by W E Johns
Straightening the Auster, he noticed a moving object on some open ground a fair distance from his line of flight. At first he took it to be an animal grazing; indeed, had any such animals been in evidence it is unlikely that he would have given it a second glance; but it struck him suddenly as odd that of the many domestic animals that must at one time have occupied the ground one only should have survived. Swinging round, he headed towards it, easing the control column forward for a closer look. Then he saw the object raise itself up, and recognised it for a man who had been crawling, but was now on his knees, an arm upraised.
Was it the man he had come to find, or was it some wretched fellow who had been wounded and abandoned in recent fighting? He didn’t know, and as the only way of finding out was by landing he looked about quickly for a suitable place. One thing was at once apparent. There was nowhere near at hand. The terrain all around was rough, stony ground, uneven and dotted about with sprawling olive trees.
A swift search of the whole area revealed only one possible place, and even that could only be contemplated in the most desperate circumstances—as, of course, these were. It was a fairly level stretch of wild-looking country on the fringe of the pinewood. It was plenty large enough, but what worried him was the surface, which he could not see, as it was concealed under a yellowish growth of what he took to be long, sun-dried grass, weeds and small bushes. It was, comparatively speaking, some distance from the crawling man—a matter of not less than a quarter of a mile, which was further than he cared to leave his machine in order to get to him. But there was nowhere else, so with it he had to be content. There was a little wind, but fortunately it was in the right direction for the landing strip: so he side-slipped as the quickest way of losing height, flattened out and glided in alongside the wood and about thirty yards from it. There were several anxious seconds as the little aircraft bounced on small, hidden obstructions, and dragged through the long dry grass; but in the end it settled down on even keel. Biggles drew a swift breath of relief, switched off and jumped down.
After a penetrating stare around he ran on a little way ahead of the aircraft to make sure that there were no obstructions should he find it necessary to take off in a hurry. Satisfied that there were none, he turned about and ran for the place where he had seen the crawling man. On reaching him he found that he had made a little progress, but not very much. The man’s face was pale and drawn with suffering and fatigue, and it was at once clear that he was near the end of his physical resources.
Biggles did not waste words. His business was too urgent. “Is your name Maxos?” he asked tersely.
“Yes,” came the answer through bloodless lips.
“Your official number?”
“Ninety-one. Quick! Here are the papers. Take them and go. Never mind me.”
Biggles took the packet and thrust it in his breast pocket. “You’re coming with me,” he announced.
“No, no. It isn’t possible. They’re after me.”
Biggles took a small brandy flask that he had brought for the purpose and made the man drink a little. “Don’t argue,” he said shortly. Then he helped him to his feet, got one arm round his shoulders, and started off for the machine.
Progress was slow, but steady, Maxos obviously making a supreme effort to keep going. But his strength gave out as they reached the nearest point of the wood, and he sank down. While he gave him a moment to rest Biggles ran on a little way, along the fringe of the wood, to make sure that all was well with the Auster. He soon saw that it was not. A dozen rough-looking, grey-uniformed men, armed with rifles, were galloping towards it from the opposite direction, apparently from a distance, having seen the machine land. There was, he thought, just time for him to reach the aircraft before they got to it; but the idea of leaving the wounded man to his fate was so repugnant that he did not even consider it.
He dived into the trees and hurried back to Maxos. “One more effort,” he said encouragingly, and again they set off, keeping inside the wood. Under the sombre pines it was still only half light, which suited him well enough; and as the undergrowth consisted only of ferns they made fair progress.
It was just before they were level with the aircraft, and perhaps twenty yards inside the wood, that Maxos became aware of what had happened. The information came not from Biggles, but from the horsemen themselves, who were talking noisily—one, by the sound of it, giving orders. Maxos looked at Biggles. “Did you know?”
“Yes.”
“You should have saved yourself,” said Maxos sadly.
“When we start saving ourselves at the expense of friends we shan’t have any friends,” replied Biggles softly. “Don’t worry. We’ll manage somehow.” He got his companion a little nearer to the machine, and then, leaving him lying under some ferns, crept forward to see what was happening.
The position was much as he expected to see it—perhaps somewhat better. At all events, the situation, he perceived, could have been worse had the men been disciplined troops under the command of a man who knew his job. Half of them were riding away, fanwise, obviously looking for him. Of the six that remained, five had dismounted and had handed their mounts to the other, who, with his rifle slung and his arms through the reins, was lighting a cigarette. The five dismounted men were also smoking as they talked. But what brought a faint smile of derision to Biggles’s face was the lazy way they had stacked their rifles against the fuselage of the aircraft. They may have thought they would not need them; or if they did, in such a position they would be handy. Upon such small things can big events depend.
For a moment Biggles surveyed the scene, his brain working fast, knowing that the longer the delay the more difficult would things become. Should more troops arrive the position would indeed be hopeless. Backing again to the wood, he returned to Maxos and told him to work his way forward as near to the edge of the wood as was possible without risk of being seen. Then, keeping in the deepest shadows, crouching low and picking his way carefully, he hastened to a point on the edge of the wood about a hundred yards above the aircraft, which, as he had of course landed into the wind, was upwind from it. From his pocket he took a box of matches, lit one, and tossed it into the dry grass. Little yellow flames licked hungrily, and as a slant of wind caught them, raced forward, leaping and spreading, in the direction of the aircraft.
Biggles did not stop to watch their progress, but hurried back the way he had come, content that, if his plan failed, he would at least have destroyed the machine in accordance with his instructions. He hoped, of course, it would not come to that.
A yell of alarm told him that the fire had been seen, and, moving nearer to the edge of the wood, he saw the enemy behaving as he thought they would—which was natural enough but not very sensible. With one accord they were running to the fire with the apparent intention of trying to put it out, forgetting in their haste to collect their weapons. Or they may have thought the rifles were safe where they were; perhaps they did not want to be encumbered with them. Anyhow, as Biggles had hoped, they left them leaning against the machine. Only one man remained by the Auster. His rifle was slung, and he was having difficulty with his charges, which were already restless as to their nostrils drifted the smoke of the fire.
Biggles raced back to Maxos, to find him, as he had ordered, on the edge of the wood. He gave him another nip of brandy, for the man was obviously done, and got him to his knees. “One more effort,” he urged. “Try! Try hard! Now!” The man was too heavy for him to carry, so getting an arm under him he hauled him to his feet, and half led, half dragged him towards the machine. In his free hand he held his automatic. His eyes were on the man holding the horses, which were now on the point of stampeding and occupying all his attention.
Nevertheless, at the last moment the man saw him and let out a bellow of warning to his comrades.
Seeing that there was no longer any point in attempted concealment, Biggles fired a shot over the man’s head. It only needed this to make the horses panic. They reared
and bolted. The man, with his arm through the reins, was dragged from the saddle and fell heavily under the flying hooves. Biggles opened the door of the Auster and somehow managed to bundle Maxos inside. Slamming the door he ran to the other side, and, ignoring the rifles stacked against the fuselage, fired three shots at their owners, who by now had abandoned the fire and were tearing back towards the machine. They flung themselves flat as the bullets whistled past them. Another second and Biggles was in his seat, hand feeling for the starter. As the engine came to life the men got to their feet again and came on, but being unarmed, there was nothing they could do to stop the machine, which, with throttle wide open, came charging at them. Indeed, those who were in a direct line had to throw themselves flat again or swerve aside to avoid being knocked down.
One shot struck the machine somewhere. Where it came from Biggles never knew. His eyes were fixed ahead, on a wall of smoke that arose from a base of orange flames. The machine became airborne at the precise moment that it plunged into the smoke. For five seconds Biggles held his breath. Then he was through, in clean air, climbing for height, with the smoke between him and his enemies.
The danger passed, with a peculiar smile he looked at the man he had snatched from death. But there was no answering smile. Maxos had slumped in his seat. His eyes were closed.
Biggles set a course for the west.
Rather less than two hours later he landed on the airfield near Brindisi. Ginger and a man he did not know came running out to meet him. Biggles jumped down and spoke quickly to Ginger. “You’ve got a machine here?”
“Yes.”
“Tanks topped up?”
“All ready.”
“Okay. Get those to Raymond. I’ll see you later.” Biggles handed over the packet of papers.
Ginger put them in his pocket and hurried away without another word.
Biggles spoke to the man who had remained. “Who are you?”
“I am Dr. Spanelli,” was the answer. “I have a message from friends in London. You have perhaps a man who is hurt? Here I have an ambulance to take him to hospital.”
Biggles indicated the unconscious Maxos. “Here’s your patient, doctor,” he said quietly. “ I’ll call to see him later. But first I must put my machine away and get a bite of breakfast. Can you manage?”
“Leave him to me.”
“Thank you, doctor.” Whistling softly, Biggles walked on towards the control office to check in.
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE BRILLIANT PUPIL
“NO DOUBT a lot of crooks have already realised the possibilities of aviation as a quick means of getting about; it’ll be when they start flying themselves that we shall be kept busy.” Detective Air-Inspector Bigglesworth, of the Special Air Police, smiled whimsically as he made the remark to Inspector Gaskin, of “C” Division, New Scotland Yard.
“That’s just it,” returned the Inspector gloomily. “I reckon they’ve started. That’s what brings me down here today. It was your Chief who suggested to mine that I ran down and had a word with you about it—as if I hadn’t enough to do, with that banknote robbery last week on my hands.”
“Let’s stick to aviation,” suggested Biggles. “What’s happened to give you the notion that crooks have started going to work in aeroplanes?”
“Not much—so far; but I’ve got an uneasy feeling that something will happen, and, before very long.”
“Tell me, what gave rise to this uneasy feeling?” requested Biggles. “Was it just a hunch?”
“I don’t pay much regard to hunches,” asserted the Inspector. “Facts are what I like.” He took out a well-worn briar and thumbed tobacco into it pensively. “Ever hear of Toff Gestner?”
“No,” admitted Biggles frankly. “Until I took on this job I managed to earn my daily crust without coming in contact with the ropey types who keep you guessing. Who’s Toff Gestner?”
“Hubert Roland were the names given to him at his baptism. Toff was an appellation he picked up later, for reasons which you’ll understand if ever you see him. He’s one of these well-dressed, good-looking, oily-tongued fellows who seem to go crooked from choice. His people were well-off. They’re dead now—died of heart-break, I reckon. Little Hubert was an only child and they gave him everything he wanted, which was probably too much. They sent him to a good school and he repaid them by getting himself expelled for petty theft. That was the start of a crooked trail that hasn’t ended yet. He ran away from home, got mixed up with a tough gang, and so graduated for Borstal. By the time he was thirty he had served three prison sentences. At thirty-one he was sent down for three years’ stretch for forgery. He came out twelve months ago and went off to Canada saying he was going to start a new life there. That’s his record up to date.” The Inspector lit his pipe which had gone out.
“Just when and how he got back to this country we don’t know,” he resumed. “In fact, until the other day we didn’t know he was back. I happened to be standing in Piccadilly when along comes a fellow wearing an Eton tie looking like he’d bought the Ritz. His face rang a bell and I had another look at him. Then I got him, although I hadn’t seen him for close on five years. It was the Toff—without the nifty little moustache he used to wear. He was looking so prosperous that I strolled along behind him to see whether he had really made good, or was still making bad. I found he was living in a little hotel in Bayswater under the name of Lancelot Seymour. Trust his nibs to pick on something fancy. This is him.” The Inspector took a photograph from his pocket-book and laid it on Biggles’s desk.
“You didn’t pick him up?” queried Biggles, looking at the portrait.
“No. I could have asked him some awkward questions, no doubt, about how he got over here and what he was using for an identity card, ration book and so on; but we believe in giving a man a chance. All the same, I put a man on to try to spot the source of this sudden prosperity. How do you think the Toff was amusing himself?”
Biggles shook his head. “I’m no good at guessing. You tell me.”
“He’s learning to fly.”
Biggles smiled.
“It’s a fact,” declared the Inspector. “He’s a highly respected member of the Home Counties Flying Club—all poshed up in cap and goggles, standing drinks to the boys and girls and generally doing the heavy.”
Biggles’s smile broadened.
“It’s nothing to laugh about,” protested the Inspector. “The Toff can really fly. I’ve made discreet enquiries and found he’d not only been solo, but had got his ‘A’ Licence. That ain’t enough. It seems he has set his heart on becoming a regular commercial pilot, for which reason he’s now working for the ‘B’ Licence. He spends most of his time at the club, and from the questions he asks he wants to know all there is to know about flying.”
“Perhaps he has turned over a new leaf and is at last on his way to earn an honest living.”
The Inspector shook his head sadly. “I’m afraid there’s a wasp in that jar of jam, although so far I haven’t been able to spot it. You see, when I knew he was back, I got in touch with police headquarters in Canada and asked them how the Toff had been behaving himself. Naturally we tipped them off when he went over there. How would you suppose his lordship had been occupying his time?”
“I’ve told you before. I’m no good at guessing.”
“Learning to fly! Now think that one over,” requested the Inspector with a grim sort of satisfaction. “Not only did he learn to fly, but he passed all his tests and was finally graded as a top-line pilot.”
Biggles’s face expressed astonishment. “I should never have guessed that one,” he confessed. “So it boils down to this. Mr. Lancelot Seymour becomes a qualified pilot in Canada and then comes back to this country, joins a flying club, and says he wants to learn to fly.”
“That’s it. Doesn’t it smell phoney to you?”
“It more than smells phoney to me,” asserted Biggles. “I’d say it stinks.”
“What’s his
idea, do you think?” asked the Inspector helplessly.
Biggles tapped a cigarette thoughtfully on the back of his hand. “We might make a lot of guesses and be wrong every time,” he opined. “No doubt we shall learn the answer in due course.”
“What’s the use of that?” demanded the Inspector. “I want to know now, not after this wily bird has spread his wings and flown away with a golden worm in his beak.”
“All right, let’s look at it like this,” said Biggles. “If this man is a qualified pilot then this learning to fly is a blind. For what purpose? There must be one, and I think it’s fairly plain. Wanting to learn to fly was his reason for joining the club; and the reason why he wanted to join the club was to have access to aircraft should he need one in a hurry. Alternatively, he might want to use an aircraft for some purpose of his own—an improper purpose, of course. What puzzles me is his wanting a ‘B’ Licence. The ‘A’ Licence is all he needs to fly about solo. Wait a minute, though. I may have got something. In order to get a ‘B’ Licence a pupil has to make a cross-country flight—at night. On such a trip, if he disappeared for a little while nobody would be worried or even surprised because people would think—and he would no doubt say—he’d lost his way. That’s a common enough occurrence. During his absence on a dark night he might do all sorts of things—go to all sorts of places. It might suit him one night to disappear entirely, then, after a while his death would be presumed, it being supposed that he’d gone into the sea. But we needn’t go into that angle at the moment. I think it might be a good idea if I flew down to the Home Counties Aerodrome at Sudley and had a look at this smart dicky-bird, to see how his feathers are growing. Tell me this. Does the Toff specialise in any particular form of crime?”
“No. He’s a sort of jack-of-all-trades. He’s been a plain thief, a forger, a confidence trickster, a receiver of stolen goods and a black marketeer.”
