Biggles - Air Detective

by W E Johns

Biggles nodded. “A general practitioner, as you might say.”

  “His sort are a pain in the neck to the Force,” grumbled the Inspector.

  “I see. Well, give me a day or two to look at this fledgling night-hawk,” requested Biggles. “I may have a quiet word with the club secretary at the same time. I know him well.” He looked at his watch. “In fact, I’ll slip down right away. Meanwhile, if anything turns up that looks like the Toff’s work let me know.”

  “Okay,” agreed the Inspector, getting up. “And if you get a line on him from your angle you might put me wise. Now I shall have to be getting back to the Yard. I’m still trying to trace that consignment of treasury notes that disappeared from the Euston–Crewe express the other night. Luckily the bank consigning them to one if its branches kept a record of the numbers, so that crooks who lifted them will have a job to get them into circulation without us spotting them.”

  Biggles walked with the Inspector to his car, which had been parked outside the hangar.

  On the way back he called Ginger, who was working with Flight-Sergeant Smyth on one of the machines. “Get out No. 2 Auster,” he ordered. “I’m not going far. You can come with me if you like.”

  “Good enough,” acknowledged Ginger.

  Half an hour later the Police Auster landed on the well-kept aerodrome of the Home Counties Flying Club, and taxiing past two or three school machines that were standing on the tarmac came to rest near the clubhouse.

  Biggles got out, took off his flying jacket, helmet and goggles, and tossed them in his seat. Ginger did the same, and they walked together towards the, veranda on which half a dozen members and an instructor were engaged in casual conversation. Hubert Gestner, alias Lancelot Seymour, was not among them, Biggles noticed, as with a nod he walked on into the lounge.

  There he found the man in whom he was interested, on a high stool at the bar, talking to the barman. Having recognised him, Biggles barely glanced at him as he walked on to the office. After knocking, he put his head round the door, and smiled as he saw the man he was hoping to see, the, club secretary, working at his desk. “Hallo, Tommy. How’s things?” he greeted.

  Ex-Flying Officer Tommy Clewson sprang to his feet. “Hallo, old timer! This is an unexpected treat. What lucky break brought you here? I heard you were—”

  Biggles raised a warning finger and closed the door quickly. “Just forget for the moment anything you may have heard about me,” he said softly.

  The secretary’s eyes opened wide. “You don’t mean you’ve come here—on business?”

  “I have,” Biggles told him.

  “Serious?”

  “How serious remains to be seen. But there’s no need to break into a perspiration. It’s nothing to do with you personally. I want you, if you will, to answer one or two questions for me. Keep this under your hat, though, or you may start something. The reason I’m here is as much in your interest as mine. You’ve got a member under instruction named Seymour, I believe?”

  “Yes. But you’re not going to tell me that there’s anything wrong with him?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with anybody, Tommy, until he’s found out,” murmured Biggles.

  “But this chap, apart from being an apt pupil, is one of the most popular members we’ve ever had.”

  “He would be,” returned Biggles evenly.

  “Langley, his instructor, says he’s the most brilliant pupil he’s ever had in his hands. He swears he’ll go far.”

  “He may one day go farther than Langley imagines,” returned Biggles dryly. “He’s got his ‘A’ ticket, I believe?”

  “Went through like a bird.”

  “How long has he been a member here?”

  “A couple of months or so.”

  “And I understand that he’s now after his ‘B’ Licence?”

  “He’s almost got it. He has only one more test to pass.”

  “Must be a clever fellow,” observed Biggles, mildly sarcastic.

  “He might have been flying all his life,” declared the secretary.

  Biggles nodded. “When you said that you said more than you knew. What’s this last test that’s holding him up?”

  “The cross-country night flight, solo. He tried it once and failed. Pity.”

  “A great pity,” agreed Biggles. “But when was this?”

  “About a week ago.”

  “What happened?”

  “The run was from Lympne to Croydon, but he got off his track somewhere and was adrift for some time. His tanks were nearly dry when he got in, so he may have been lucky.”

  “You lost touch with him, apparently?”

  “Yes.”

  “What explanation did he give?”

  “He was quite frank about it. He said he’d run into some ground mist and lost his way.”

  “What are instruments for?”

  Tommy shrugged.

  Biggles went on. “I imagine he got a Met. report before he started—or his instructor should have got it for him; and no doubt someone checked his compass course. Was there any sudden change in the weather?”

  “No—but you know how it is,” protested Tommy. “Don’t be hard on him. We all make mistakes at times.”

  “Between you and me he’s made several mistakes in his time—but don’t let him see you know anything about that,” returned Biggles. “Have arrangements been made yet for his next test?”

  “As a matter of fact they have. He’s trying again tonight, weather permitting.”

  “What’s the course this time?”

  “He’s to fly from here to Lympne.”

  “At what time?”

  “He starts at nine o’clock. No big machines are due in from the Continent at that hour so he won’t be worried by the risk of anything crossing his track.”

  “Thanks, Tommy. That’s all I want to know,” said Biggles. “Don’t be surprised if you see me hanging around about nine o’clock. Take no notice of me if you do, unless I speak to you. And whatever you do don’t mention the word police between now and then. See you later.”

  “Here! Half a minute!” expostulated the secretary. “What’s all this about?”

  “I’ll tell you tonight—that is, if I know myself,” answered Biggles. “By the way, has Seymour a car?”

  “Yes. He uses it to run between here and Town. Aren’t you going to stay to lunch?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Well, at least have a drink before you go?”

  “No thanks.” Biggles smiled. “Can’t you see I’m working?”

  “Okay,” sighed Tommy. “Have it your own way. You always were a queer bird.”

  “I’m not the only queer bird in your little aviary,” said Biggles smilingly as he went out.

  At a quarter to nine the airfield was deserted except for two mechanics in overalls who were running up the engine of a machine that had just been pulled out of a lighted hanger. In the clubhouse itself only one or two members lingered at the bar. Biggles and Ginger stood on the veranda doing nothing in particular, and there, presently, the club secretary joined them.

  “So there you are,” he observed. “What are you looking at?”

  “The weather,” replied Biggles casually. “Beautiful night for a spot of moonlight aviation.”

  “Couldn’t be better. Seymour should have no difficulty in getting through this time. He should even be able to make a safe landing should he get lost and run out of petrol.”

  “As you say, he should have no difficulty at all,” murmured Biggles. “Where is he, by the way?”

  “Getting into his kit. Ah! There he is now. That’s Langley, his instructor, with him. Giving him a final word of advice, I imagine. The machine they’re making for is the machine detailed for the job.”

  “How long has Langley been with you?”

  “Five years. He’s got a fine record. Naturally we checked up before we engaged him.”

  “I see.” Biggles walked slowly along to the tarmac. “It’s always inte
resting to see a fellow take off on a test flight,” he observed casually.

  Pupil and instructor, the former in flying kit, had by this time reached the machine allocated for the test, one of the club’s Tiger Moths, and were standing by a wing, talking in cheerful tones. The two mechanics, who had retired a short distance, stood watching or waiting for orders. Biggles, Ginger and the club secretary walked to within a dozen paces and also halted as no watch the machine take off.

  For two or three minutes the position remained unchanged. Then the instructor looked at his watch and shook hands with his pupil. “Off you go and the best of luck,” he said, and backed away.

  Seymour turned to the cockpit as if to climb in; but at this juncture a man in chauffeur’s uniform appeared from the direction of the car park and came hurrying across the concrete apron towards the machine. He carried a brown-paper parcel.

  “Hi! Just a minute, sir,” he called. “You forgot your pyjamas. You’ll want them if you stay the night at Lympne.”

  “Who’s that?” asked Biggles, in a low but terse voice.

  “That’s Seymour’s driver,” answered the secretary.

  By this time Seymour had turned. “Oh, thank you, James—how careless of me,” he said nonchalantly, as he reached for the parcel.

  But Biggles, who had already started forward, intercepted it before either Seymour or his man could have realised what he was going to do. “I’d like to have a look at this if you don’t mind,” he said quietly.

  There was a brief silence, the result, presumably, of surprise. Then Seymour said, in a voice brittle with resentment: “Give me that. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You heard what I said,” said Biggles imperturbably.

  “You’ve got a nerve,” cried Seymour indignantly. “That’s my property. What’s it got to do with you? Are you looking for trouble?”

  “Possibly,” returned Biggles.

  Tension was now perceptible in the atmosphere. “Who are you?” demanded Seymour in a curious voice.

  “We’re police officers,” Biggles told him. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but—stop that man!” The chauffeur had decided not to wait. He turned to run, but Ginger put out a foot and tripped him so that he fell heavily, cursing. There was a quick scuffle, which ended when the two mechanics, on Biggles’s instructions, went to Ginger’s assistance. The chauffeur, muttering, was pulled to his feet.

  Biggles, who had remained near Seymour, spoke quietly to him. “Don’t let’s have any more trouble.”

  “But what’s all this about?” cried Seymour. “I’m on a test flight and I’m due off the ground.” He made a grab at the parcel.

  Biggles held him off. “All right, take it easy,” he said shortly.

  “I’ll sue you for wrongful arrest,” declared Seymour hotly.

  “You haven’t been arrested yet,” Biggles pointed out. “Why are you getting so upset? I merely want to see what’s in this parcel.”

  “You heard what my man said. It’s my pyjamas.”

  “In that case you’ve nothing to worry about,” averred Biggles. “Come over to the clubhouse and we’ll make sure there hasn’t been a mistake. It won’t take a minute.”

  Seymour hesitated. “All right, I’ll go without them,” he decided at last.

  “There’s no need to do that,” argued Biggles. “A couple of minutes one way or the other is neither here nor there.”

  “Well, let me get out of this flying kit,” requested Seymour.

  “No, no. Don’t trouble,” returned Biggles.

  Ginger, who was following the argument, smiled as he realised the purpose of the request. Encumbered by heavy flying clothes Seymour could neither run nor fight, had either been his intention.

  “Come on!” ordered Biggles crisply. “There’s been enough bickering.”

  The whole party, which included the secretary and the instructor—looking more than slightly bewildered—moved slowly towards the clubhouse. Reaching it, Biggles led the way across the veranda into the lounge. He went no farther than the nearest table. On it he put the parcel. In a silence that was oppressive he took out his penknife, cut the string and pulled it off.

  The silence was broken only by the rustle of paper as he stripped it off to disclose what appeared to be a small bale of white muslin. With slow deliberation he unrolled it, and then turned accusing eyes on Seymour as he held up a miniature parachute. “Do you normally throw your pyjamas overboard before you land?” he enquired coldly.

  Seymour’s face was bloodless, his lips a thin hard line.

  Biggles continued to unwrap the parcel, and presently there came to light a canvas bag to which the parachute was attached. Again the penknife came into action. A swift tear and the bag fell open, so that its contents were strewn on the table. They were bundles of one-pound notes, tightly packed as they are issued to banks.

  Biggles looked up. His eyes came to rest on Seymour’s face. “This doesn’t look like a suit of pyjamas to me,” he said softly.

  “All right, smart guy,” sneered Seymour. “So what? It’s my money.”

  “This money,” corrected Biggles, “is the property of Barclay’s Bank. It was stolen last week between Euston and Crewe. I happen to know the serial numbers. If you say it’s yours perhaps you’ll tell us how it got into your possession. We needn’t ask what you were going to do with it. It isn’t far from Lympne to the other side of the Channel.”

  Seymour swallowed. “I can explain,” he blurted hoarsely.

  “Not now,” murmured Biggles. “Wait till you get to headquarters. Gestner, you’re under arrest, and I think you’ll find it hard to prove there’s anything wrongful about it. All right, you can get out of that flying kit. You won’t be needing it. Inspector Gaskin is in the office. You can talk to him on the way to London. Ginger, you might call him.”

  The following day Biggles was explaining the case to the Air Commodore. “It was a bit difficult,” he pointed out. “Of course, I knew he was up to something, but I hadn’t a clue as to what it was, so I had to take a chance. I daren’t let him, or the parcel, out of my sight. I couldn’t follow him; I should have lost him in the dark. He’d have gone straight to France, dropped the parcel to a pal waiting for it, and then landed at Lympne with another excuse about losing his way to account for being overdue. It wouldn’t have taken him long to slip across the Channel, anyway. Once the notes were over the other side they would have disappeared for good. The chauffeur was in it, too. I suppose Gestner didn’t want to walk about with all that money on him so he got his chauffeur to sit in the car until he was ready to take off. In the ordinary way there was no reason why it shouldn’t have worked.”

  “The chauffeur happens to be Tod Mills,” stated Inspector Gaskin, who was present. “ We’ve been looking for him for months. One thing with another we can call it a good night’s work.”

  [Back to Contents]

  THE CASE OF THE MURDERED APPRENTICE

  “’MORNING, Bigglesworth. You seem to be busy here.” Air Commodore Raymond made the remark as he strolled into the Operations Room of the Special Air Police.

  “Good morning, sir. Not so busy as we shall be, I’m afraid,” replied Biggles, pulling up a chair for his chief.

  “That’s a gloomy outlook,” stated the Air Commodore. “Have you a reason for taking such a depressing view?”

  “I don’t see how it can be otherwise,” answered Biggles. He smiled wanly. “In fact, I’m thinking of making an application for more men and more machines.”

  The Air Commodore looked startled. “Would you mind explaining this sudden burst of pessimism?”

  “Not at all,” returned Biggles, without enthusiasm. “It rests on the fact that the preoccupation of almost everyone today is how to get more spending money with the least possible effort. Some people are still prepared to get it honestly or not at all, but there’s an increasing number who are determined to get it, anyway. The trouble is, those who are only slightly crooked don’t seem to
realize that they are potential criminals. They reckon they’re just the wise guys. The worst aspect of it is that their children see what’s going on, and imagining it’s smart, start little rackets on their own which lands them in Borstal. That’s the simple answer to the spate of juvenile crime which is giving magistrates a headache, and will, when the little crooks grow into big ones, keep me working overtime. You won’t cure that by making more laws or building more prisons. Keep the home clean and you keep the kids clean. That’s the answer. Am I right?”

  “So far,” conceded the Air Commodore. “Go on.”

  “All right. Unfortunately it so happens that government regulations, intended to make life easier for the majority, have also had the effect of making things easier for those who aren’t particular about how they get their money. For example: the value of a thing should depend on the law of supply and demand; but values are now fixed by officials, and as no two governments think alike the result is a tangle of false values. An article costing half a crown in France may be worth a pound over here. And vice versa. Consequently, in order to make money fast all you have to do is buy in one country and sell in another. In other words, the road to Easy Street is merely a matter of transportation. You’ll say steps have been taken to prevent such trading, and up to a point I’d agree with you. The illegal movement of merchandise, commonly called smuggling, is pretty well under control where ordinary surface transport is concerned; but there’s still one vehicle which is difficult to stop, and that’s the aeroplane, which is fast, independent of tides and timetables, and has all the space between heaven and earth in which to operate. The possibilities offered by aircraft are now being realized by the smart guys—and you ask me why I’m depressed! With machines able to cover fifty miles in five minutes it’s now possible, for all practical purposes, for a man to be in two places at once. To keep pace I shall soon have to travel so fast that I shall meet myself coming back. The ground Force can’t help. It takes an airman to catch an airman. Sorry to be so long-winded, but you asked for it.”

  The Air Commodore tapped the ash off his cigarette. “It’s funny you should say that, because it’s just such a case of a fellow being in two places at once that brought me here today.”