Biggles Flies to Work

by W E Johns

  “No, thank goodness. It can’t be very nice to know there may be an escaped convict prowling round your house. They’re mostly desperate characters who are sent to Dartmoor. We live about ten miles to the east.”

  “Good. Then let’s go and have a look at it.”

  In a little more than two hours later the Air Police Proctor was cruising in clear weather over the broad expanse of Dartmoor.

  “Well, here we are,” said Biggles to Horace, who was sitting next to him. “There’s the prison, straight ahead. It’s an unmistakable landmark. Can you see your house?”

  Horace, who had been studying the ground intently, answered: “Yes. And the wood, in the far distance. It’s that dark blob on the horizon. You’ll have to turn a little. Are you going to land there?”

  “Of course.”

  Another ten minutes and the Proctor had glided down to make a rather bumpy landing on a typical piece of moorland landscape; undulating ground, predominantly purple with heather, the skyline broken here and there by the grey outcrops of rock, known as “tors”, which are a feature of Dartmoor.

  Biggles taxied close to the wooded dell and switched off. They all got out and walked up to it. Looking along the fringe Biggles remarked: “You were right about the place being a jungle, Horace. How do we get into it without tearing our clothes on this beastly gorse and blackthorn?”

  “This is where I saw the man go in,” Horace led the way to the spot. “About here.”

  Biggles pointed at a large slab of rock that stood on edge near his feet. “That’s an unnatural position for a stone to fall. It couldn’t have got like that by itself I wonder could it be a marker, a guide to an entrance. Let’s see.”

  “Be careful, sir,” warned Horace. “It slopes down steeply towards the middle.”

  Shielding his face with his arms Biggles thrust a passage through the outer scrub, presently to call: “Come on. There’s a path.”

  Ginger helped Horace through the tangle and then gazed in surprise at what was obviously a recently made passage down into the dell. That is to say twigs had been cut with a sharp instrument and thrust to one side, leaving a narrow corridor.

  “This is getting interesting,” observed Biggles as, followed by the others, he followed the track down a steep diagonal angle. At the bottom he stopped, peering ahead. “Hello! What’s all this?” he softly.

  “It’s the hermit’s hole, but it wasn’t like this last time I saw it,” asserted Horace, as they stood staring at a high mound of stone slabs. “It was flat. Someone has rebuilt it, and put a camouflaged waterproof sheet on top.”

  Biggles stepped forward. “Anyone there?” he called.

  There was no answer.

  They moved closer. Biggles removed some small pieces of rock that secured the waterproof sheet and drew it aside. Under it was another pile covered with a mackintosh. Under that was a brown blanket.

  “I said the man carried a parcel wrapped in a mackintosh,” reminded Horace.

  Biggles lifted the blanket. For a minute nobody spoke. Then Biggles murmured: “What are we to make of this?”

  Exposed to view was an old suitcase on which had been stacked a quantity of tins and jars, all of foodstuffs, biscuits, canned beef, and the like.

  “After all our trouble it’s nothing more than an arrangement for a camp or a picnic,” said Horace, in a voice heavy with disappointment.

  “That’s just what it looks like,” agreed Biggles, in a curious tone. “Let’s see what’s in the suitcase. Move the cans carefully so that we can replace them without showing signs of disturbance.”

  The cans were put on one side. Without moving it Biggles lifted the lid of the suitcase. Inside was a suit of clothes. On the clothes lay an automatic pistol.

  Said Biggles: “In this country when going on a picnic it isn’t usual to include a thing like that.” He picked up the gun. “Loaded, too,” he went on, pulling out the clip of bullets. “I’ll keep these in case someone gets hurt,” he concluded, putting the clip in his pocket.

  “What do you make of it?” queried Ginger.

  Biggles shook his head. “I don’t know, but I could make a guess.”

  Horace spoke: “It’s obvious someone intended to camp here, but why a suitcase with town clothes? And why fly the stuff here?”

  “You told us it was miles to the nearest road,” reminded Biggles. “Would you like to haul this stuff here on your back?”

  “It would be a bit of a load for a long hike,” admitted Horace.

  “Apart from that someone might see you and wonder what you were doing.”

  “Would it matter?”

  “It might.”

  “But who—”

  “You seem to have forgotten where you are,” interposed Biggles. “Well, now we’ve seen all there is to see we might as well go home. Let’s put this stuff back as we found it and get along to see if Algy has any news of the Auster responsible for this dump.”

  This was done, after which steps were retraced to the Proctor.

  “You won’t want to come back with us to London, Horace, so you might as well start walking home,” said Biggles. “Now listen carefully. Don’t mention this to a soul and on no account come back here.”

  “Why not?”

  “You might find yourself in danger.”

  Horace turned shrewd eyes on Biggles’ face. “You have an idea about this,” he challenged. “Having brought you here I think I have a right to know what it is.”

  Biggles hesitated. Then he said, seriously: “I may be quite wrong, but for your own good I had better tell you what I suspect. Anyway, as you say, it’s really your show. A moment ago I said we must remember where we are. Where are we?”

  “On Dartmoor.”

  “Right. And ten miles away there’s a prison for desperate criminals. Once in a while, usually in a fog, one makes a dash for liberty. With every road for miles patrolled within a few minutes it isn’t easy to get clean away; but if such a prisoner had a hide-out to make for, with food available, he could he low for days until the weather cleared and a friend arrived in a plane to pick him up. That would rule out having to use the roads; or, for that matter, the danger of trying to get overseas in a ship. A plane could take the escaped prisoner anywhere.”

  Enlightenment dawned in Horace’s eyes. “Of course,” he breathed. “I see it all, now.”

  “One day in the near future a man may come here. That’s why you mustn’t come near the place. That gun wasn’t put in the suitcase as an ornament. It gives us an idea of the character of the man for whom it was intended. If that man, or any man in the prison, learned that you were responsible for giving the plot away, there would be no more hunting moths on the moor for you; so keep your lips as tight as an oyster.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Take steps to see, should I happen to be right, that this plot doesn’t work. Now you trot along home. We’ll meet again, and I shan’t forget that you were directly responsible for upsetting this box of tricks.”

  They shook hands. Horace started for home. Biggles and Ginger returned to their headquarters.

  Back at the office it was found that Algy’s enquiries had produced information that went far to confirm Biggles’ suspicions. The Auster was privately owned by a Mr. Carlo Costino who held a pilot’s licence and housed the machine at a club in Somerset. He also had a criminal record. Part owner with a brother named Luigi of a shady night-club in Soho, the two men had been sent to prison for peddling dangerous drugs. Carlo had received a shorter sentence than his brother and was now free. It was significant that both had been sent to Dartmoor.

  Biggles laid the facts before his chief.

  The sequel occurred a month later much as he had predicted. In one of the sudden fogs for which Dartmoor is notorious Luigi Costino made a dash for liberty and reached the carefully prepared hide-out only to find police officers, who had been warned, waiting for him. Two days later, when the fog had cleared, Carlo landed with the obvious inte
ntion of picking up his brother. He was arrested on the spot.

  The affair turned out to be more serious than had been thought. Luigi, in his fury at finding the police waiting for him at the Foxholes, believing his brother had tricked him, came out with the whole story. Carlo, he alleged, had formed an “escape” club to which friends of criminals at Dartmoor were invited to subscribe, the idea being that arrangements would be made to provide a hide-out until the aircraft could arrive to pick up the fugitive and fly him abroad. On this evidence Carlo rejoined his brother in prison.

  This ingenious plot might well have succeeded had it not been for a boy who went about with his eyes open and knew how to use his common sense. For the part he had played Horace received a letter of thanks from the Chief Commissioner of Police. But what pleased him still more, as he told Ginger later, was that he had been lucky enough to make his first flight with Biggles.

  [Back to Contents]

  BIGGLES LEARNS SOMETHING

  “COME IN, Bigglesworth. I want you to look at this.” The speaker was Air Commodore Raymond.

  Biggles pulled a chair close to the desk on which his chief now placed an enlarged photograph with the query: “What do you make of that?”

  “Nothing remarkable,” answered Biggles after studying the photograph. “Looks like a high angle shot of a race crowd. I mean horse racing. You can see a bit of the track in the background.”

  “Quite right. Recognize anyone?”

  “No. Can’t say I do. Wait a minute though. That type with a beard looks like Plaudet, the French artist wanted by Paris for being mixed up in the Algerian trouble. We had a note about him from Interpol.”

  “That’s the man. Andre Plaudet. One of those irresponsible youngsters who for reasons best known to themselves have taken sides with their country’s enemies. He was involved in a café brawl and got away after shooting two gendarmes.”

  “You’re sure it’s him?”

  “Compare this official photo.” The Air Commodore produced a head and shoulders portrait.

  Biggles nodded. “It’s Plaudet all right. What’s he doing here?”

  “Never mind what he’s doing. What I want to know is, how did he get here? He didn’t come in through any regular port of entry, sea or air, or he’d have been spotted. He’s on the wanted list. Yet here he is at Ascot races, of all places.”

  “Who took this picture?”

  “The B.B.C.. They were televising. At such meetings they occasionally let the camera wander over the crowd. After the programme some person who wouldn’t give his name rang up to say he’d seen on the tele a criminal wanted by the French police. We got the B.B.C. to give us a private view of the film and the shot we have here is a ‘still’ from it. That’s all. Plaudet is in England. How did he get here?”

  “How long since this happened?”

  “A week.”

  “What have you done about it?”

  “The Yard has had plain-clothes men at every race meeting since, but he hasn’t shown up. He’s hiding.”

  “That doesn’t make sense to me. Would a man in hiding be such a fool as to walk about in a public place like the members’ enclosure at a race meeting? Right in front of a T.V. camera?”

  “He may not have known there was a T.V. camera there.”

  “True enough,” Biggles thought for a minute. “I take it you’ve sent for me because you think he may have got a pal to fly him across the Channel.”

  “It could happen. His pal could drop him off at some out-of-the-way place.”

  “I’ve seen no reports from radar about unidentified planes. But there, that doesn’t mean much now that we have half the Fleet Air Arm’s helicopters patrolling the coast on the lookout for capsized yachts, swimmers who have got out of their depths and cliff climbers stuck half-way up or find themselves cut off by the tide. But there’s more to this photo than that. To get into the members’ enclosure at a race meeting you need a badge, and badges for Ascot aren’t easy to get. How did Plaudet get his? It’s hardly likely he’d be a member. That costs money. It looks to me as if someone lent him a badge, in which case he must have a well-off friend over here. That still doesn’t answer the question that puzzles me. Why did he go to Ascot?”

  The Air Commodore smiled wanly. “You tell me.”

  Biggles’ eyes narrowed. “He must have had a reason. When we know what that was we shall have all the answers. When was this photo taken?”

  “June seventeenth.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Watch every race meeting. It’s reasonable to suppose that if Plaudet went to one he’ll go to others. There’s no need for you to worry about that. We’ll catch him. What I want you to do is examine every possibility of how he could have got into this country by air. If there’s a leak, a loophole, in our security precautions, it could be serious. It’ll have to be blocked.”

  Biggles got up. “Okay, sir. I’ll do some thinking about it. Have you told Paris Plaudet is here?”

  “Not yet. I don’t want them to think we’re getting careless.”

  “You won’t mind if I tell Marcel Brissac on the quiet? I’d like to get more details about Plaudet’s habits—gambling, drinking, and so on.”

  “As you wish.”

  Biggles went back to his own office where, having given his assistant pilots the gen, he put through a call to Police Headquarters in Paris. “Bonjour, Marcel, Biggles here,” he said, when he had made contact with his French equivalent. “Hold your hat. I’ve rung you to say Andre Plaudet is in England. He’s been seen but we can’t find him. To help us to know where to look I want you to tell me all you know about his personal habits—the sort of places where he drinks, gambles, amuses himself, anything that might give us a lead. Yes, I’m ready. Go ahead.”

  Biggles listened for some minutes, making notes. When he hung up there was an expression of frustration on his face. “All that has done is cut the ground from under my feet,” he told the others sadly. “Plaudet never gambles. He’s never been to a race meeting in his life. He doesn’t drink. He’s only interested in art and politics. He says that in a book he once wrote about himself.”

  “In that case what was he doing at Ascot?” asked Ginger.

  “I wouldn’t try to guess,” answered Biggles, slowly. “I’ll speak to Inspector Gaskin about it. I imagine it’ll be his sleuths who are looking for Plaudet.” He went down to the detective’s office. “About this fellow Plaudet,” he began. “I’ve just been told he was seen in the members’ enclosure at Ascot last week.”

  Gaskin scraped out the bowl of his pipe. “He hasn’t been to a race meeting since; I’ll swear to that.”

  “What do you make of it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I wonder could it be anything peculiar to Ascot. When’s the next meeting there?”

  “Ascot Heath. Two days. July fifteenth and sixteenth. Don’t worry. If he turns up he’ll find us waiting for him. There’s a big meeting at Newmarket before that. We shall be covering all the meetings so you might as well forget about it. He’s bound to show up some time.”

  “Paris says he doesn’t go to race meetings.”

  “Then why did he go to Ascot? Play football, cricket, or something? Don’t give me that. He went to Ascot because the gee-gees were performing there. Leave him to me. When we’ve nabbed him he can tell us how he got here.”

  Biggles nodded. “That suits me. I’ve plenty to get on with.” He went out.

  Events did not line up with Gaskin’s confident prediction. Nothing was seen of the elusive Frenchman. The detective had men posted at the entrances to every race meeting but he did not appear.

  “Beats me,” he told Biggles apologetically. “Why should he go to one race meeting and never to another? I’m beginning to wonder if I’m wasting my time. He hasn’t left the country.”

  “As far as you know.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “He may have got out the same way as he got in. Pla
udet was at Ascot on June 17. Why? There’s a reason for everything, and he must have had one. I’ve never been to a race meeting and I have a feeling it’s time I saw one. Where are they racing tomorrow?”

  “Newmarket. First day of the meeting.”

  “Are you going?”

  “I shall have a look round.”

  “So shall I. It’s not so much that I’m concerned with Plaudet. If people are getting in and out of the country as they like it can only be by air, and unless I stop it the Air Police will presently be taking a rap.”

  “I suppose you’ll fly up?”

  “Fly?” Biggles looked hard at the Inspector’s face. “Is there some place I can land?”

  “There’s all the room in the world at most race courses. You’re behind the times, me lad. Quite a few people fly to race meetings these days, owners, trainers, and even jockeys when they have two engagements some distance apart on the same day. Why not? The middle of the average race course is as big as a small airfield. I’ve seen as many as a dozen planes parked on a race course.”

  Biggles was looking at the Inspector with an extraordinary expression on his face. “The deuce you have. This is news to me. Of course, being all internal civil flying I wouldn’t hear about it. I seem to be learning something. You’re right; I shall certainly fly to Newmarket tomorrow.”

  “You reckon to see Plaudet there?”

  “No. I think that’s most unlikely. But I may see someone just as interesting. See you tomorrow. You’ll find me where the planes, if any, are being parked.”

  “Better ring up the Clerk of the Course to make sure it’s okay for you to land.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “You can come with me to Newmarket races tomorrow,” Biggles told Ginger, back in his office.

  “What’s on your mind? You look as if you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.”

  “You’re right on the beam,” returned Biggles. “I’ve been thinking, how wrong can you be? In practically every illegal flying operation we’ve uncovered, the culprit, as one would expect, has made his landings in some quiet country field; wherefore one assumes that to be normal behaviour. Be funny, wouldn’t it, if a crook was smart enough to realize that and go to the other extreme by landing in the middle of a crowd of ten thousand people.”