. “If he’s working for the Communists now, my dear Bigglesworth, then your duty will be to work with us to bring him in, dead or alive!”