by W E Johns
So far he had seen nothing more exciting than a rubber raft adrift off Sidmouth, presumably having been lost by a careless bather. There was no one on it but he had signalled its position to base for the guidance of the local police.
He was content to be where he was, doing what he was. From horizon to horizon the heavens were clear eggshell blue; the atmosphere through which the Auster pushed its way, practically flying itself, was as soft as milk, and the countryside looked quiet and very beautiful under the rising sun. It was the sort of day when a pilot flying alone permits himself from time to time to hum a snatch of song. Ginger did just that.
Ahead of the Auster, moving slowly towards him, as it seemed, now lay the broad expanse of Dartmoor, the highest parts bristling with those granite teeth called tors, the lower parts dotted with small areas of woodland to form a pleasant contrast to the open moor. A tenuous mist, fast being devoured by the rising sun, still clung to occasional pools and bogs. This was the western extremity of his beat, so leaving the sea behind him he began a wide turn to the north before heading for home. This brought him over the practically uninhabited heart of the moor.
It may have been for this reason that his eyes came to rest on an isolated group of buildings sheltered on the north side by a straggling wood of what looked like ancient oaks. Thinking they made a useful landmark, and wondering who would choose to live in such a remote spot, the tune he was humming died on his lips as his questing eyes picked up and focused on an object, or a part of one, that seemed singularly out of place. Half hidden by the trees stood an aircraft. He made it out to be an Auster like his own. He could not see anyone near it, but the branches of the trees and the shadows they cast prevented him from getting a clear view. For the same reason he was unable to make out the registration letters.
Without altering course he surveyed its immediate surroundings. Close to the trees was a house of fair size, long and low, with a yard and outbuildings. A red-painted tractor, a conspicuous spot of colour, stood on a plot of cultivated ground to suggest the place was a farm. A track wandered across the moor between the house and a distant road.
Ginger consulted the map that lay on his knees and looked again at the ground. The plane was still in the same place although he could see less of it, his own position having moved. A little puzzled, he flew on. What was the machine doing there? On the other hand, there was no reason why it shouldn’t be there. A man living in such an out-of-the-way establishment was the very person to take advantage of private air transport, he pondered.
It was not until the farm was well behind his tail that the thought occurred to him that the pilot might be in trouble, resulting in a forced landing. If so he had probably gone to the house. If it was on the telephone all would be well; he would be able to ‘phone for help. If not, he would have to go some distance to find one.
Deciding he had treated the matter too casually Ginger turned, and dropping off five hundred feet of height retraced his course. What he was looking at now was the ground, trying to establish the nature of it as a safe spot on which an aircraft might land. There was not a lot of room, for much of the surface was rough, but he formed the opinion that an experienced pilot should have no difficulty in putting down a light plane. He looked in vain for a marked runway. He could see no wheel tracks. There was no white circle, no windstocking, nothing to suggest the place was a regular landing ground. The only smoke to indicate the direction of the breeze was rising from the farm chimney. This supported the idea of a forced landing.
Ginger resolved to fly low enough to get the registration letters so that on arrival home he would be able to check the ownership of the machine. At least, that was his intention before he observed, with surprise, that the aircraft was no longer there. He couldn’t see it anywhere. Had it taken off? He scanned the air expecting to see it airborne; but he failed to find it. What had become of it? Where could it have gone?
For the first time a little suspicious he pinpointed the spot on his map, shot a couple of oblique photographs with his pistol-grip camera and made the best of his way home.
* * *
He found Biggles alone in the Operations Room when, rather more than an hour later, he walked in with a still-damp photograph in his hand.
“Well?” queried Biggles casually without looking up. “See anything?”
“I saw an aircraft.”
“They’re getting quite common,” returned Biggles with gentle sarcasm.
“Not where I saw this one.”
“And where was that?” Biggles put down his pen.
“On Dartmoor,” answered Ginger, and went on narrate the circumstances.
Biggles sat back, looking at him. “Seems a bit odd,” he admitted. “Pity you didn’t get the registration when you first spotted it.”
“I’ve told you why I couldn’t, and that may have been the reason why the machine was parked under the trees. The pilot may have dodged under them when he heard me coming.”
“Didn’t it occur to you to land to find out exactly what was going on?”
“Not immediately. There was no landing track and there seemed no point in risking cracking my undercart for no purpose. I’d no real excuse for interfering, anyway. When I got back the machine had gone. Someone must have moved it pretty smartly.”
“Where exactly is this place?”
“About ten miles south of Okehampton. The nearest main road I made out to be the A386 from Okehampton to Tavistock. That would be roughly five miles from the farm. This is the spot.” Ginger laid his photograph on Biggles’ blotter.
“Do you want me to follow it up?” he asked, as Biggles studied the picture.
“I was just wondering what you could do,” answered Biggles, reaching for a cigarette. “Is this place by any chance near the prison?”
“No, that’s miles away to the south. Should I have another look round tomorrow at the same time?”
“If you make a practice of flying low over the farm, and there should be anything improper going on, the people there will take fright and suspend operations.”
“I might land and make direct inquiries at the house. Whatever is going on the people there must know about it.”
“In which case questions would get you nowhere. As things are, the farmer, or whoever hves there, will have no cause to worry merely because you flew over this morning.”
“Then how do we get the answer?”
“It might be better to tackle the job from ground level. Hikers on the moor are not uncommon.” Biggles had picked up his magnifying glass.
“What are you looking at?”
“Those two animals in the yard, near the big barn.”
“I made them out to be pigs—a dark-skinned breed.”
“Could be. They look to me more like dogs. Incidentally, that barn is big enough to house a small aircraft. From what you tell me it must have disappeared pretty quickly this morning as soon as you turned your tail to it.”
“I see what you mean. Like me to go down and have a look?”
“That would settle the matter one way or the other. If there’s nothing wrong the farmer’s wife should ask you in for a cup of tea. If she’s short with you—well, you’d better have a closer look. It’s a nice day for a stroll on the moor. Bertie should be in any moment now. Get him to run you down in his Jag. Park it handy and give your legs some exercise.”
“It’ll be late by the time we get there.”
“So much the better. After dark it’ll be easier to pretend you’ve lost your way. Take care you don’t. On Dartmoor that can be serious. Take a compass— and don’t forget those dogs. They might be vicious.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?”
“Not much for the time being. Ascertain if an aircraft is being kept at the farm and if so get its registration. That’ll tell us who it belongs to and so perhaps give us a line on what it’s doing there. That should be enough to go on with. I can’t recall an application from a private owner to operate from Dart
moor.”
“ It might have been a member of a club making a call.”
“Possibly. After all, if a fellow holds a licence there’s nothing to prevent him landing on a friend’s property as long as it doesn’t interfere with other people—provided it hasn’t been overseas, in which case it must land at an authorized Customs aerodrome. At this juncture there’s no need to ask questions at the house unless it’s unavoidable.”
Ginger nodded. “We shan’t be able to see much in the dark.”
“Use your nose. If there’s a plane anywhere near you should be able to smell it.”
“Okay. It shouldn’t take long to get this sorted out,” concluded Ginger.
* * *
Half an hour later he and Sergeant-Pilot Bertie Lissie were on their way to Devon, the immediate objective being Highway A386, which a study of the map had confirmed was the nearest convenient point to the farm, on a main road, which they would be able to reach in the car. They had considered taking lodgings at Okehampton, but as this would mean a much longer walk to the farm, they decided against it unless events should make it necessary.
With a stop for lunch and a fill-up with oil and petrol it was a little after seven o’clock when they passed through Okehampton and presently took the left fork on to A386. The sun was getting low but they reckoned they still had about two hours of day-light left. Not that this was of vital importance as after dark they would have the assistance of a moon three-quarters full; or so they had reason to expect, although the weather had deteriorated somewhat, a slight swing of the wind to the north bringing in a. lot of high cloud and putting a chill in the air. But so far there was no sign of rain.
“The way to the farm should be along here on the left,” remarked Ginger. “It can’t be far.”
This soon proved to be correct, and Bertie brought the car to a stop a little beyond the entrance to a track—it could hardly be called a road—which meandered across an undulating vista of moorland, mostly open but broken here and there by a few stunted trees and outcrops of grey rock. “You’re sure this is the right one, dear boy?” queried Bertie.
“No, I’m not sure, but I think it must be,” answered Ginger. “I saw only one track.”
“Let’s try it,” said Bertie cheerfully, moving onto the verge. “The car should be all right here,” he went on, passing out two haversacks and walking sticks before locking the doors. “How far did you say we shall have to pad the hoof?”
“About five miles. We ought to do it in an hour.”
They set off at a brisk pace, the sooner to get the business finished. No precautions were taken against being seen, as they saw no reason for this and would have found it difficult anyway. As far as they could see they had the moor to themselves. A pair of buzzards wheeled high overhead.
“A car must use this track quite often,” observed Bertie, his eyes on a tangle of tyre marks that furrowed the sandy surface.
“People living at the place I saw could hardly manage without a car, for shopping, and that sort of thing.”
“We could have brought mine across.”
“That wasn’t the idea. What excuse could we have made for going to the farm? We’re hikers who have lost our way—remember? That’s why, for the look of it, we’re carrying haversacks which I trust we shan’t need.”
They trudged on. Ginger from time to time casting an anxious eye on the sky. “This was supposed to be a fine weather job but I wouldn’t bet on it,” he remarked.
Half an hour later came the first spots of rain, presently to develop into what is known locally as a Dartmoor drizzle, which reduced visibility to something less than a hundred yards. However, the track remained plain to see and there was no talk of turning back. They were obviously going to get wet whatever they did. They merely increased their pace. They saw nobody, heard nothing. The terrain became more undulating but with wide flat areas between the rises and falls.
In due course they reached a point where, on level ground, the track ran adjacent to a stand of gnarled, wind-distorted oaks, which Ginger felt sure could only be those under which he had seen the aircraft on his dawn patrol. These were explored but nothing of interest found. Certainly there was no plane there now. By the time they had done this darkness was falling, largely as a result of the weather, and what had promised earlier to be a bright prospect had become such a damp, dismal business that Ginger was beginning to wish he hadn’t noticed the plane.
“We’ll have a look at the farm now we’re here,” he said quietly as they returned to the track. “If we encounter anyone we’ll ask for directions to the nearest main road.”
They went on in silence. A big barn loomed in the murk. Rounding the end of it they found themselves overlooking the yard. On the far side the lighted windows of the house glowed mistily. They stopped as sounds reached their ears: the voices of several men in the house talking loudly and cheerfully.
“Must be having a party,” conjectured Bertie.
“If there’s a plane here it can only be in the barn,” asserted Ginger. “Let’s have a look—if we can get in.”
They proceeded, cautiously now, to the wide double doors. Surprisingly, Ginger thought, they were not locked. He opened one and they stepped inside, his torch cutting a wedge of light that moved slowly round the interior. There was no aircraft. At first glance there was nothing there except some farm implements thrown down at one end.
Ginger sniffed. “I smell doped fabric,” he breathed. “There has been a plane in here and not so long ago. Hello, what’s this?” he went on. On the wall was a low shelf on which lay an assortment of tools, with them a small square of paper. He picked it up. I It was a photograph, a rough print of a man standing beside an Auster aircraft. Before he could examine it closely, from outside, fast approaching, came a clamour of ferocious snarls and growls. Instinctively he switched off his torch and put the photo in his pocket as Bertie, just in time, pulled the door shut between them and the dogs which, frustrated, set up a furious barking.
“That’s torn it,” said Bertie lugubriously.
They had not long to wait for the next development. An authoritative voice could be heard approaching, calling off the dogs. Reaching the door it said: “Come on out.”
“What about the dogs?” returned Ginger. The animals were still growling deep in their throats.
“They’re all right.”
Bertie and Ginger stepped out, dazzled by the beam of a torch in their eyes which prevented them from seeing the man behind it.
“What’s the game?” inquired the voice curtly.
“We were looking for shelter,” explained Bertie meekly. “The barn seemed just the job. Hope you don’t mind.”
The light was switched off as the man who held it was joined by three others advancing from the house, apparently curious to know what was going on. Their faces appeared curiously white until it could be observed that they were more or less covered by bandages.
“If we can’t stay here perhaps you’d be kind enough to direct us to the nearest main road,” said Ginger.
“Which way did you come?”
“We were on the moor when the rain started. Coming to a track we followed it.”
There was a pause during which the speaker stepped away a short distance to hold a brief conversation, in a low voice, with his companions. He came back. “Why aren’t you more careful?” he complained. “People like you are a nuisance. Well, you can’t stay here. Follow back the track you came on and it’ll take you to the road.”
“Thanks,” acknowledged Bertie. As an afterthought he added: “It’ll be as black as pitch presently. I wonder if you have an old torch you could sell us, or lend us?”
The man hesitated. “All right. You can have this one. Don’t come back or I won’t be responsible for the dogs.”
“Thanks again,” murmured Bertie, taking the torch. “We’ll be on our way.”
That was all. Nothing more was said. In a minute Bertie and Ginger were on their way back t
o the car. For some time neither spoke. Then, well clear of the farm. Ginger said: “What do you make of that? It strikes me there’s something queer about it. Why do they need guard dogs? Why were they so anxious to get us off the premises when any decent farmer would have let us stay? And what were those chaps doing with bandages on their faces?”
“One had his hands bandaged, too,” returned Bertie. “What did you pick up off that shelf?”
“A snapshot of a man standing by an Auster. That should tell us something, if not all we want to know. What was the idea of asking for a torch when we had one?”
“Thinking on the same lines as you, old boy, I thought that chap’s fingerprints might be instructive. One way and another we haven’t done so badly.”
They strode on and without difficulty reached the car.
Said Bertie: “Do we sleep somewhere on the way or do we push right on for home?”
“I’m all for sleeping in my own bed,” decided Ginger. “Let’s press on. There shouldn’t be much traffic on the road at this hour so we should be home time to snatch a few hours’ sleep. We needn’t wake Biggles. We’ll leave the photo and the torch on the table with a note giving him the gen so that it won’t necessary for him to wake us too early.” This worked out as planned.
* * *
When Ginger and Bertie got out of bed at ten o’clock the next morning, not surprisingly having overslept, it was to find that Biggles had gone early to the office at Scotland Yard taking the “exhibits” with him. There, an hour later, they joined him. “Why didn’t you wake us?” protested Ginger.
Biggles smiled. “No hurry. You gave me plenty to go on with. I’ve been busy—but I’ll tell you about that presently. First, what happened on Dartmoor?”
Ginger and Bertie told the story between them. “Have you made anything of it?” asked Ginger at the finish.
“Quite a lot. I was only waiting for your report ore going to the Air Commodore for instructions.”
