Biggles and the Plane that Disappeared

by W E Johns

  “What’s that?”

  “See that the Cub stays on the ground in case Chandler has ideas of using it before we can knock this crooked set-up on the head. There’s no need to damage a good aeroplane. I’ll drain the tank. It won’t get anywhere without petrol. You try to get some rest. We look like having a busy day tomorrow.”

  “If you’re going into the barn I’d better come as far as the front to keep cave,” offered Ginger. “You’d look silly if someone came across from the house and caught you in the act. If you say hay has been used to cover the entrance we might bring some back here to make a more comfortable place to rest.”

  “That’s an idea,” agreed Biggles.

  They made a stealthy approach to the front of the barn. All remained quiet. What Biggles had to do did not take long. Taking a truss of hay between them they returned to their spot behind the hedge at the back of the barn and spread it about. This done Ginger turned up his jacket collar and settled down, leaving Biggles to keep watch.

  Vigils are tiresome enough by day. They can make a night seem endless. Nothing happened. The house remained in darkness. No purr of an aero engine helped to relieve the boredom. Biggles gave Ginger until four o’clock, then roused him.

  “Anything doing?” asked Ginger.

  “Not a thing; but if the Auster has gone to the South of France it could hardly have got back yet. Still, as we don’t know for certain where it has gone it may show up at any time. If I drop off to sleep wake me as soon as it begins to get light.”

  Biggles did not need Ginger to wake him. An autumnal chill in the air at dawn did that. He stretched and looked at his watch. “Six o’clock,” he observed. “I hope we haven’t sat here all night for nothing. The Auster should be back by now—if it’s coming at all. I can’t imagine Chandler flying in across the coast in broad daylight. Apart from that there’s the question of petrol. If the machine isn’t back here within the next half-hour it’s bound to be on the ground somewhere.”

  “Chandler may have laid on refuelling arrangements at the far end of his run.”

  “That could be the explanation,” agreed Biggles, wearily.

  * * *

  1 Diplomatic Corps (Corps Diplomatique) plate.

  CHAPTER IX

  TRAGIC NEWS

  TIME dragged on. Seven o’clock came and still the Auster did not appear. Eight o’clock. The sun was now well up. Distant sounds told of people starting another day’s work.

  Biggles drew a deep breath. “That Auster isn’t coming back today,” he declared gloomily. “Something must have happened because I’m pretty sure it was expected back.”

  “Why so sure?”

  “The cattle in the field.”

  Ginger, peering through the hedge, looked round. “I don’t see any.”

  “That’s what I mean. If we were right in supposing the cattle were being used as a blind, surely, if the people at the house knew the Auster wasn’t coming back the beasts would now be in the field. As they haven’t been turned in, it follows that the machine was, or still is, expected home. At least, that’s how I see it.”

  Ginger nodded. “I take your point. So the Auster was expected back. It may still come. Well, what are we going to do? Sit here all day? I need food, if you don’t.”

  “I don’t know what to think, and that’s a fact,” confessed Biggles. “I have a feeling we’ve got off the beam somewhere. One thing I do know is, the Auster can’t still be flying on the petrol it had in its tanks when it left here. If it didn’t refuel somewhere it must be on the ground.”

  “If so we could sit here for a week. What are you going to do about it?”

  “It needs thinking about. Perhaps we ought to give it a bit longer.”

  “Meanwhile Taffy must be wondering why he hasn’t been rescued. We started by looking for him and his Cub. Now we know where they both are isn’t it time we did something about it?”

  “Such as?”

  “Why not tackle the house.”

  “We can’t do that.”

  “Why not? We know for certain Taffy is there.”

  “They’d say he wasn’t. We’ve no search warrant. If we tried to force an entrance we might bite off more than we could chew. Anything might happen, and at this stage I don’t feel like carrying the responsibility on my own shoulders.”

  “We’re police officers.”

  “Yes, and that sets a limit on what we can do. We’re expected to enforce the law, not break it, which is what we would be doing if we broke in. I think I’ll ring the Air Commodore and ask for instructions. Let him make the decision. Another hour or two shouldn’t make any difference. You stay here and keep an eye on things. I’ll get back as soon as I can.” Biggles got up.

  “Okay, if that’s how you feel about it.”

  “I shall go to Lysett and phone London from there. Grant must be wondering what the devil we’re doing with his car all this time, anyway. See you later. Stay where you are, then I shall know where to find you.” Biggles set off down the hedge.

  He found the car as it had been left and made the best time to the aerodrome to find that Grant had just arrived having been picked up at home by one of the airfield employees.

  “I’m sorry about your car but we ran into difficulties,” he said apologetically. “We’re up against something serious and I shall have to ask you to let me keep it for a little while. If you like you can hire a car and charge it to me.”

  “That’s all right,” answered Grant cheerfully.

  “Any news here?”

  “No. Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “More or less.”

  “The Cub hasn’t been back here for petrol.”

  “I know. We found it, and we’ve been keeping an eye on it. The Auster was in the same place, but it took off and might be anywhere now. We can’t find Lissie, but we’ve reason to believe he was in the Auster when it went off. Don’t ask me why. I haven’t a clue. But I must get on to London if I may use your telephone.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Biggles put through a priority call to Scotland Yard and was soon talking to his chief who had just arrived in his office. The conversation that followed took some time, for the story he had to tell was a complicated one involving a number of factors. The missing Cub had been located in a field barn; its rightful pilot was a prisoner in a house near by; a Diplomatic Corps car had arrived at the house after dark; Bertie and his Auster were missing; it was thought he had gone off somewhere with Chandler, the man who had stolen the Cub; he had to describe the situation as it was when he had left it a little while ago. He had rung up for instructions as to how he should proceed. He had no authority to enter the house.

  Naturally, the Air Commodore had a lot of questions to ask. The first was, had Biggles any positive information about what was going on in the house?

  Biggles had to say no. At first he had thought Chandler, with confederates in the house, was engaged in a simple smuggling racket; but the presence of a C.D. car had made him suspect there was more to it than that. There might be a political angle. That was why he was asking for orders.

  The Air Commodore wanted to know if Biggles had any idea of why the C.D. car had come to the house?

  Biggles said that as the car had stayed the night the only reason he could think of was that it was there to meet someone off the Auster when it returned. So far it had not returned. He thought it had been expected. (This meant explaining how cattle were being used, as he believed, to provide cover for the landing field.) All this took time.

  “What do you propose?” asked the Air Commodore. Biggles answered that he thought the time had come to search the house to see what was going on. “What excuse have we for that?”

  “Taffy Welsh is a prisoner there. It’s time we got him out.”

  “And any people who may be in the house. What are you going to charge them with?”

  “Abduction.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “We may find
something.”

  “I don’t like the word may. Suppose you fail to find Welsh? He may have been moved. Then where are you?”

  Biggles saw the Air Commodore was right. It wouldn’t do to make a blunder. “The only alternative to raiding the house is to wait for Chandler to come back and see what he has brought with him,” he suggested.

  The Air Commodore said it might be advisable to do that; but he would speak to the Commissioner and call him back.

  “Don’t be too long, sir,” pleaded Biggles. “Ginger is watching the place alone and I’d like to get back to him as soon as possible. As things stand anything could happen.”

  “I’ll be as quick as I can,” promised the Air Commodore. “Don’t go away.”

  With that Biggles had to be content. He could see the thing from his chief’s point of view. They had little direct evidence to work on, apart from Taffy; and even if he was still there a reason might be found for it. There might be something more important than Taffy, and if they acted too soon they might never know the real purpose of the organization, which needed an aircraft to operate it.

  To pass the time he had a wash and brush up, drank two cups of tea with some sandwiches provided by the club steward, and as an afterthought put a packet of sandwiches in his pocket for Ginger. After that he could only control his impatience as well as he could.

  He had to wait half an hour before the call came through. The Air Commodore explained there had been some delay over the question of bringing in the local police. He didn’t want to upset them by going over their heads in their own district without any sort of explanation. The arrangements he had made suited Biggles well enough although they meant another delay. Already on their way in a chartered Viking were Inspector Gaskin and one of his men with a search warrant, this to be used only if circumstances justified it. With them was a security officer of the Special Branch. They would land at Lysett. Biggles would have to wait for them to show them the farm. They should be along in about an hour. What action they took would have to be left to their initiative.

  Biggles, now fretting with impatience, could only wait.

  Rather more than an hour later the Viking came in. Biggles met the three officers in it. He knew the Security Officer slightly, a sergeant named Smith. All were in plain clothes.

  “What’s all this about?” asked Gaskin. “I’ve been given a rough idea but I don’t know the details.”

  Biggles explained the situation as quickly as he could.

  “What do you want to do about it?”

  “When I rang up the Air Commodore my idea was to get into that farm, without wasting any more time, to find out what’s going on.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “Frankly, no. All I know is, the people inside are not there to raise chickens or milk cows or they wouldn’t have pinched an aeroplane. Two planes, in fact. At the moment they’re using one of my Austers, and if my information is correct this crook Chandler has got Bertie Lissie in it with him.”

  “How did that happen?”

  “You tell me,” answered Biggles helplessly.

  “How many people are there in the house?”

  “I don’t know that, either.”

  “Well, what do you want us to do now we’re here?”

  “For a start let’s get to the place and ask Ginger if anything has happened while I’ve been away. After that we can either wait for the Auster to come back and grab it, or raid the house.”

  This was agreed, whereupon they got into Grant’s car and went to the scene of operations.

  The first thing Biggles noticed as he led the party up the back of the hedge towards the barn was that the cattle were now in the landing field. They stood bunched under a tree in a corner. He remarked on this to Ginger when they joined him.

  “When did this happen?”

  “About twenty minutes ago.”

  “Does that mean the Auster is back?” asked Biggles quickly.

  “No. I take it to mean it isn’t coming back—anyhow, not today. But never mind about that. Hold your hat. Chandler’s here.”

  “What?”

  “Chandler’s in the house.”

  Biggles stared. “How the devil did he get here?”

  “I can only tell you he didn’t land here in the Auster. I’m beginning to wonder if he was ever in it.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Who else could it have been? Bertie wouldn’t be in it alone. If he had been he’d have come home. The Auster didn’t land at Lysett because I’ve just come from there.”

  “Chandler may have come back here in a car,” resumed Ginger. “Soon after you left I heard a car start up and go off down the drive. I took it to be the car we saw arrive last night. About half an hour later I heard another car. It came and apparently dropped someone because it left again immediately. That could have been Chandler, perhaps in a hired car, having made a forced landing somewhere.”

  “You haven’t seen Bertie?”

  “No. A few minutes ago Chandler appeared at the garden gate. He came half-way to the barn, then appeared to change his mind and went back. I haven’t seen him since.”

  “You’re sure you weren’t mistaken?”

  “Quite sure. At one time he was within twenty yards of me as I lay here watching through the hedge.”

  “What can have happened to Bertie? And the Auster if it comes to that? I can’t believe Chandler would park it anywhere except here. And he wouldn’t leave Bertie knowing he’d make for the nearest phone box to inform the police about someone using his machine.”

  “But Chandler wouldn’t know anything about Bertie being a cop or of his association with you,” put in Gaskin.

  “Of course he wouldn’t—at any rate I sincerely hope not. But as Bertie wouldn’t be with him voluntarily he wouldn’t dare trust him out of his sight.”

  “Could you swear Bertie was in the Auster when it took off?” asked Gaskin.

  “No. Frankly, I couldn’t; but everything pointed to it. Taffy told us he saw Bertie and Chandler together going towards—”

  “Huh!” broke in Gaskin. “It looks to me as if we shall find Bertie locked up in the house with Taffy Welsh. It’s my bet that Chandler went off by himself in the Auster. Why should he take Bertie with him?”

  “No reason that I can think of.”

  “All right. Let’s go along to the house and settle the matter without any more argument.”

  “That seems to be the thing to do. Just a minute! What’s that?” Biggles looked down the hedge in the direction of the road on which the car had been left. From it came a succession of urgent toots on the horn.

  “That’s some kid fiddling with Grant’s car,” opined Ginger.

  “Sounds to me more like someone trying to attract attention,” said Gaskin. “We left the car well on the verge so that there shouldn’t be any bother about that.”

  “I wonder could it by any chance be Grant with a message,” muttered Biggles. “If so he’d find the car but wouldn’t know where we were. He may have news that would settle the question for us, something that would affect the entire situation. We’d better find out. Ginger, slip along and see what goes on. We’ll stay here.”

  Ginger went off at a run.

  Biggles and the others waited. It was ten minutes before they saw him coming back. He was walking slowly, head down. When he reached them it could be seen that his face was pale.

  “What is it?” asked Biggles tersely, sensing something amiss.

  “It was Grant. He’d had an urgent call from the Air Commodore and was trying to find us to pass on the message. He had to hoot.” Ginger spoke in a flat voice.

  “Okay. So he found us. What was the message? Out with it.” Biggles’s eyes were on Ginger’s face.

  “Our signal last night to Marcel Brissac seems to have started something,” replied Ginger grimly. “Everything was laid on to catch the Auster. It was picked up crossing the coast and tracked by radar right across France to just north of Marseilles, wh
ere it landed. It was nearly caught on the ground but got away. It was ordered down and warned that force would be used to bring it down if it refused to land. It took no notice. Guns opened up. It must have been hit. It crashed in Normandy not far short of the Channel coast.”

  “How did the chief know about this?”

  “He got it over the phone from Paris.”

  “Who was in the machine?” Biggles spoke slowly.

  “No one was in it. A man in a flying cap was found lying on the ground beside it.”

  “Hurt?”

  “Dead. He’d been shot through the heart.”

  “What was—the name of—this man?”

  “That isn’t known yet. The farmer who saw the crash told the local police. They phoned their headquarters and they got on to Paris. That’s as much as is known at present, except that the machine carries British registration. Police are on their way from Paris to investigate. That’s all. The dead man can’t be Chandler because we know he’s back here. That leaves only—”

  “Bertie. We might as well face it.”

  “Who else could it be?”

  Biggles moistened his lips. “So that’s why Chandler came back alone. The Auster was shot down. My fault. One can be a bit too clever. Chandler got away with it. He must have chartered a plane or crossed by boat and came on here by car—no doubt the second car you heard this morning.”

  Ginger nodded and turned away, apparently unable to trust himself to say any more. Silence fell.

  Biggles lit a cigarette with a hand that was not quite steady.

  A minute passed. Then Gaskin said: “Well, what next?”

  Biggles answered. “I think it’s time I had a word with Mr. Chandler,” he said quietly.

  “Then let’s get on with it,” agreed Gaskin.

  CHAPTER X

  WHAT HAPPENED TO BERTIE

  AFTER taking off Bertie continued to keep the Auster climbing until Chandler said they were high enough, whereupon he swung round towards the English Channel, the sombre face of which, dotted with widely-spaced lights of shipping, had for some time been in view. Chandler gave him the compass course, a little east of south, and he put the aircraft on it.