Biggles - Air Detective

by W E Johns

  “Where are you going to start looking for the answers?” asked Ginger.

  “You tell me,” invited Biggles. “It should provide you with a nice mental exercise.”

  “What’s the Air Ministry doing about it?” demanded Bertie.

  “Nothing, except that all stations have been ordered to watch their aircraft to make sure that the thing doesn’t happen again; which is going to be no joke for the airmen who are going to lose half their sleep doing guard duty.”

  “Could this be the work of some bloke in the service having a joke—if you get my meaning?” asked Bertie.

  “I wouldn’t call pinching government property to the tune of £50,000 a joke,” protested Biggles. “Neither will the fellow concerned, if he’s caught at it,” he added grimly.

  “Could it be someone with a grievance, going this way to get his own back?” suggested Ginger.

  “What satisfaction could he get out of that?” enquired Biggles. “The only man to suffer at the finish is the tax-payer, who has to pay for the machines.”

  “I don’t see how you’re going to get to the bottom of it,” observed Algy gloomily.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, by now the scent is stone-cold. You can’t watch every machine in the country. As far as the machines already stolen are concerned—well, an aircraft doesn’t leave tracks.”

  “Doesn’t it?” asked Biggles blandly.

  “Are you telling us you hope to find the bloke who pinched these machines?” enquired Bertie dubiously.

  “Hope is the word.”

  “But how are you going to pick up his trail?”

  “That’s what I’d like you to tell me,” replied Biggles evenly. “Think it over.” He got up. “ Ginger, tell Flight-Sergeant Smyth that I shall want the Auster ready to take off at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning. You can come with me if you like.”

  Ginger looked puzzled. “Is this anything to do with the case you’ve been talking about?”

  “Of course.”

  “What are you going to look for?”

  “The man who purloined the machines.”

  Ginger became slightly satirical. “Are you expecting to run into him in the atmosphere?”

  “No, although there’s just a chance of it. It’s more likely that I shall see him on the ground,” answered Biggles, smiling.

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No.”

  “You really expect to see him?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you know something?”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  “What is it?”

  Biggles shook his head, a faint smile hovering about the corners of his mouth. “I’ve told you what Raymond told me. Work it out for yourself. It’s time you skyway coppers did your own thinking.”

  Ginger looked hurt. “Well, give us a clue.”

  Biggles’s smile broadened. “All right. Bring me a six-inch Ordnance Survey map of south Norfolk.”

  Ginger brought the sheet and unrolled it on Biggles’s desk.

  Biggles touched a spot with the point of a pencil. “That’s where we’re going,” he said. “I expect to meet the bloke who pinched the planes. That’s as much as I’m going to tell you. If he isn’t there I shall be very disappointed.”

  The stars were paling in the sky when, the following morning, the Auster left the ground, and headed north with Biggles at the controls. Ginger, feeling rather chilly, for the early morning air was keen, after the metropolis had been skirted had nothing to do but gaze down at the still sleeping countryside. The tangle of roads that would soon be humming with traffic were still deserted; an occasional lorry on a main highway was the only thing that moved. For the rest, the scene was the flat, multi-coloured, patchwork quilt that every pilot soon gets to know so well. The weather was fair after a soft autumn night, and except for a little mist persisting over low ground visibility was good. Above, a few flecks of cloud, far to the west, were the only stains ,in an otherwise cloudless sky. In short, the conditions for flying were perfect.

  For rather more than half an hour not a word was spoken, although Ginger, with a map on his knees, followed the course until Suffolk lay below them to the right, and Cambridgeshire, with the imposing cathedral of Ely conspicuous slightly ahead, to the left.

  The engine cut suddenly, picked up, went on again, cut again, and then continued with an uneven note. The machine lost height.

  Ginger, of course, assumed that the power unit was failing, and was about to make a remark to that effect when he saw Biggles’s hand moving the throttle. Instead of saying what he was going to say, he remarked sharply: “What the dickens are you doing?”

  “I am afraid we may be going to have a spot of engine trouble,” answered Biggles, smiling curiously. “We may have a forced landing.”

  “What do you mean—are we going down or aren’t we?”

  “I shall go down when I see what I’m expecting to see,” replied Biggles. “That should happen at any moment. I’m hoping to create the impression to anyone on the ground that we’re having a spot of bother, which would account for a landing outside an authorised airfield.”

  “What are you looking for?”

  “Wheel tracks on a big field. With the dew still on the ground they should be easy enough to see. In particular, I’m interested in tracks that fade away, as if the vehicle that made them—”

  “Had taken wing.”

  “Exactly. You see the farm ahead, to the left and some distance from the road? There’s a village a mile or so to the north of it.”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s where I’m expecting to see the tracks. There are some nice big fields, anyway.”

  A minute later Ginger cried, in a voice in which surprise and satisfaction were blended: “ Okay, there they are!”

  “I’ve got them,” returned Biggles.

  The engine, which had been running unevenly, cut abruptly. The nose of the machine went down and the aircraft began a series of S turns that took it ever nearer to a large grass field across which ran several sets, of parallel lines, some, curiously enough, beginning and some ending in the middle of the field for no apparent reason. In one corner of the field stood a farm with extensive outbuildings. Ginger thought he saw a movement there, but he was not sure.

  The Auster landed, and with the engine running in short bursts ran on towards the farm. But before reaching it the airscrew stopped and the machine came to a standstill. Almost at once a man dressed in overalls left the building and came hurrying towards it.

  “Be very careful,” said Biggles as they got out. “I fancy this is the man I expected to see, but what sort of fellow he is I haven’t the remotest idea. He may be dangerous or he may not.”

  The man turned out to be quite young—about twenty-five Ginger judged him to be. As soon as he was within speaking distance he called: “Pretty landing. I heard you having a spot of trouble.” Which, as Biggles later remarked, at once betrayed an association with aircraft.

  “Nothing serious, I think,” returned Biggles casually.

  “Bring her over to my sheds and I’ll soon put her right,” offered the man.

  Biggles looked at him. “You talk as though you’d got a workshop there.”

  “I have,” was the reply.

  “Let’s have a look at it,” suggested Biggles.

  “Come on.” Without the slightest hesitation the man led the way towards the sheds, with Biggles and Ginger following close behind.

  Ginger was prepared for almost anything, but he certainly was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes when the man pushed open some double doors and entered what was nothing less than a small aircraft factory. Most of the floor space was occupied by an aircraft, a light machine built on such unorthodox lines that Ginger could only stare at it in astonishment.

  “What do you call this?” Biggles asked the man, inclining his head towards the machine.

  “This,” answered the man, with obvious pride, “
is my own idea. The Lutton Flivver-plane, the machine that everyone will soon be flying. Only finished it a day or two ago. All I need now is someone to finance it and put it on the market. Are you interested?”

  “Have you tested her yet?” asked Biggles.

  “Up to a point. Taxi-ing tests were okay. I gave her a short run this morning. There are one or two teething troubles, but that was only to be expected. I’ll soon put them right.”

  “If you ask me,” said Biggles slowly, “I’d say that thing’s a death-trap.”

  The man’s expression changed. “Why?” he challenged.

  “From what I can. see standing here your aspect ratio is cockeye; your centre of gravity is too far back and the view forward is poor.”

  “Rot!” cried the man indignantly. “I’m not asking you to fly it,” he added rather rudely.

  “I wouldn’t, at a gift,” Biggles assured him frankly. He looked around. “You’ve got a nice lot of equipment here. Must have cost quite a lot of money.”

  “It did.”

  “Some of it looks like service stuff.”

  “I got it from the Disposals people.”

  Biggles nodded. “I thought that pneumatic drill you’ve got over there was still in short supply in the R.A.F.”

  “They let me have one, anyhow,” muttered the man in a surly voice.

  “What do you use for petrol, if it isn’t a difficult question to answer?” asked Biggles evenly.

  “I know how to get what I want,” retorted the man. “I can get all the petrol I need.”

  “From where?” asked Biggles smoothly.

  For the first time the man hesitated. Suspicion flashed in his eyes. “What do you want to know for?” he demanded in a queer voice.

  “I have an interest, that’s all,” answered Biggles.

  “In what way?”

  “Because, Lutton,” replied Biggles slowly, “we happen to be police officers. I’m trying to locate the petrol that was taken from two service aircraft stolen a little while ago. I think I’ve found it. Am I right?”

  The face of the man addressed had turned as white as paper. His tongue flicked over his lips. Then he moved suddenly. His hand went to a bench behind him and came forward holding a revolver. He covered Biggles with it.

  Biggles didn’t move. “Don’t be a fool, Lutton,” he said calmly. “Threatening a police officer in this country is a serious matter. You’ll only make your case worse. I’ll forget it happened if you’ll put that thing away.”

  For a moment Lutton remained undecided, his eyes on Biggles’s face. Then he drew a deep breath. “I suppose you’re right,” he said bitterly, and tossed the revolver back on the bench. “Well, what are you going to do about it?” he asked harshly.

  “For the moment, nothing,” replied Biggles. “I shall of course report the matter but after that the thing will pass out of my hands. If you take my advice you’ll just stay here quietly and take what’s coming to you. That’s all.” With that he turned away, and, followed by Ginger, walked back to the Auster without a word.

  He climbed into his seat and took off.

  An hour later he was back in his office. He went straight to the telephone and put a call through to the Air Commodore.

  “You can tell the Air Ministry that the man who lifted the two aircraft is Merville Lucas Lutton, of Wimbold Farm, near Methwold, Norfolk,” he reported. “You’ll find most of the petrol there, I think.”

  Half an hour later, after some breakfast, Biggles sat at his desk with the others demanding to be told how he had so quickly picked up a scent that had led straight to the heart of what looked like a first-class mystery.

  Biggles reached for a cigarette. “Take it easy and I’ll tell you. Really, it was all very simple.

  “I may be wrong,” he went on, “but it has often struck me that the more extraordinary a case at first appears the easier it is to button it up. The very peculiarity of it gives one something to work on. In simple affairs these don’t occur, so it’s harder to know where to start. Take this last business as a case in point. Certain factors stuck out a mile—call them clues if you like. To start with, both machines were stolen from training units. That might have been coincidence. On the other hand, the thief might have chosen them deliberately, knowing that training units usually have a variety of aircraft, and a large number of pupils and instructors who are always coming and going without having got to know each other very well. Thus, it would be possible for a stranger, provided he wore uniform or flying kit, to walk about without the slightest notice being taken of him. The public might not realise that, but an airman would, for which reason the thing looked to me from the start like the work of either a serving airman or someone who had been in the service and knew the routine. Such a man would know where everything was kept—tools, parachutes, and so on. He would know about meal-times, and know where to look for standing orders. Next, the two stations involved were close to each other, so the chances were that the thief lived in the same vicinity. Next, he himself could fly. He was, moreover, a pilot of some experience, since he could fly different types of service aircraft.

  “All this boiled down to the probability of the thief being a serving officer or airman, or one recently discharged. The next point was the motive. Why did this fellow pinch the planes? He didn’t want them. No man steals what he doesn’t want. What did he want? The only thing missing was petrol. Not ordinary petrol, mark you. That could have been bought from any pump. Obviously that wouldn’t do. It had to be high-octane aviation spirit, which is not available to the public. Very well. For what purpose could a man want aviation spirit? Obviously, for aviation. What sort of aviation?”

  “Just a minute, old boy,” put in Bertie. “He might have wanted the petrol to sell it. Petrol’s worth money in the black market, don’t forget.”

  “I don’t forget it,” answered Biggles. “Neither do I forget that if a man started selling aviation spirit to motorists he’d soon be caught. Someone would be bound to spot it and ask questions. An airman would certainly know the difference. Very well. Let’s get on. A man doesn’t steal a thing if he can get it by fair means. At any rate, he usually tries fair means first. The chances were, therefore, that our thief had tried to get aviation spirit through the proper channels, and had failed. To whom would he apply for a quota? Either to the Air Ministry or to the Ministry of Fuel and Power. An ex-airman would almost certainly apply to the Air Ministry, because he would have to explain the purpose for which it was required, and the Ministry would understand that. So, working on these lines of reasoning we arrive at the probability that the thief was an ex-R.A.F. officer, or a sergeant pilot, who for some purpose wanted a fairly big supply of aviation petrol.

  “The next step was automatic. I rang up the Ministry of Civil Aviation and asked them to go through their records and let me have a list of people who, during the past twelve months, had applied for a quota of aviation spirit. There were four. Three, from newly-formed flying clubs, were granted. As they had got what they wanted they could be ruled out. The fourth applicant was an ex-sergeant pilot named Lutton who had been discharged on medical grounds. The application was declined, since the purpose for which the petrol was required did not, in the Air Ministry’s view, justify it being granted. This, according to Lutton in his application form, was for the purpose of testing a new, ultra-light plane which he had designed and built. It was to be an air flivver—the cheap plane for the man in the street. As you know, the Air Ministry does not look kindly on private inventors, who are usually a danger, not only to themselves but to the general public. Moreover, there was another reason why the application was turned down. Lutton’s service confidential reports revealed that he had been in trouble more than once. On one occasion he had tried to smuggle some watches into this country from Gibraltar. On another occasion he was put on a charge for the misuse of government tools and materials, which he had used for a private purpose. When I ascertained from his application form that this man lived
in Norfolk, no great distance from the two airfields from which the planes had been stolen, I felt pretty sure that I was on the right track.

  “The pattern of the thing now looked like this. Lutton’s application for petrol had been turned down, but he was determined to get some. Putting on the uniform he still possessed he walked onto the tarmac of an R.A.F. station, took off in a Lysander and landed on his own field. Having withdrawn most of the petrol from the tanks, his problem was to dispose of the aircraft—not an easy matter in the ordinary way. What he did was put on a parachute, fly the machine to a lonely place on the Yorkshire moors, and step out. The plane crashed and he went home. It was all very easy. This petrol lasted him for a time, but when it was used up he simply repeated the performance. This time he was more careful and took a machine that would give him all the petrol he was ever likely to need—the Mosquito. Why he didn’t use the parachute again I don’t know. He may have damaged it in his last jump. Or he may not have felt like jumping again, particularly as it wasn’t absolutely necessary. Anyway, to dispose of the aircraft he flew it to a big field some distance away, probably in the early hours of the morning, and left it there. That’s how Lutton got his petrol.

  “The rest you know. It was straightforward. I had the man’s address. It was a farm, and, like most farms in that part of the country, had big flat fields. The outbuildings were fitted up as a workshop. He had got his petrol and was all set to carry on with his tests. Obviously his machine was ready to fly or he wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to get the petrol. When I flew up this morning I was quite prepared for what I found. I went early because I reckoned that to be the time when he would do his testing. No one would be about and at dawn the air is usually still. What was more important to me, the dew is still on the grass, and any disturbance on it can be spotted at once from the air. When I saw wheel-tracks that faded out in the middle of a big field I knew that they could have been made only by one vehicle—an aircraft. I faked a forced landing so as not to alarm the man and went down to have a look round. That’s all there was to it.”