Biggles and the Plane that Disappeared

by W E Johns

  “Is that all?”

  “That’s what we’ve been looking for, isn’t it?”

  “Anything else in the field?”

  “Some cattle.”

  “No aircraft?”

  “No.”

  “You noted the field?”

  “Of course. There’s a big red brick house at the top end of the field. It looks as if it might belong to a well-to-do farmer, or perhaps the local squire. There’s also a barn with a corrugated iron roof tucked in against the trees in the far corner. Why not go back and have a look at the place yourself?”

  “Was this barn big enough to house an aircraft, do you think?”

  “Easily.”

  Biggles had not turned. “I’m not going back,” he decided. “If what you saw was Bertie’s marker he must have had good reason for putting it there. If so, we’d do better to keep clear. An aircraft circling low over the field would make anyone down there wonder what it was doing. I feel more inclined to check up on this white thing you saw from ground level. What puzzles me is, if the field is being used for landings what the devil are cattle doing in it? That doesn’t make sense.”

  “The cattle may only be put in when the field isn’t being used as a landing ground.”

  “That’s possible.”

  While this conversation was going on Biggles was flying straight for Lysett. Presently he said: “It’s a queer business. We were looking for a white mark in a big field, and not only have we found one but it’s where it should be, right on the track taken by the Cub. If that’s a coincidence it’s a remarkable one. If what you saw was a marker put down by Bertie where did he go afterwards? Let’s suppose the Cub did land on that field. All Bertie had to do was mark it, return to Lysett and phone me. Why didn’t he? What else could he have done? It doesn’t add up. There’s something very odd about the whole business.”

  “The only thing I can think of is he landed somewhere not far away with the intention of having a look round on the ground.”

  “You suggested that before. No, I can’t see him doing that. In any case, if that’s the answer where’s his machine?”

  “He may have damaged it on landing.”

  “If so it would still be where he touched down and we should have seen it. If for any reason he went down and couldn’t get off again it wouldn’t take him more than three hours to get to Lysett if he had to walk all the way. From where you saw the white spot to Lysett can’t be more than ten or a dozen miles. But we may be barking up the wrong tree altogether. A closer look at the field should settle that one way or the other.”

  The Auster had now reached the airfield. Biggles landed, and having taxied close to the office, switched off.

  As they got down Grant came out. “Any luck?”

  “I can’t say for certain,” answered Biggles. “We didn’t find an aircraft but we saw something interesting. I want to have a closer look at it on the ground. Where’s the nearest place I can hire a car?”

  “There’s no need for you to hire one. Why not use mine?”

  “I may be away some time. When do you usually knock off?”

  “About six. But that doesn’t matter. If you’re not back by then one of the boys will run me home. I don’t live far away.”

  “That’s noble of you. I’ll remember it if you ever need help from me. Do you do anything here in the way of food?”

  “We don’t do hot meals but the club steward will knock up a plate of cold meat.”

  “Fine. We’ll have a bite and a look at the map at the same time.”

  “I’ll bring the car round.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  No time was wasted over the meal and in something less than an hour Grant’s car, with Biggles at the wheel, was on the road which a study of the map had shown would take them to Binfold, the nearest village to the field they proposed to visit. They were hatless, having left their flying kit in the locker room.

  Some distance short of the village a roadman was at work trimming the verge. Biggles brought the car to a stop beside him. “Good afternoon,” he said cheerfully. “I wonder if you can help me. I’m making inquiries about an aeroplane. Do you work regularly on this road?”

  The man said he did.

  “Have you noticed an aeroplane landing in a field near here?”

  “I see plenty o’ planes but I can’t say as I’ve seen one land,” was the answer, with a rich Somerset brogue.

  “Did you see a plane yesterday?”

  “Yes. Come to think of it I saw two, one close behind the other.”

  “Were they flying low?”

  “Low enough to make me look up at ‘em.”

  “I suppose you wouldn’t know what sort of planes they were?”

  “No. Planes all look alike to me.”

  “Which way did they go?”

  The man pointed along the road. “Straight down there.”

  “Towards Binfold.”

  “That’s right.”

  “‘Would they go over the village, do you think?”

  “Must have done.”

  “Thanks,” acknowledged Biggles. “I’m much obliged to you.” As he got back into the car and drove on he said to Ginger: “We’re on the right track so far. The two machines could only have been the Cub followed by the Auster.”

  Two miles on they came to the village, a single street. At the first cottage a woman was taking some washing from a line. Biggles pulled up and got out. “Excuse me, ma’am, but I’m making inquiries about a plane reported flying low over the village yesterday. Did you see it?”

  “No.”

  “In fact there were two planes, one flying behind the other.”

  “They didn’t come this way. If they had, if I didn’t see them I should have heard them. I was about the place all day with the door open. I often see a plane, and hear one after I’ve gone to bed, but I didn’t see one yesterday and I didn’t hear one last night.”

  “Thank you,” said Biggles, and again drove on.

  At the far end of the village a man was painting the front of the public house. Once more Biggles put the questions, beginning with: “Were you working here yesterday?”

  The painter, looking somewhat surprised, said he was.

  “Then you must have seen two planes go over. I’m told they were flying low.”

  The man shook his head. “No planes went over here yesterday. I was on the job all day so I must have seen ‘em if they had. There’s one lately taken to going over at night, making a lot o’ noise and waking folks up. It’s time someone stopped it.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about it,” promised Biggles. “Thank you.”

  He turned the car and drove slowly back the way he had come. “We’re not doing too badly,” he said. “We’re on the track. The two machines passed over the chap working on the road. Had they flown straight on they must have gone over the village within a couple of minutes. Apparently they didn’t, which means that the trail ended between the roadman and the village. What happened? Did they land or did they suddenly alter course?”

  “If they turned it must have been at right angles or they’d have been over the village. When the roadman last saw them they were still flying straight. I’d say the Cub landed. Bertie would drop his marker. What happened to him after that I couldn’t guess; but the white flash I saw in the field comes into the two miles between the roadman and the village.”

  “Right. What we have to do now is find it. That may not be so easy from the ground as it was from the air. We shall have to watch how we go. If we’re right in supposing the field is the one where the Cub landed it’s likely Chandler won’t be far away; and if he sees us messing about he’ll wonder what we’re doing.”

  Biggles was right in supposing that it would take longer to find the field from ground level than it had from above. In fact, it took all the afternoon. Over and over again they had to leave the car to see beyond the many hedgerows and stands of timber. They dare not risk walking across open fi
elds; they had to keep close to the hedges to reduce the possibility of being seen and all this footwork took time. As a result, evening was well on the way when at last Ginger got his bearings from the red brick house. The barn in the corner of the field confirmed it.

  As they made their way cautiously along the nearest hedge to the trees that fringed the field at the lower end, Ginger remarked that he didn’t think much of the field as a landing ground.

  “A Cub doesn’t need much room to get down and Chandler’s a professional pilot,” reminded Biggles.

  Reaching a thin place in the hedge as near as Ginger could judge to the white mark he had seen, they crouched to peer through it. The first thing they saw was a man driving the cattle out of the field through a gate near the house. The barn stood end on to them so it was not possible for them to see inside it from their present position. Apart from the man with the cattle there was no one in sight. No wheel tracks, such as an aircraft would make, could be seen; but as Biggles pointed out it was too late in the day for that. The dew, which would show such marks, had long ago been evaporated, and bent grass would be lifted by the sun.

  “I can’t see anything looking like a white spot,” he said.

  Ginger replied that he could just see what he had seen from the air, although from where they were it appeared more as a vague blur than an actual spot. He knew exactly where it was. As he explained, the field was after all a meadow with the usual sprinkling of buttercups and daisies, so the grass, while short, was not like a tennis court.

  “The next thing is to have a look at the white stuff to see exactly what it is,” said Biggles. “I don’t think it would be wise to do that in daylight in full view of the house.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Wait for dark, or nearly dark. Meanwhile we can watch. We may see something. But it doesn’t need both of us to do that. As we look like being here for some time you’d better go back to the car and put on the sidelights. At the same time you might move it a bit off the road, farther on the verge, if you can find a place.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Ginger, getting up.

  “When you’ve done that come back here.”

  Ginger went off. The car was a fair distance away so it was nearly half an hour before he returned.

  “Anything doing?” he asked, as he settled down beside Biggles.

  “A man who must have been doing something in the barn has gone to the house. That’s all.”

  “Chandler?”

  “I wouldn’t know, from this distance.”

  They waited, Biggles smoking a cigarette, while the day slowly gave way to dusk. A light came on in the house.

  Not until visibility was down to about a hundred yards did Biggles decide it was safe to move. “Go and see what that white stuff is,” he told Ginger. “You know the exact spot. Keep close to the hedge until you get opposite. With the dark background of trees behind you I don’t think you could be seen from the house even if anyone was watching the field. Not that I see any reason why anyone should be watching.”

  Ginger moved off. He crawled through a gap. From then, while he was making his way along the inside of the hedge, Biggles lost sight of him. Then, presently, he made out a vague shadowy figure moving quickly across the open. He watched it stoop, pause, and hurry back to the hedge.

  “Well?” he asked, when Ginger rejoined him. “What is it?”

  Ginger showed his hands, startlingly white even in the dim light. “French chalk,” he answered softly. “Feel it.”

  Biggles felt its smooth, oily nature, between a finger and thumb. “You’re right,” he agreed. “Now we know. Bertie has been here. That doesn’t mean he landed. If he didn’t, where on earth could he have gone after he left here? We shall have to leave that for the moment. The Cub should be here, anyway, or he wouldn’t have dropped his chalk bomb. It may be in the barn. We’ll wait for it to get a little darker then we’ll go and have a look.”

  Again they waited. “Pity there’s no moon yet,” observed Biggles. “No matter; we shall have to manage without one. Do you happen to have a torch in your pocket?”

  “No.”

  “Nor me. I didn’t come equipped for this sort of expedition. All right. Let’s get on with it.”

  It was apparent that without crossing open ground they would have to go some distance to reach the barn, for it meant following the hedge to the corner of the field and then turning at right angles along another hedge. This they did, moving more slowly as they neared the objective. It was now quite dark, but the sky was clear and well sprinkled with stars. The air was still.

  They had reached a point from which it was possible to see the roof of the barn silhouetted against the sky when from somewhere not far away came a sharp sound, a click, as of the latch of a gate.

  Biggles stopped. They both stared in the direction from which the sound had come, which was from somewhere near the house. A light appeared, moving erratically, obviously an electric torch being carried in the hand. With this came the low murmur of voices. The light and the voices moved in the direction of the barn.

  “Wait,” breathed Biggles. “Maybe they won’t stay long.”

  “It sounded like at least three people,” whispered Ginger, as the light disappeared, and with it the voices ended.

  Biggles agreed.

  They remained where they were, eyes trying to probe the gloom; but nothing could be seen. From time to time odd sounds could be heard, but it was impossible to guess what was going on inside the barn. This went on for some minutes.

  Then, suddenly and without warning, came the shattering roar of an aero engine being started. The glow of the exhaust gases moved slowly from the front of the barn into the field. Nothing else could be seen. Then came a pause. A voice called sharply. The engine bellowed as the throttle was advanced and the aircraft began its take-off run. It showed no lights.

  The watchers under the hedge sprang to their feet, staring, as it passed close to them and its shape could be seen. Neither spoke. Then, as the sound receded, Ginger said in a curious voice: “That wasn’t a Cub! It looked to me more like an Auster.”

  “It was an Auster,” asserted Biggles.

  “What do you make of that?”

  Biggles did not answer.

  A light moved from the barn to the house. A gate latch clicked. Silence fell.

  It was a minute before either of them spoke. Then Ginger said: “What do you make of that? I don’t get it. Is it possible that Bertie could have been flying that Auster?”

  “I suppose it’s possible, but it seems mighty unlikely. Bertie would have switched on his navigation lights. I can’t imagine any circumstances that would have induced him to land here, much less to wait for this hour to leave. If it comes to that we’ve no proof that the Auster was ours. I’d say it was Chandler, off on one of his night trips abroad. We know he pinched a Cub, and I see no reason why he shouldn’t have got an Auster from somewhere.”

  “Still, the chalk mark can only mean that Bertie was here, so as he didn’t return to Lysett he may not be far away.”

  “Such as where?”

  “In the house.”

  “What would he be doing in the house?”

  “We might try to find out.”

  “As he would hardly be there from choice, maybe we should. But there’s one thing we might do before we tackle that. The Auster that’s just gone off isn’t out on a joy-ride. It’s going somewhere definite, and if the unidentified Cub Marcel reported over the South of France was in fact Chandler’s, the Auster might be on its way to the same place. Be that as it may, I ought to let Marcel know that a suspicious Auster may be on its way to France. He should be able to track it. I’ll tell you what. You dash off in the car, find a telephone and get on to the Yard. Ask them to switch you through to police headquarters in Paris. If Marcel isn’t there ask for a message to be sent to him, urgent. I doubt if you’ll find anyone at Lysett at this hour but do what you can.”

  “Do I ask th
e French police to take any particular action?”

  “No. You can say they can do what they like about it.”

  “Then what?”

  “Come back here. I’m going to have a look at that barn. You’ll find me somewhere near it. Whistle, and I’ll answer.”

  “Okay. See you later.” Ginger departed on his errand.

  CHAPTER VII

  NIGHT FLIGHT

  BERTIE, sitting on the bed in his locked room, turning over in his mind the unexpected situation that had arisen, was not long in doubt as to the course he would have to take. Indeed, as far as he could see he had no alternative. To refuse absolutely to have anything to do with the crooked business that was being operated from the farm would not only serve no useful purpose but would in all probability prove disastrous as far as he personally was concerned. Chandler, having so blatantly, so confidently, and as it seemed to Bertie, so foolishly exposed his hand, would never dare to let him go. He would no doubt dispose of him as he had got rid of Taffy Welsh, as apparently he had, however that might have been done. No, he meditated. That was no use. Clearly, he would have to pretend to accept the proposition that had been put to him and wait for a chance to do something about it.

  Naturally, at first he thought of nothing but escape, so that he could report to Biggles and leave the next step to him; but another examination of the window made it clear that there was little hope of this at present. His room, he saw, was at the back of the house, for it overlooked what had once been the kitchen garden and the landing field beyond. He would at least be able to see everything that went on.

  Still pondering his problem it occurred to him that escape might not be the right answer. Unforeseen events had put him in a position to find out just what sort of racket Chandler and his associates were running, and he felt it was up to him to take advantage of it. It was obviously something highly profitable or Chandler would not be so anxious to have an assistant pilot, even though the reasons he had given for this were plausible. Was there another reason? If so he couldn’t think of it.

  He was thankful for one thing. He must have been taken at his face value or he would have been searched. Why hadn’t he been forced to produce proof of his identity? Was this an oversight? Was it because Chandler was confident that he had him in his power; or was it because Chandler did not want to upset him before he had given his decision? At all events, it was lucky for him, because had his pockets been turned out his police pass must have been found. There were also one or two letters addressed to him at the London flat, but these were not important. In going through these he came on a note scribbled on a flimsy Scotland Yard memo. He put it in his mouth and chewed it as the easiest way of getting rid of it. The police pass, a card in a small leather holder, was more difficult. He might still be searched. If it were found the game would be up. He might need it in the near future but he daren’t risk keeping it. What could he do with it? After giving the problem some thought he thrust it well down between the back and the seat of the small arm-chair with which the apartment had been provided.