by W E Johns
Biggles, bogged down in the question, came to the conclusion that a factor about which he knew nothing was somehow involved. One thing, however, was clear. If Bertie was anywhere near it could only be in the house, or in one of the adjacent outbuildings. That he had not reported could only mean that he was unable to do so. That being so it followed that, if he was still alive, he was being held by force. If this line of reasoning was correct, pondered Biggles, it became more and more likely that the Auster which had just taken off was his. He resolved to have a look inside the barn to see if the answer was to be found there.
All had been quiet for some time. Lights were showing at some of the windows of the house; but that could wait. First, the barn. He walked slowly towards it. He found the front open. That is to say, there were no doors, the main purpose of the structure being only to provide a covering for farm vehicles or a crop such as hay. In fact, trusses of hay lay piled on each side of the open entrance as if they had been used to conceal the interior from the inquisitive eyes of anyone who happened to pass by, but had been removed to allow the Auster to be brought out.
Already the unmistakable smell of aircraft told him all he needed to know. The barn was being used as a hangar. There was no light inside, no sound, so after a short pause he went on. Having entered he risked flicking on his cigarette lighter for a moment, shielding the tiny flame with a hand to prevent it from being seen from the house should anyone there happen to be looking in his direction. It was enough. There stood a Cub, beyond any doubt the missing aircraft. At the rear end of the barn there was a bench strewn with tools such as an aero engine fitter would need. On the floor stood some oil drums and a few odds and ends. There was nothing else of interest.
So here was the stolen aircraft, thought Biggles. But where was the man who had taken it up on the day it had vanished? Taffy Welsh.
Biggles fingered his chin in concentration. He had reasoned that if Bertie were there at all it could only be in the house or one of its several outbuildings. Was it possible that Taffy was in the same place? Assuming that Chandler had not murdered them this began to look like a strong possibility.
Having no reason to remain in the barn Biggles went out to find the moon above the horizon shining through one of the numerous breaks in banks of cumulus cloud which still drifted across the sky. He made his way to the back of the barn to put it between him and the house, squatted down under a bush and lit a cigarette, prepared to wait for Ginger before doing anything else. That was what he had said he would do, and although rather than waste time he was tempted to have a closer look at the house he would not break his rule of always sticking to a fixed arrangement. Should Ginger return and not find him near the barn he would not know what to do. Once separated, in the darkness it might be difficult to get together again.
It was nearly two hours before a low whistle near at hand announced Ginger’s return. Biggles answered and they were soon together.
“You’ve been a long time,” complained Biggles.
“I was some time finding a phone box, and getting through to Paris was a slow business.”
“Did you speak to Marcel himself?”
“Yes, eventually. The office had to fetch him. That’s what took the time.”
“What did he say?”
“Not much. He said to thank you for the tip and we could leave it to him. He’d let us know if anything happened.”
“Good enough. Where did you leave the car?”
“At the same place. What’s been going on here?”
“Nothing since you went. I’ve had a look in the barn. The missing Cub is there.”
“So we still don’t know if the Auster we saw take off was Bertie’s.”
“Not for certain, but I think it must have been. If it was Bertie’s machine, why it came here, and how Chandler got hold of it, beats me. I’ve nearly knocked my pan out trying to make sense of it.”
“What’s the next move?”
“All we can do is have a closer look at the house.”
“We’re not likely to learn much from the outside.”
“We’re hardly in a position to go inside. It would mean either knocking on the door or breaking in. What reason could we give for calling at this hour? It’s half past ten. We couldn’t ask questions without sending the whole business sky high and possibly starting something too big for us to handle. We don’t know who’s in that house. There might be a gang of toughs. To ask if Bertie was there, which is what we really want to know, would be a waste of time. We’ve no search warrant. As for breaking in—no, we haven’t enough evidence to go as far as that. That sort of thing might be all right on television, but if it did turn out we were on the wrong tack we’d probably find ourselves sacked. I’m not prepared to risk going off at half cock. Apart from anything else I want to know what sort of racket Chandler is running. We’ve got to kill it, not only here but the other end of the organization. There must be one somewhere.”
“What have we to gain by delay? I’m thinking of Bertie.”
“If he’s come to no harm so far a few more hours shouldn’t make any difference. Don’t worry. I’m not leaving here till I get to the bottom of this. Sooner or later Chandler will come back and that will be our chance to see what it’s all about.”
“If he’s gone to the South of France it’ll be later rather than sooner.”
“We don’t know that he’s gone to the South of France.”
“No; but if he has I don’t see how he could get back here much before dawn. If he lands at the other end of his run, as I imagine he will, it’ll take him all his time to get back before daylight. I’ll tell you something else. If that was Bertie’s Auster, if the tanks weren’t topped up after Bertie had flown to Lysett it wouldn’t get to the South of France and back. My mental arithmetic isn’t all that bright, but—”
“Chandler isn’t a fool. He wouldn’t start on a trip without enough petrol. He might have refuelling arrangements at his destination. But this is all guesswork. I’m satisfied he’ll come back here, and when he does I shall be about. We shall hear him coming. I’m not expecting to learn much, if anything, at the house, but as we have nothing else to do we might as well give it the once over. There’s no hurry. It might be as well to wait a bit, to give everyone a chance to get to bed and asleep. Afterwards we’ll come back here and take it in turns to have a spot of shut-eye while we’re waiting for the Auster.”
They waited for nearly an hour; then, as the moon was behind a cloud they moved off along the top end of the field towards the house, now in darkness. Even though the moon was hidden there was still sufficient light for them to see what they were doing. Reaching the wicket gate, the overgrown vegetable garden told them they were approaching the house from the rear. They listened for a while and then went on. All was silent. They had nearly reached the back door when the moon, riding clear of the cloud to flood the place with light, sent them quickly to the nearest cover, a little group of soft-fruit bushes— gooseberries, Ginger discovered when he encountered some thorns. Again they waited for any indications that they had been seen. None came.
“They can’t suspect anything so I don’t imagine they keep a day and night watch,” Biggles whispered. “We should be fairly safe. Let’s have a look round the front. When we’ve done that we’ll come back and prowl round the outbuildings.”
They went round the end of the house to the front, where Biggles was a little disturbed to find he had been mistaken in supposing the occupants had gone to bed. A light showed through the fanlight over the front door. This brought them to a halt. A quick survey revealed a gravelled area surrounded by evergreen shrubs and trees through which a drive ran to some distant road. There was nothing remarkable about it. It was what might have been expected.
Standing in the deep shadow of the shrubs Biggles said softly: “I don’t like that light. Obviously someone is still up. Why, I wonder? It’s pretty late.”
Then, as they stood there, thinking about this and uncertain
what to do next, the explanation was forthcoming. It came with a purr of a car and headlights flashing through the trees.
“Look out, here’s a car,” said Biggles tersely, backing as far into the bushes as he could get and screening his face with twigs.
They were only just in time. Seconds later a car, a big limousine, swept into the open area to pull up by the door. It gave a short toot-toot presumably to announce its arrival. A uniformed chauffeur sprang out and opened the nearside rear door. A stockily built man, carrying an attaché case, stepped out. By this time the front door of the house had been thrown open and a dark figure stood silhouetted against the light. The new arrival joined him. A few words were spoken. They went in. The door was shut. The chauffeur resumed his seat and the car purred softly to a position hard under the trees facing the drive. The chauffeur got out, locked the doors, and disappeared round the far end of the house. Silence returned. The light over the door went out. A light appeared in one of the upstairs windows.
“What was all that about?” breathed Ginger.
“I don’t know, but whoever that man was I’d say he intends to stay the night,” returned Biggles. “Had he been going to stay only a short time the chauffeur wouldn’t have bothered to move the car and there would have been no reason to lock it. Creep round and get its number. There’s no need for us both to go.”
Ginger, never leaving the deep shadow of the hedge went to the car and returned. “It’s a Daimler,” he reported. “I’ve got its number.” He wrote it in his notebook. “It also carries a C.D. plate.”1
“The devil it does. Who on earth could that be?”
“Are you going to stay here?”
Biggles considered the question. “No, I can’t see much point in it. That chap and his driver are here for the night and I don’t feel like standing here till daylight. We shan’t learn anything more here. Let’s go back to the barn and get some rest. We shall then be in position, without having to move about, to see the Auster when it comes back.”
“If it comes back.”
“What do you mean?” asked Biggles, as they made their way back to the rear of the house.
“A horrible thought has just struck me. You remember what Marcel said he would do if there was any more of this irregular night flying by machines that refuse to answer signals. He said something to the effect that it might be necessary to force the machine to land.”
“By thunder! You’re right. I’d forgotten that. Oh well, Chandler will have to take his luck. He’s been asking for trouble long enough.”
They were passing along the back of the house in misty moonlight, on their way back to the barn, when a sharp sound, the sort of sound a man makes when he tries to hiss to attract attention, coming from somewhere near at hand sent them darting for the cover of the gooseberry bushes. Then, as they looked about them in a state of acute alarm a voice said urgently: “Wait. Don’t run away.”
Said Biggles, failing to locate the voice: “Where are you?”
“Up here. Window on the first floor.”
Looking up Ginger could just make out a pale object, which he took to be a human face, against the darkness of the room behind.
“I don’t care if you’re burglars—I must talk to you,” went on the voice.
“What about?” asked Biggles. He knew from the voice that the speaker was not Bertie.
“I’m locked in. Will you get me out, or tell the police I’m here?”
“Who are you?”
“You won’t know me but the name’s Welsh.”
Understanding hit Biggles like a thunderbolt. “Taffy Welsh?”
“That’s right. I’m an air pilot and—”
“We know all about it. We’ve been looking for you. But we can’t stand talking here. Someone has just arrived—”
“I heard the car hoot. That’s why I came to the window.”
“What’s stopping you from getting out?”
“The door’s locked and the window’s barred.”
“How are the bars fixed?”
“Screwed across from the outside. Don’t go away. It should be safe to talk here. No one’s likely to go out again tonight.”
“Do you know if these people have a ladder?”
“I’ve never seen one.”
“Just a minute.” Biggles turned to Ginger. “Have a quick look round. There should be a ladder somewhere at a place like this. Try the outbuildings. There’ll be a screwdriver with the tools in the barn but it’ll be no use if we can’t find a ladder to get up to the window. Careful how you go.”
“If there is one I’ll find it.” Ginger hurried off.
“Hold on. We’re trying to find a ladder,” Biggles told Taffy. “Do you know who these people are?”
“I haven’t a clue. All I know is they’re a bunch of crooks. What are you doing here?”
“We were looking for you. I’m Bigglesworth of the Air Police. I know all about you disappearing from Kingsmead in a Cub, with a passenger. Lorrimore called us in.”
“I took up a swine named Litton.”
“He’s an ex-R.A.F. pilot. Real name Chandler. How did he get you?”
“He pushed a gun into the back of my neck and made me land here. He lives here. He’s using my Cub—”
“I know.”
“Now he’s pinched an Auster.”
“How did you know that?”
“I saw it happen. Yesterday, hearing flying and looking out of the window, I saw it land in the field, nearly on top of the Cub. The pilot nearly had it. Missed the trees by inches. His engine was smoking like stink so he had to get down where he could.”
Biggles drew a deep breath of understanding as Bertie’s behaviour was explained. “Then what happened?”
“Chandler, as you call him, brought the Auster pilot to the house. A little later I saw the Auster pulled up to the barn where they keep my Cub. Then some cattle were put in the field.”
“Do you know what happened to the Auster pilot after he came to the house?”
“Yes. He was put in the room next to mine.”
“How do you know?”
“I heard someone there and made contact by tapping Morse on the water pipe. He’s a chap named Lissie.”
“Is he there now?”
“No. He’s gone.”
“Gone where?”
“God knows. He’s a rat, anyhow, look you.”
“Why a rat?” asked Biggles, startled.
“I saw him go out with Chandler some time ago. Then the Auster took off. That can only mean that Lissie has agreed to work for the bunch of crooks who are running this show. They made the same offer to me. Money for nothing, Chandler said. A smuggling racket, I’d think.”
“You refused?”
“I told ‘em to go to hell.”
“So they’ve kept you locked up ever since.”
“That’s it.”
“How have they treated you?”
“They’re starving me to death, hoping, I suppose, I’ll come round to helping them.”
“Lissie is one of my men,” announced Biggles.
“I’m sorry—”
“Never mind. You say he went to the barn with Chandler?”
“Yes.”
“Did Chandler come back?”
“No.”
“You think he must have taken Lissie with him in the Auster?”
“Certain. Chandler wouldn’t be likely to let Lissie go alone for fear he didn’t come back.”
It can be imagined how this piece of information shook Biggles. While he was thinking swiftly of what it might involve Ginger came back.
“I can’t find a ladder anywhere,” he reported lugubriously.
“Hold your hat,” said Biggles grimly. “Bertie was in the Auster.”
Ginger’s eyes saucered. “Don’t tell me...”
Looking up again at Taffy Biggles said: “Sorry, but we can’t help you for the moment. There’s no ladder, and no other way of getting up to you. But don’t wor
ry. We’ll be back.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Wait near the barn for the Auster to come back.”
“Mnd how you go. Don’t forget Chandler carries a gun. He wouldn’t have got me here without one.”
“I can believe that.”
At this juncture the conversation was interrupted in no uncertain manner. The light came on in Taffy’s room and a voice said harshly: “Who are you talking to? Come away from that window!”
As Taffy’s shadow disappeared Biggles dropped lower into the bushes, pulling Ginger with him and covering his face. A different figure appeared against the light of the bedroom. For a few seconds it remained there. Then the window was shut with a bang. Faintly from inside the room came voices raised as if in argument.
Biggles took Ginger by the arm. “We’d better get out of this. They may search the grounds. There’s a cloud coming up. Wait for it.”
As the cloud cut off the moonlight they hastened to the field gate and then on to the barn. Reaching the place at the rear where they had waited Biggles said: “Now we have got something to think about.”
“Are you telling me,” replied Ginger tersely. “What I’m thinking about is Bertie in the Auster, and Marcel all steamed up to shoot it down. If that happens we shall feel responsible.”
“One can’t be right all the time,” returned Biggles philosophically. “It’s too late to do anything about it now. If Marseilles was the objective the Auster must be nearly there by this time; or it will be before we can get in touch with Marcel.”
“So we just sit here and do nothing.”
“We told Taffy we’d stick around. The Auster may not have gone to the South of France. That’s only conjecture. It might return at any moment. But there’s no reason why we should do nothing. Come to think of it there’s one thing we might do.”
