by W E Johns
“This, Algy, is where you start,” he resumed. “I want you to go to the Bond Street art gallery from where the pictures were lifted last night and have word with the owner, or manager. Find out how long the missing pictures had been on public view. Ask him if he sent out invitations for the exhibition and note the names of any foreign art dealers or collectors. He may keep a visitors’ book. Some do. Again, check it for foreign names, and, if possible, the addresses. Ask, are any of these people permanently resident in this country? If not, where do they usually stay when they’re here? Query anything else that may occur to you. That’s enough for now. Get on with it. You can take Bertie with you for company. If the pictures haven’t already left the country they won’t be here much longer so we’ve no time to lose.”
When Algy and Bertie had gone Ginger questioned: “What can I do?”
“You can come with me and use your eyes. While there’s daylight left we’ll take the Auster out and have a good look along the east coast for possible landing grounds not on the map. There are plenty in East Anglia. I’m not seriously hoping to see a stray aircraft but we can at least refresh our memories —and one never knows. We shan’t learn anything sitting here. From the air there’s just a chance we may see something that hooks up with what Algy learns in Bond Street. But we’ve done enough guessing. Let’s go.”
Half an hour later the police Auster was in the air, heading east.
Said Ginger, as his eyes roved the Essex marshes with their tidal inlets: “There’s an angle of this picture racket that hasn’t been mentioned. Insurance, could that be behind it? Could the crooks be waiting the usual reward to be offered for information leading to their recovery?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because in not one of the previous cases has the reward—one of twenty thousand pounds—been claimed; and that’s real money. That’s the chief reason why I feel sure the thefts are not being made for monetary gain. The pictures are not being sold. Some art enthusiast, a rich collector, is keeping them. He’s the man behind it all. I imagine he lives abroad. If I’m right, once these pictures leave the country they’ll disappear as completely as if they’d been dropped down an abandoned mine shaft.”
The Auster, with the sea in sight, had turned north, following the coast.
After a while Ginger said: “There’s enough flat open country here for a squadron of machines to get down.”
“More than a flat patch is required by our particular bird. There must be a road for a car to bring the pictures to the rendezvous. Even cut out of their frames and rolled they’d make a bulky parcel and weigh quite a bit. The landing ground must be well away from houses, even the odd farm, or someone might spot what was going on. We needn’t consider anything else so that narrows our search.”
The Auster cruised on up the Suffolk coast, always in sight of the sea. As Ginger remarked, between the coastal towns there were plenty of lonely stretches, particularly along and behind the foreshore where the ground was not cultivated, although pools of water and beds of reeds suggested most of this was marsh or swamp. There were occasional inlets, too, running inland from the sea, although it could be supposed that some of these would disappear at low tide. Most of the beaches were shingle, but there were stretches of sand on which, if the wind was right, a light plane could be put down.
Noticing that Ginger was staring down at something on his side Biggles asked: “What are you looking at?”
“I’m not sure. That creek just ahead of us—the one with the biggish house on the rising ground at the inner end. I was wondering what those white things on it could be. They’re not birds. Quite a lot have drifted against the rushes all along the near side.”
Biggles turned the machine to get a view. “Looks like paper, as if some litter-bugs have been having a picnic. Or it may be rubbish from the hamlet you can see a mile or so beyond the house. There may be a mill there which gets rid of its waste by dumping it into the brook that runs into the creek. I can see a small boat moored against a bit of a wharf near the big house. Probably use it for fishing. Wait a minute, though. This reminds me vaguely of something I’ve seen before somewhere. I’ll think of it in a minute. What’s the name of the village?”
Ginger consulted the map. “Frantham.”
“Never heard of it.”
The Auster cruised on as far as The Wash, and after glancing at his watch Biggles remarked: “We’d better be getting back. We haven’t learned much we didn’t know. There are plenty of places where a light plane could get down, certainly if the pilot knew his ground.”
The Auster returned to its base. Biggles and Ginger went back to the office to find Algy and Bertie waiting for them. “Well, how did you get on?” asked Biggles.
“Nothing to get excited about,” answered Algy. “The manager gave us the information you wanted. You were right about the invitations. A lot were sent out, some abroad, for the exhibition which opened last week. Everyone had to sign the visitors’ book. We took note of the foreigners and their addresses.”
“Were any of them resident near the east coast?”
“One, I think.” Algy opened his notebook and ran down the names. “Here we are. Baron Wolfner. He’s a celebrated Hungarian art critic. He always turns up at the big picture sales and exhibitions. He has a place in Suffolk called Frantham Old Hall.”
Biggles frowned. “That’s an odd coincidence—or is it? We had a second look at Frantham not two hours ago.” With a strange expression on his face he stared at Ginger. “The big house by the creek. That might well be the Hall. I told you that white stuff on the water reminded me of something. Now I’ve got it. It was a long time ago in the Lake District. They used the lakes for training seaplane pilots. I needn’t tell you it isn’t easy, in landing a marine aircraft, to judge the surface of dead calm water; so to make it easier for beginners it was the practice to strew sheets of newspaper on it.”
“Well?”
“Those white things we saw were square. It could have been newspaper. There was plenty of it, more than could have got there by accident. I wonder... have I been looking up the wrong tree? Naturally, I was thinking only of a landplane; but there’s no reason why the intruder, if there is one, shouldn’t use a marine job. One would have no difficulty in getting down on that creek. It’s a long shot, but I feel like having a closer look at that white stuff to confirm that it is paper, and if so find out how it got there. The place was too far off the beaten track for picnic parties.”
“I didn’t see a road,” put in Ginger.
“If there’s a house there must be a road of sorts leading to it.” Biggles turned back to Algy. “Did you get any other particulars of this Baron what’s-his-name?”
“Wolfner. None to speak of. He’s well known in art circles. Goes abroad for the winter. Comes back for the big summer sales. Runs a Rolls, so obviously he’s not short of cash.”
“Owning a Rolls doesn’t necessarily mean a man is all he should be. This Baron chap may not be the fellow we’re looking for but I’ve got a strong hunch that someone is using that creek, and from the markers put out I can think of no other reason than aviation. A boat wouldn’t need them. The fact that a picture expert lives practically on the bank may be coincidence. That’s something I’m going to settle right away. I wouldn’t exactly call it a clue, but it gives us a line, and we’ve nothing else to work on. The big question is, was that paper thrown on the water for last night—or tonight?”
Bertie spoke. “I’d say tonight. It can’t have been there long or it would have got waterlogged and either sunk or broken up.”
“That makes sense. Bring the car round, Ginger, while I’m having a look at the big scale map; and I shall have to tell the Air Commodore what we’re going to do in case he calls.”
“You won’t fly up?”
“Not likely. Nothing would happen on that creek if an aircraft was already there. It’s in full view of the house. We go by road. We should be there by nightfall.
Get cracking.”
* * *
It was nine o’clock when the police car stopped as close to the creek as it could get without using the drive that gave access to the Old Hall, which stood nearly a mile from the village of Frantham. The secondary road the car had taken had followed the hard ground well inside the foreshore, which here was a broad expanse of rough, uncultivated ground that ended at a narrow beach fringing the sea.
It was nearly dark, but the weather was fair, with no wind, and a moon nearly full provided conditions that were near perfect for night flying. There was no traffic on the road. The only light that showed was from a front window of the Hall. The only sound that broke a melancholy silence was the occasional cry of a bird.
“Now listen, everyone,” ordered Biggles. “This is the drill. We march on that light, the idea being to get as near as possible to the landing stage where the boat is moored. If I’ve guessed right, that boat, or the wharf, should come into the picture. When we get there all we can do is park ourselves close by and wait. No talking.”
They set off over what turned out to be marshy ground with frequent puddles. Except for the whirr of wings of a startled bird nothing happened, and in due course the surface of the creek lay as placid as a sheet of ice in front of them. The moon shining on the water made it impossible to see any floating paper, if there was any; but Biggles squelched through mud and water up to the knees to the limit of the reeds, stooped, and returned with a handful of dripping material. “Newspaper,” he breathed. “Let’s see what paper it is. That may give us an idea of where it came from. Make a tent of your jackets to shield the light while I have a look.”
This was done. Biggles, torch in hand, crept under the coats. “Okay,” he said, emerging. “That’s all I wanted to know. It’s a foreign paper; or rather, a magazine. Glossy, high-class stuff, that would more easily remain afloat than newsprint. I can’t read it but there are pictures of antiques. That didn’t come from the village. I’d bet it came from the Hall. Let’s go on.”
Moving slowly, stopping sometimes to listen, they followed the edge of the creek, waded the brook that ran in from the village and reached the side on which the big house stood. It was now fairly close, but no sound came from it. The single light still showed from a window facing the creek. Continuing, they came to a rough staging against which the boat was moored It was a dinghy. The oars were in the rowlocks as if ready for use. A little farther on a clump of osiers mingled with tall rushes. “This should suit us fine,’ decided Biggles softly. “If we sit here we can’t be seen. The question is now, does the boat go out to the plane, if one comes, or does the plane come right in? We can only wait and see.”
They squatted, and a damp, uncomfortable vigil began.
Time dawdled on. Nothing happened. Not a ripple ruffled the surface of the water beside them. The reflection of the moon moved slowly across it. Midges were out in force, and for obvious reasons there could be no smoking to keep them at a distance. Nobody spoke.
It was a little after one o’clock when a sound, the first they had heard, broke the sullen silence. It was the purr of a car and came from the direction of the drive beyond the house. It stopped. A car door was slammed. This was followed by voices as if a visitor was being greeted.
“That’s better,” murmured Biggles.
“Who would come at this time of night?” whispered Ginger.
“Somebody bringing the pictures—I hope.”
Another weary hour passed before the next development. It looked as if all the lights of the house had been switched on. Their reflections fell far across the creek, making a landmark, as Biggles observed, that could be seen from fifty miles away.
Nerves became taut as voices approached. Two figures appeared silhouetted against the artificial light, one tall and slim, the other short and stout. The thin man carried on his shoulder a burden that might have been a small roll of linoleum. Both stopped by the wharf, talking casually and confidently but in a language none of the watchers understood.
Cupping his hands round his lips Biggles breathed: “I shan’t wait for the plane. Algy, come with me. Bertie, Ginger, use your initiative according to what happens.” He rose up and strode to the wharf “We’re police officers,” he announced loudly. “I must ask you to show me the contents of that parcel.”
There were a few seconds of silence as if the men had been stunned by shock. Then things happened swiftly. The man with the parcel dropped it, spun round and ran. Biggles dashed after him. The man turned. A gun cracked, streaming sparks over Biggles’ shoulder. As the man turned to run again Biggles dived at his legs. They fell together, Biggles hanging on to the arm that held the gun. The scuffle did not last long. The man collapsed. Bertie, who apparently had struck him, dragged him clear. Breathing heavily Biggles picked himself up and recovered the gun the man had dropped.
“Put the bracelets on him,” he snapped, and turned to Algy and Ginger who were holding the short man, now protesting volubly in broken English. Biggles cut him off with: “All right. That’s enough. Are you Baron Wolfner?”
“Yes, and I’ll—”
“That’s all I want to know.” Handcuffs clicked. “You’d better keep quiet. Shooting at a police officer in this country is a serious matter.”
The Baron, who it could now be seen was an old man, sank to the ground as if his legs had given way.
“Take care of him Algy, while I have a look at this,” ordered Biggles. With his penknife he started cutting the cords that secured the parcel.
“They’re only pictures,” protested the Baron.
“I want to see if they’re the ones I’m looking for.”
“I imagine so,” answered the Baron in a resigned voice. “You’ll find out, anyhow. Is that all you want to know?”
“No. What time is the plane due here?”
The Baron sighed. “So you know about that, too. It should be here any moment now.”
Biggles looked hard at the two prisoners. “If either of you tries to give a warning to the pilot it will make things worse for you,” he said sternly. “Take them out of the way, Algy.”
Silence fell. Biggles lit a cigarette.
They had not long to wait. From the direction of the sea came the faint whine of air passing over the plane surfaces of a gliding aircraft. A sudden splash, and a line of turbulent water rushed towards the landing stage. A small flying boat, airscrew idling, took shape. A touch of the throttle brought it in close. The airscrew died with a hiss. A man jumped ashore and, having made the machine fast, walked forward.
“Are you alone?” inquired Biggles.
“Yes. Always—” The man broke off as if suddenly suspicious.
“Keep coming,” ordered Biggles. “We’re police officers. We were waiting for you. Don’t try anything stupid.”
The pilot looked over his shoulder to see Ginger standing between him and the aircraft. He shrugged as Ginger advanced and took a gun from his pocket. Again handcuffs clicked.
Biggles turned, as a new voice spoke, to see three figures, two in uniform, coming up. “Want any help?” asked Inspector Gaskin. “I thought I heard a shot.”
Biggles stared. “What are you doing here?”
“The Air Commodore asked me to come along in case you ran into trouble.”
“That was a kind thought, but we’ve managed to get everything buttoned up, thanks.”
“Nothing I can do, then?”
“Yes, you can take these three prisoners off our hands. To get to our car we shall have to walk across the marsh, the way we came. I want to have a look at this aircraft, and immobilize it. Where’s your car?”
“On the drive.”
“Then you might have a look inside the house on the way to it. I don’t know who or what you may find there. I haven’t seen these yet, either.” Stooping, Biggles unrolled the parcel and turned a light on the first of three canvases to reveal a painting of a boy in a black velvet suit. He retied the parcel. “You might take these with you, too,
” he requested.
“Ain’t you lucky,” growled Gaskin. “Fastest bit o’ work I ever heard of. You must have second sight— or something.”
Biggles smiled. “That’s right. But experience helped me to know, when I saw something, what I was looking at.”
“How?”
“Somebody left some newspaper scattered about where you’d never have seen it. It was as simple as that.”
“I don’t get it.”
Biggles grinned. “You’d have got your feet wet if you had. I’m going home to get my socks off. See you later.”
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MYSTERY ON THE MOOR
FROM a comparatively low altitude of fifteen hundred feet Police Pilot “Ginger” Hebblethwaite, flying solo in a Service Auster, surveyed methodically in turn the cloudless sky above and around him, the sparkling waters of the English Channel on his left and the undulating panorama of the county of Devonshire on the right. The season was high summer. The time, five a.m..
He was on a regular dawn patrol, not looking for anything in particular but prepared to investigate, within the province of his duties, such matters as might call for explanation. That was his purpose for being in the air. He did not expect to see anything unusual; should he do so, that in itself would be unusual on what was a regular routine task with no particular objective—in the manner of an ordinary constable on his beat. But there was always the possibility, for, as his headquarters at Scotland Yard knew only too well, air transportation was being used more and more by the highly organized modern criminal in an effort to outwit the law.
