by W E Johns
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I: AN AEROPLANE FAILS TO RETURN
CHAPTER II: GINGER FINDS A SCENT
CHAPTER III: THE TRAIL OF THE CUB
CHAPTER IV: NOT IN THE PROGRAMME
CHAPTER V: A PROPOSITION
CHAPTER VI: STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS
CHAPTER VII: NIGHT FLIGHT
CHAPTER VIII: BIGGLES UNDERSTANDS
CHAPTER IX: TRAGIC NEWS
CHAPTER X: WHAT HAPPENED TO BERTIE
CHAPTER XI: CHANDLER SHOWS HIS HAND
CHAPTER XII: SHOWDOWN IN THE FARM
CHAPTER XIII: HOW IT ALL ENDED
CHAPTER I
AN AEROPLANE FAILS TO RETURN
SATISFIED with the performance of the Air Police Auster aircraft which he had just tested after overhaul, Biggles made a tarmac landing and brought the aeroplane to a halt in front of its hangar. Switching off he got down to be greeted by his chief mechanic with the question: “Everything all right, sir?”
“Fine. She goes like a bird,” answered Biggles, pulling off his gloves as he walked on to the Operations Office, where he found Air Constable “Ginger” Hebblethwaite in the act of hanging up the telephone receiver.
“Who was that?” inquired Biggles casually.
“The Secretary of the Kingsmead Flying Club, in Bedfordshire. A chap by the name of Lorrimore—Marcus Lorrimore. He said he knew you.”
Biggles nodded assent. “Yes, I know Lorry although it’s some time since we met. He flew a Spit in the war. Flight Lieutenant. So he’s still in the business. What did he want?”
“Your advice.”
“About what?”
“He’s lost an aircraft and hasn’t a clue where to look for it.”
“How did that happen?”
“Apparently it just took off and never came back.”
“What has he done about it?”
“Notified the Ministry.”
“I suppose he’s made a search?”
“Yes, but he admits he didn’t know where to start.”
Biggles reached for a cigarette and lit it. “What’s the machine?”
“A Piper Cub.”
“When did it disappear?”
“Last Friday.”
Biggles frowned. “Three days ago!”
“He’s been expecting any moment to hear that someone has found the crash.”
“Does he know it crashed?”
“Not for certain.”
“Then what’s he talking about?”
“He’s absolutely certain that if it hadn’t crashed the pilot would have been in touch, by phone if not in person, long before this.”
“Was the pilot flying solo?”
“No. He had a passenger. Would you like me to get Lorrimore on the phone so that you can have a word with him yourself?”
“No. It would be easier to waffle along to Bedfordshire and get the complete gen. I’ll take the machine outside. Do you want to come?”
“It’s pretty dull sitting here alone waiting for possible phone calls.”
“Fair enough. Let’s press on.”
Less than an hour later the Auster was standing outside the administrative offices of the Kingsmead Aviation Company, the official title of a private concern engaged in various air activities: flying club, instruction, charter and other work. Two mechanics were washing down an Auster, otherwise the aerodrome was quiet. Biggles and Ginger went in and found the secretary at his desk. After the greetings between old friends were over Biggles asked: “Now, what’s all this about a lost aircraft?”
“Three days ago it took off for a trip of half an hour and hasn’t come back. I’ve phoned all the clubs in the country but no one has seen it.”
“Who was flying?”
“Taffy Welsh, my chief pilot. He started in the war and has been in the game ever since, which makes him of an age when a man doesn’t play tricks or take chances.”
“What about the machine?”
“It’s a Piper Cub we bought last year, primarily for crop dusting. We do a fair amount of that sort of work for local farmers, and some spraying for the Forestry Commission. When it’s not doing that we sometimes use it for joy-riding, generally at weekends when we’re less busy. There’s a notice board on the road advertising joy-rides at ten bob a time, longer in proportion. It’s small stuff but it all helps to keeps things going. It was one of these casual joy-riders who was in the back seat with Taffy.”
“Did you know him?”
“Never seen him before. That didn’t matter. He said he’d never been up and booked a trip for half an hour. He filled in the usual form with his name and address, next of kin in case of accident and relieving us of responsibility should anything go wrong. It now turns out that the particulars he gave us were false.”
“How do you know?”
“There’s no such address as the one he gave us. When I realized that something had happened I tried to contact it, but getting no reply I got in touch with the police. Nothing is known of a man named Lancelot Litton, the name he gave us.”
“That sounds bad. Did he arrive here by car?”
“If he did I didn’t see it. He just walked into the office. He didn’t leave a car on the road. We looked for one. If he didn’t walk all the way from the village someone must have dropped him.”
“I’ve seen nothing in the papers about this.”
“With air liners crashing all over the world a missing two-seater is hardly a front-page story.”
Biggles drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. “At what hour did Taffy take off?”
“Ten past six in the evening. It was broad daylight.”
“A time when there are plenty of people about. Strange nobody saw anything unusual.”
“Nobody looks up at a plane any more.”
“Not if it’s flying level. They’d look at a plane falling out of the sky. Was Taffy married?”
“No. He has a room at the village pub.”
“Well, let’s have the details,” said Biggles, taking out his notebook. “What colour was the machine?”
“Pale-blue with cream wings.”
“Registration number?”
“G-ALZX.”
Biggles made a note. “What’s your own view of this?” he inquired.
“I haven’t one. What do you think could have happened to the machine?”
“Never mind the machine. What’s happened to Taffy? This begins to look fishy. If he’s all right he should have turned up somewhere by now. The fact that he hasn’t can only mean he can’t.”
“But had the machine crashed surely someone would have found it by now.”
“Not necessarily. That would depend on where the crash occurred. There are still some lonely spots in the U.K.. I remember about 1938 a German Halberstadt was found in a valley in the Welsh hills. It must have been lying there, with a dead crew, since the First World War. In the last war an Anson with seven Poles on board diverted from the south on account of fog, disappeared in the Highlands of Scotland. That was in March. It wasn’t until September that a deerstalker in the Cairngorms came on it by accident. That’ll give you an idea of what can happen.”
“But Taffy wouldn’t go near Wales or Scotland!”
“How much petrol had he in the tanks?”
“They had been topped up. That’s our usual practice unless machines are busy with joy-rides—mostly on Sundays.”
“So had Taffy’s passenger decided to extend his flight the machine could have gone a long way from here.”
“I suppose so. But it couldn’t stay airborne for three days.”
“Obviously; but it might have gone down in the sea.”
“It might
, although that doesn’t make sense. The weather was fair. Taffy is an old hand. I can’t imagine any circumstances that would have taken him near the sea. In fact, had he done so he would have told me.”
“So he had radio.”
“Of course.”
“And you heard nothing from him?”
“Not a peep.”
“Had he got into trouble or decided to extend his flight he would have told you?”
“Of course he would.”
“Assuming he was able to.”
Lorrimore’s eyes opened wide. “What are you driving at?”
“Whatever happened, and something must have happened, it must have been mighty sudden, or, as you say, Taffy would have told you what was going on. I’m wondering about this passenger. What type was this chap Litton?”
“Pretty ordinary, if I can put it like that. Nothing outstanding about him. I’d say he was about five foot nine, slim, dark, clean shaven. Wore a navy-blue suit with a greenish pork-pie hat. I remember there was a little blue feather stuck in the band. Sort of fellow you might meet anywhere. Probably did an office job. Well-spoken—oh yes, with a very slight north-country accent. I couldn’t tell you what county.”
“Anything else? It could be important.”
“He sported a natty bow tie, blue with white spots.”
“You’d know him again if you saw him?”
“Definitely.”
“Did he have any luggage of any sort?”
“Nothing.”
“What did he say when he came in?”
“He said he had seen the notice at the gate about joyrides and as he had never been up it struck him on the spur of the moment that this was an opportunity to see what flying was like. He paid the fee for half an hour in advance, and, frankly, it didn’t occur to me to question him. We’re doing this sort of thing all the time. Taffy was on duty so he took him. That’s about as much as I can tell you.”
“How was Taffy dressed?”
“In his ordinary clothes.”
“He didn’t put on flying-kit?”
“Not for a short jaunt like that. I don’t suppose he’d go above two thousand. Well, there it is. I don’t see what else I can do. I’ve had two machines in the air looking for anything like a crash. They’re still searching, although of course they wouldn’t see the machine had it gone down in a wood.”
“I take it the Cub was insured?”
“Naturally, but I imagine the insurance people will be sticky about paying up unless I can prove the machine is a write-off. Sooner or later no doubt the crash will be found by somebody, but on your own telling that could be weeks or months. In the meantime, without enough ready cash to buy a replacement we shall be a machine short.”
Biggles shrugged. “I’m sorry, laddie, but that’s your worry. I’m thinking about Taffy. He’ll have to be found.”
“Go ahead and find him,” returned Lorrimore, with a touch of sarcasm. “I’ve done all I can. If you’re going to include the whole of Scotland and Wales in the search you’ve a long job in front of you.”
“And if we’re to include Denmark, Holland, Belgium and France, it’ll be even longer,” Biggles pointed out.
“But Taffy couldn’t go abroad! He had no papers for overseas.”
“If, as you say, his tanks were full, he’d have an endurance range of at least five hundred miles.”
“But why should Taffy go abroad?” demanded Lorrimore, raising his voice. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“He may have had no choice in the matter.”
Lorrimore stared. “What do you mean?”
“If he had a pistol pointing at the back of his head he’d have to go where he was told,” returned Biggles evenly.
“Good God! You don’t think...”
“In a queer affair like this one has to take every possibility into account, however far-fetched it may seem. I don’t think the machine has gone abroad, because had an aircraft showing British Registration been seen on the Continent I should have heard of it by now through my Interpol contacts. Bearing in mind that even the best pilots sometimes run into trouble this may turn out to be nothing more than a simple accident. On the other hand, there may be more to it than that. We haven’t much to go on. However, when I’ve thought things over I may get an idea.”
“If you do you might let me know.”
“I will.”
“Are you going to start a search for the machine?”
“After what you’ve done there doesn’t seem much point in it. I feel more inclined to check up on Taffy’s passenger.”
“How will you do that?”
“We have a fair description of the man. One never knows. Now we’ll get back to base. If you get any news you might phone me right away.”
“Of course; I’ll do that. You won’t stay to lunch?”
“No, thanks all the same. We’ll get along.”
The visitors went out to the Auster and were soon back at Operational Headquarters, where they found Bertie who had been on duty at Scotland Yard.
He greeted them without enthusiasm. “Every time I turn my back you lads go gadding off somewhere,” he complained. “Been having fun without me, I suppose.”
“Far from it,” replied Biggles, taking his seat. “We have a job on our hands. You’d better know about it.” He went on to narrate briefly the story of the missing aircraft.
“But tell me this, old boy,” requested Bertie when he had finished. “Where are you going to start looking for this little flying machine?”
“I’m not going to look for it,” answered Biggles. “Lorry has already done that. To tear up and down the four points of the compass, haphazard, would be a waste of time. On the way back from Kingsmead I did some deep thinking. I’ve decided to start work at the other end.”
“What other end?”
“We’ve a better chance of finding the man Taffy Welsh took up in his rear seat.”
“As, according to Lorrimore, he looks like a million other men, that strikes me as a pretty poor prospect,” put in Ginger, a trifle cynically. “Where do you start looking?”
“You and Bertie are going to do the looking,” returned Biggles smoothly. “And you’re going to start right away. I shall prepare a concise but detailed description of the man. You will then tour all the flying clubs within easy reach asking all and sundry if anything is known, or if anyone has met, a pilot answering to the description of the man we’re looking for. I shall do the far-away clubs on the telephone.”
“Pilot!” exclaimed Ginger. “Who said anything about the man being a pilot?”
“I did.”
“But Litton said he’d never been up in his life!”
“That’s what he said. Naturally, he would, if his intention was to get away with the aircraft.”
“But—”
“Listen,” broke in Biggles. “Litton was a fraud and a liar. The fact that he gave false particulars of himself is sufficient proof of that. Would he do that if he was only going for a joy-ride? What would be the point of it? No. He had other ideas. He wasn’t coming back. If he wasn’t able to fly he could have done nothing once the machine was airborne. But if he could fly, from the back seat of an instructional plane fitted with dual controls it would be easy for him to take charge. With a pistol in his hand he could have ordered Taffy to fly anywhere. In fact, he could have shot Taffy, or knocked him on the head, and then flown to anywhere he wanted to go. Remember, Taffy wasn’t wearing flying-kit, and as that includes a helmet, he had no protection. I asked the question.”
“You don’t think Taffy’s dead,” said Ginger, aghast.
“I wouldn’t care to bet he’s still alive. After thinking things over I’m convinced this man Litton is a pilot. Had he not been able to handle the controls Taffy would have come home. Ruling out structural failure resulting in a crash, in which even the machine would almost certainly have been found by now, it’s the only explanation. If Litton is a pilot it would answer all our quest
ions. He wanted a plane. For what reason we don’t know; but with any luck we shall find out.”
“It takes nerve to pinch a plane.”
“What could be easier, the way he did it? Any of us could do the same thing any day. Now, if Litton is in fact a pilot somebody must have taught him to fly. That means someone in our line of business must know him by sight, if not by the name he gave Lorry. That should narrow our search. Anyway, it should be easier to track him than locate the missing Cub, which by now might be anywhere.”
“Possibly abroad somewhere,” conjectured Ginger.
“In that case we shall hear about it in due course. You can’t aviate about the Continent without producing some authority. Litton, as a pilot, assuming he is one, would know that as well as we do; and for that reason I believe he’s still in this country. I can think of another reason. Had it been Litton’s intention to go abroad surely he would have chosen an airfield near the coast, instead of one as far away as it’s possible to get in this country. It wouldn’t surprise me if that Cub isn’t a great many miles from where it took off.”
“It isn’t easy to hide an aircraft,” said Bertie, doubtfully.
“With the wings taken off it wouldn’t take up much room. Litton, as a pilot, should know enough about rigging to be able to do that if he found it necessary. Anyhow, now you see why I want both of you to get to work and dig out someone who has met Litton, by that name or another. It may take time, but you should pick up the scent somewhere. I shall make some inquiries from here. When we know more about Mr. Lancelot Litton it shouldn’t take us long to work out why he pinched the Cub, as I’m pretty certain he did.” Biggles lit another cigarette.
“Jolly good,” murmured Bertie. “I have a feeling you’re right on the beam. Come on, Ginger me lad, let’s start sleuthing.”
CHAPTER II
GINGER FINDS A SCENT
FOR three days inquiries were pursued at urgent speed, but without result. Most flying clubs had been visited, or contacted by telephone, all to yield negative answers. The files and records at Scotland Yard, which Biggles examined, failed to produce a clue that might have given a line on the man who had called himself Lancelot Litton. He was not a member of the R.A.F. Club, or the Royal Aero Club. Taffy Welsh had not turned up nor had a crashed Cub been reported. No word had come from the Continent of an unauthorized British aircraft.
