‘Hell’s bells! Are you telling me how I should pick my friends?’
‘I’m merely reminding you there are some nasty people about.’
‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘Do you? In that case you must realize you’re heading for trouble.’
‘You think you know a heck of a lot,’ Caine said, a sneer creeping into his voice.
‘More than you imagine. I’m a detective, remember? It’s my business to know things. But don’t get me wrong. I don’t go about trying to make trouble. There are occasions when I try to prevent people from getting into trouble.’
‘And that, you flatter yourself, is what you’re doing now.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Well, you’re wasting your time. I can take care of myself.’
‘That’s what you think. I presume to doubt it. Still, okay if that’s the way you want it. If you should change your mind let me know. My address is in the phone book. I needn’t waste any more of your time, or my own.’ Biggles finished his drink and stood up ready for departure.
‘Just a minute,’ Caine said, looking as if he had lost some of his confidence.
‘Well?’
‘Just now you said you knew more about me than I imagined. What, for instance? You’ve done a lot of talking. Now prove it.’
Biggles looked mildly surprised. ‘Do you really mean that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Very well. I know you’re associating with a time-serving crook who’s wanted by the police. If you’re caught with him it’ll be up the steps1 for you at the same time.’
Caine’s tongue flicked over his lips. ‘It isn’t true.’
‘Are you asking me to believe you didn’t know?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Fair enough. Then there’s nothing more to be said,’ returned Biggles conclusively.
‘Why are you telling me this?’ inquired Caine curiously.
Biggles hesitated. ‘I really don’t know. There was no need for me to tell you anything. Perhaps it was to find out if you know what you’re, doing. You’ve just answered that question for me. Unless you’re a better liar than I take you to be, apparently you don’t realize the risks you’re taking. That’s about all. I shall be sorry to see a man with your record end up serving a life sentence.’
‘I’m not a crook.’
‘If you aren’t then you must be a fool, which, in view of your qualifications I find hard to believe.’
‘What record are you talking about?’
‘Your Service record, of course.’
‘So you’ve seen that, too,’ Caine said bitterly.
‘Naturally. Where did you meet Lazor?’
‘I don’t know anyone of that name.’ Caine’s hesitation in answering the question was not missed by Biggles.
‘Perhaps you know him as Nick. Nick the Sheikh!’
‘I’ve never heard of such a person.’
‘Okay, Caine,’ Biggles said sadly. ‘Have it your way. But when you find yourself with nothing on the clock,2 don’t say I didn’t do my best to warn you.’ He walked away.
Collecting his hat from the rack he went into the street. He did not use the pavement except to cross it to the far side of the road. There he stood under a lamp until a cruising taxi came along. He took it and went straight home.
‘Well, was he there?’ asked Algy, when he walked in.
‘He was,’ answered Biggles. ‘We had quite a natter.’
‘Get anything out of him?’
‘Not much. Frankly, I still don’t know what to make of him. I still can’t believe he’s really a bad hat. If he isn’t, he’s a fool and I told him so. Where’s Bertie?’
‘We haven’t seen him.’
‘What?’ Biggles looked astonished. ‘Hasn’t he rung up to say where he is and what he’s doing?’
‘Not a sign, not a word.’
‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Biggles said seriously. ‘He must have run into trouble. Still, there’s still time for him to get in touch, somehow. We’ll give him a little longer. I’ll have a bite of food. Then, if we’ve still heard nothing we shall have to do something about it.’
‘Such as?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘There’s only one place to look for him. At least we know where he was going.’
They went, two at a time, always to leave someone minding the telephone, to the convenient little restaurant round the corner which they so often used, for a quick meal. When, at the end of this necessary operation, and they were all together again over an hour later, there had still been no word from Bertie.
‘Something must have gone wrong,’ Biggles stated. ‘Even if he’d broken down, or been involved in a road accident, Bertie would have found a way of getting in touch with us before this. If he ran foul of this razor-slashing thug anything could have happened. That’s what worries me. Anyone else wouldn’t matter. I’m going down to find out what’s happened.’
‘Why you?’ asked Ginger. ‘You’ve been on the trot all day. All I’ve done is stand on one leg then the other.’
‘I’m all right.’
‘You may need help,’ prompted Ginger.
‘Does that mean you want to come with me?’
‘Not particularly, but I think you should have someone with you.’
‘Okay, if that’s how you feel. We’ll go down together.’ Biggles turned to Algy. ‘You keep an ear to the phone. I’ll call you from somewhere on the road to check if Bertie’s come in or been through. If he has, leave a message on the pad and go to bed. Come on, Ginger. Let’s get mobile.’
Said Algy earnestly. ‘I know the Chief is against us carrying guns, but if I were you, with a razor expert in the offing. I’d put a pistol in my pocket.’
‘I was thinking the same thing,’ returned Biggles, with a smile that had little humour in it.
A few minutes later they were on their way.
* * *
1 ‘Up the steps’ — crook jargon for the Central Criminal Court.
2 An R.A.F. expression signifying out of control and instruments registering zero.
CHAPTER 6
A SHOCKING DISCOVERY
Biggles had the same difficulty in finding the village that was his objective as had Bertie earlier in the day. It was late, therefore, when he had the good luck to be put on the right road, or lane as it turned out to be, for Twotrees Farm. The informant was a solitary pedestrian apparently taking his dog, a suspicious-looking lurcher, for a walk. His manner was gruff to the point of being rude, but at least he obliged with the necessary information.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ Ginger said as they drove on. ‘What’s he doing out at this time o’ night, anyway?’
‘If you’re asking me to make a guess, I’d say he was a poacher looking for his Sunday dinner. In fact, from the bulge under that heavy coat he was wearing he may have already got it. The dog, the traditional poacher’s dog, still had a pheasant feather sticking to the corner of its mouth. But that’s nothing to do with us. Keep your eyes on the road. Driving on a night like this is tricky enough even when you’re on familiar ground.’
‘Straight on up the hill and you can’t miss it, that fellow said,’ reminded Ginger.
A few minutes later, on the slope of a narrow tree-lined lane, with Biggles driving slowly and with the care conditions demanded, his caution was demonstrably justified in no uncertain manner by an incident that gave them both a fright.
It began when somewhere ahead the lights of an approaching car illuminated the trees to give them the artificial appearance of a stage set. Dipping his own lights Biggles dropped his speed to a crawl, for there would obviously not be much room to pass. It was as well that he did so, for an instant later, with its headlights blinding, the car flashed round a corner at a speed that would have been highly dangerous in broad daylight. Any sane driver, seeing a car in front of him, would have braked hard and crept past. But not this one. Ginger was so
sure a collision was inevitable that instinctively he lifted his knees to his chin, as he would have done in a crashing aircraft, to prevent his legs from being trapped in the wreckage.
Biggles must have thought the same, for he stood on everything and jerked to a stop that threw them forward against the windscreen. As the other car tore past there could not have been an inch between the two vehicles.
‘The fool,’ Ginger blurted wrathfully when he could get his breath. ‘He ought to be shot.’
‘The crazy idiot,’ grated Biggles between his teeth. ‘He’ll kill somebody presently. With lunatics like that on the road it’s not surprising the accident figures are what they are. Did you see the car? When it first appeared I thought it might be Bertie.’
‘I didn’t see much of it but it certainly wasn’t Bertie,’ stated Ginger. ‘It was too low on the ground. I’d say a sports car. Probably a Jaguar.’
‘Not in any circumstances could I imagine Bertie driving like that; he’s not that daft,’ declared Biggles, turning up his lights and driving on.
‘What was the fool trying to do An R.A.F. expression signifying out of control and instruments registering zero. break through the sound barrier?’
‘One thing is quite certain; he must have been in a devil of a hurry to get somewhere. Let’s hope we don’t meet any more like him.’
They crawled on up the lane, always uphill. ‘They say it’s a long lane that has no turning, but it’s about time we came to the end of this one,’ remarked Biggles after a while.
‘Stop,’ snapped Ginger suddenly.
Biggles stopped. ‘I’ve got to stop anyway. We seem to have come to a dead end.’
‘There’s a car.’
‘Where?’
‘Behind us. We’ve just passed it.’
‘I didn’t see it.’
‘It’s facing the other way, with no lights. Tucked into the bracken and stuff.’
Biggles cut his engine and switched off the lights. As they got out and walked a few yards back to the other car, he remarked casually: ‘Good place to dump an old car to get rid of it.’ Then with a change of tone he went on quickly: ‘No, by thunder! It looks like...’
‘It’s Bertie’s car,’ Ginger said.
‘Then he must still be here; or he can’t be far away.’ Biggles opened the door of the car and looked inside. ‘He isn’t here, anyway,’ he went on with a hint of relief in his voice. ‘According to that poacher fellow, Twotrees Farm should be somewhere about here.’
‘That must be it.’ Ginger pointed to the vague silhouette of a house on the skyline beyond an open field. Close by it two leafless trees stood stiff and stark.
‘Not a light anywhere,’ Ginger said, as they took a few steps forward to a wire fence. There was a gate. It was wide open. Close by it a pole carrying wires was conspicuous.
‘They must have electric light,’ added Ginger.
‘More likely the telephone,’ observed Biggles. ‘There may be nobody in the house. Or, of course, anyone there could have gone to bed. It’s getting late, and there are still people in the country who go to bed early. I would have expected to see cattle, or stock of some sort, in a field this size; but I don’t see any.’
‘What can Bertie be doing?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Queer he should stay here as long as this without letting us know what he was doing.’
‘Perhaps he couldn’t.’
Ginger looked up sharply. ‘You think he’s in trouble?’
‘It seems more than likely. His car tells us he can’t be far away - unless for some reason he couldn’t get back to it. We’d better have a look round.’
‘Does that mean you’re going up to the house?’
‘If necessary. If Bertie should come back here while we’re away he’ll see our car and know we’re on the spot. Bring the torch from the car so that we can see what we’re doing. We don’t want to barge into a bull. Don’t forget this is a farm, so that possibility is always on the boards.’
Ginger collected the heavy torch, rubber-coated to protect the bulb from vibration, and without switching it on handed it to Biggles. They went through the field gate and set off up the cart track that obviously led to the farmhouse. The rain had stopped, but the sky was heavy with cloud, with no moon and only an occasional star blinking through a gap in the overcast.
They were drawing near to the house when a warning growl a little way in front of them brought them to a halt.
‘So there’s a dog,’ muttered Biggles irritably. ‘That’s awkward.’
Presently in front of them they saw it through the gloom. It stood firm, growling, bristling, as if to bar their progress. Biggles tried to coax it. It was no use. He shouted. ‘Anyone at home there?’
No answer came from the house.
He tried again. ‘Hi there. Will you call your dog off?’
There was no reply.
Said Biggles, grimly: ‘I hate hurting a dog when it’s doing its job; but sometimes with this breed a tough line works when kind words fail.’ As he finished speaking he advanced quickly on the dog with one arm raised. The dog retreated, still growling deep in its throat. Then it turned, and showing its teeth, sprang. Biggles sidestepped and swinging the heavy torch he carried hit it on the nose. The animal let out a yelp of pain, and making a peculiar noise, shaking its head, backed away. Biggles advanced. The dog retreated.
‘That was taking a chance,’ accused Ginger.
‘I caught it on its tender spot, its nose. It takes a tough breed to stand that. Don’t ever try it on a bulldog.’
They walked on, the dog retreating in front of them.
Said Ginger, in some surprise: ‘Are you going to the house?’
‘I am.’
‘What excuse will you give?’
‘If we’re asked for one I shall say we’ve broken down and ask if I may use the phone.’
As they rounded the end of the house to reach the back they saw reflected light. It was coming from an open door. They walked up to it. The light came from a lamp in a short hall with a door at the far end.
Said Biggles, ‘Apparently there’s someone at home after all.’ He knocked on the back door. When no one answered he called loudly: ‘Anyone in?’
There was no reply.
Biggles walked forward to the door at the far end of the hall. He knocked, waited a moment and said: ‘May I come in?’
No answer was forthcoming. He looked at Ginger and shrugged. Then he opened the door, pushing it wide open. He took a step forward. Only one. Then he stopped dead, staring. Ginger did not have to look long to see why he had stopped.
Biggles’ hand went to his pocket and came out holding his automatic. ‘Watch out!’ he breathed. ‘There’s been murder done here.’ His eyes flashed round the room. They explored the floor.
To Ginger there was ample reason to suspect murder. There was blood everywhere. It had even spattered on the table and the remains of a half-eaten meal, also a half-empty bottle of champagne. Light was provided by an old-fashioned oil lamp. A kettle on an open coal fire spurted steam as it rapidly boiled itself dry. A chair had been knocked over.
Biggles strode to another door and, pistol at the ready, flung it open. It was the kitchen. There was no one there. Returning, he stooped and touched some blood on the floor with a finger and looked at it. ‘This happened within the last hour,’ he said tersely. His eyes, frowning, turned on Ginger. ‘The question is, where’s the man who did it?’
‘Upstairs?’
‘I’ll see. Stand fast.’ Biggles went up the stairs by the usual staircase in the hall. Ginger, standing tense with his back to the wall, heard him moving about. Presently he came down. ‘No one,’ he said. ‘But there was certainly somebody here not many minutes ago. Unless all this mess was the result of an accident there must have been two people. Where have they gone?’
‘They may have bolted when you shouted about the dog.’
‘Could be.’
‘You don’t think Bertie...’
‘If he was mixed up in this mess one would think he’d still be here.’ Biggles pointed. ‘It looks as if this is where the first blow was struck, causing the blood to fly. If the weapon was a cosh, or something of that sort, there must have been more than one blow. The first doesn’t splash blood. It’s the second, in the same place, that does the splashing. The injured man went this way.’ Biggles followed the trail of blood down the hall to the door by which they had entered the house. ‘He walked or ran,’ he went on. ‘I mean, he wasn’t dragged, or the blood would be smeared.’ Outside the door the torch revealed more bloodstains; but there the trail ended. Biggles spoke slowly, as if trying to work out the problem. ‘There was trouble in the house. Blows were struck. Someone was shot, or knifed. A stab would cause more blood than a shot. The person hurt came as far as this. No farther. So what happened?’
‘His body might have been carried somewhere?’
‘But the man was bleeding like a stuck pig. There’d still be a trail of blood. No. That isn’t the answer. I’d say there was some sort of vehicle, probably a car, standing here. The injured man got into it — or was put in it. The car then went off. Any more blood would be in it.’
‘Could it have been the car that nearly rammed us coming up the hill?’
‘Possibly. In fact, very likely. It was the only car we saw and it came from this direction. Perhaps that was why it was in such a hell of a hurry.’
‘I thought it was a Jag. Caine had a Jag,’ said Ginger.
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘You make a good point, there. But I saw Caine at the club. I didn’t see him leave, so I don’t know where he went; but he would have had plenty of time to get here. What time did you say it was when you saw him leave the flat and go off in the car?’
‘About four o’clock.’
‘Bertie must have been here then. Wait a minute. Let’s try to work this out. It’s a matter of timing. Where did Caine go between four and the time he came into the club? That must have been getting on for eight. You say he had a suitcase. He wouldn’t be likely to take a suitcase to the club. Why bring his car? It would have been easier to take a taxi, or a bus.’
Biggles in the Underworld Page 5
