by W E Johns
“Are you kidding?”
“I may be wrong. Tomorrow we may know.”
* * *
The following day, a little before noon. Biggles, with Ginger beside him, landed the Air Police Auster aircraft on Newmarket Heath, close to two planes that were already parked there. Both were light transports carrying British registrations. A man in plain clothes, but wearing an arm band to show he was an official, was standing near, apparently to see that the machines were not interfered with. Biggles went up to him and showed his police pass as he had arranged with the Clerk of the Course. “Tell me,” he said. “Do you do this job regularly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You must know most of the planes that regularly visit race meetings.”
“Most of ‘em, sir, but not all. Not many gentlemen own their own planes. They hire them, with a pilot, from the charter companies. They come all sizes from helicopters to twin-engined cabin machines.”
“What about these two?”
“One brought Sir Francis Ringle, the whisky magnate. He lives up north. He’s got a horse running today. He once told me he gets here in under half an hour, whereas by road would take him three hours. The other belongs to Captain Woodside, the Irish trainer. He’s got two horses engaged.”
“Are you expecting anyone else?”
“I never know exactly who’s coming. I get a list from the office of the gentlemen who are expected, but sometimes one or two more turn up. Baron du Fornier often pops over from France. They say he owns some useful horses. This looks like him coming now.” A grey-painted helicopter was circling, losing height.
While waiting for it to land Ginger said: “Here’s Gaskin coming over,” and the detective joined them just as the aircraft touched down. It carried French registration letters.
“Anything doing?” inquired Inspector Gaskin.
“Not so far, but I fancy we’re on the right track at last,” answered Biggles. “ If my guess is right Plaudet’s visit to Ascot had nothing to do with horses. He simply used the course as a landing ground, and the television camera just happened to catch him as he walked through the enclosure on his way out. If that’s right, someone is operating a nice little racket running a cross-Channel shuttle service for crooks.”
“Who’s this just landed?”
“According to the parking attendant it’s Baron du Fornier, a race-horse owner.”
A slow smile spread over Gaskin’s face as a man stepped down from the aircraft. Immaculately dressed, binoculars slung over a shoulder, a member’s badge in his buttonhole, and a newspaper in his hand, he looked what he claimed to be as he strode briskly towards the grandstand.
“Baron my foot,” growled Gaskin. “That’s an old customer of ours known in the jewel trade as Sharky the Card. We wondered where he’d got to. He always was a gambler. Imagine the nerve of it. Lives in France and comes over here for a day’s racing. I’ll take care of him. You carry on.” He walked away behind the self-promoted Baron.
Biggles looked at the aircraft. The outline of the pilot could just be made out, low in his seat. He appeared to be reading a book.
“What’s he doing, staying here?” said Ginger, softly.
“He must be waiting for somebody, or something. Stand fast while I try to get a dekko at his face.” Biggles strolled away round the tail of the machine. He was soon back.
“Know him?” queried Ginger.
“We know him all right,” replied Biggles, grimly. “It’s our old friend Laxter. You remember the ex-R.A.F. type who at one time was acting as second pilot for von Stalhein.”
“Do you think von Stalhein is behind this racket?”
“No. The money would be chicken-feed to him.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Watch for the next move.”
“You’re not going to pick him up?”
“No. Assuming he came from France all we have against him is making a landing outside a Customs airport. He’d get away with a fine. I’d rather take a chance to pick up some bigger game. I shan’t have to wait long. Laxter won’t stay here all night. He’ll be anxious to get back to where he came from.” Biggles went on tersely, “By thunder! Here’s the answer coming now.”
“Who is it?”
“Plaudet. The man we’ve been looking for all along. Apparently he’s decided to go back to France.”
“You’ll nab him?”
“No. It’d save us a lot of trouble, extradition and so on, if he was picked up over the other side by the French police. You nip into Newmarket. Go to the police station. Call the Air Commodore and ask him to warn Marcel Brissac that Plaudet is on board a Sud-Ouest Farfadet Gyroplane, registration F-WBKL; apparently on his way to France. I’m following him in an Auster. I’ll radio the course as soon as I have it and shall keep in touch until I see Marcel take over. Got it?”
“Right.”
“Wait till we’re sure Plaudet is going.”
This was never in doubt. The Frenchman walked directly to the aircraft. Laxter, seeing him coming, put down his book and gave him a hand in. The starter whirred.
“Okay. Off you go,” Biggles told Ginger and, hurried towards his own machine.
The rest can be imagined. It all worked out as planned. Biggles took off behind the helicopter and, keeping well behind and above, shadowed it, an easy matter since the summer sky was clear of cloud. It flew a straight course, so that by the time the Channel was reached Biggles had plotted the track and transmitted the information by radio to Police Headquarters in Paris.
The rest was routine. Nearing the long sandy coastline of northern France a Morane dropped out of the sky to line up with the Auster, and Marcel Brissac’s voice came cheerfully through the earphones to say he would now take over.
Biggles turned round and flew home, satisfied with the result of his day’s work but not entirely happy that such a breach of air traffic regulations could have occurred without being suspected. It had obviously been going on for some time. As he told his chief later: “The trouble is, there are so many choppers cruising up and down the Channel these days that we can’t watch all of ‘em.”
“Don’t let it worry you,” consoled the Air Commodore. “Gaskin has collected Sharky. Marcel has come through to say Plaudet and Laxter were picked up on a field in Normandy, so you shouldn’t again be troubled by that particular racket.”
“But it shows what can happen,” grumbled Biggles.
“Of course. We always knew that. That’s why we’re here,” concluded the Air Commodore, smiling.
[Back to Contents]
DANGEROUS FREIGHT
“I SEE Sammy Marsden has gone where the good pilots go. Bad luck.” Biggles, with the morning paper spread on his desk in the Air Police Operations Room, spoke without looking up. “I don’t think you knew him. I met him first in the war, when he commanded a bomber squadron. Recently he became chief pilot to General Air Transportation, a private concern based on Gatwick.”
“What happened?” Ginger asked the question.
“No details yet. The story is only in the stop press. Apparently the machine crashed in the South of France in the early hours of this morning.”
“What does this company do?”
“Charter work. Freight only. Specialized in livestock, although between-times I believe they made a good thing by importing out-of-season fruit and vegetables from West Africa. Sammy’s crew, second pilot and radio operator, went West with him.”
“On this occasion he seems to have been carrying a different sort of cargo,” observed Ginger, looking over Biggles’ shoulder.
“So I see. Gold. Forty thousand pounds’ worth if this report is correct. I hate the stuff. Trouble is never far away from it. But it makes news. Hence this splash in the stop-press column.”
“Did you know the company handled gold?”
“No. When I saw Sammy in the Aero Club a few weeks back he told me they were doing quite nicely with general merchandise. This is their t
hird crash in six months, to say nothing of a machine presumed to have gone down in the Mediterranean. If it goes on they’ll be out of business.”
“What machines do they use?”
“Dakotas.”
“War-time stuff. They must be getting a bit wing-weary.”
“They must still be serviceable or they’d be grounded. Don’t forget the Dakota was one of the best general-purpose jobs mass-produced in the war. It was dogsbody for everybody and usually got through. Slow by modern standards, but robust, and that’s what counts in heavy haulage.”
“Did you know this company was carrying gold?”
“No. Why should I? For security reasons they wouldn’t shout about it.”
“Who runs this outfit?”
“A chap named Norman Bales. I knew him years ago. He still wears the old R.F.C. tie. With the company to run I imagine he now does most of his flying in the office, in a chair. He has a partner. I don’t know his name. I think I’ll have a word with Bales. You might look up his number and get the switchboard to put me through. I’d like the details, if only for our records.”
“Do you think there might be dirty work behind this?”
“I’m always suspicious when gold is in the offing.”
Ginger put through the call. Biggles took it. A long conversation followed in which he did most of the listening. Eventually he hung up, to look at Ginger with serious, thoughtful eyes. “That was a man named Langdon, Bales’ partner, I was talking to. Bales has flown down to the scene of the crash in his private Auster. The Dakota hit the ground in the Camargue about ten miles south of Arles. It was dead on course at the time. From the wreckage it must have flown straight into the ground.”
“Is there anything extraordinary about that?”
“Very extraordinary, I’d say. You’ve seen the Camargue, that fantastic delta of the Rhone. Umpteen miles of nothing, as flat as a pancake and nowhere more than seven feet above sea level. Sand, rough grass and shallow lagoons where the pink flamingos breed. Why should a pilot of Sammy’s experience scatter his aircraft all over the landscape in a place where a pupil on his first sole should be able to get down even in the dark? Had he hit one of the high peaks of the Cevennes, farther north, it would have been understandable, if improbable.”
“There’s such a thing as engine failure.”
“Sammy would have got down with both engines stone dead.”
“Structural failure.”
“It would have to be something severe, and in that case the machine would have gone straight in like a brick. From the mess it must have struck almost on even keel. The engines were thrown clear on impact which no doubt explains why there was no fire. It’ll be interesting to know if the gold is all right. Langdon hadn’t heard.”
“Could Sammy have fainted—had a heart attack or something?”
“It’d be an astonishing coincidence if both pilots passed out at the same time,” returned Biggles cynically.
“I’d forgotten Sammy had a second pilot beside him. What are you going to do? Wait for Bales to come back?”
“No. He might not be back for two or three days, by which time the crash will have been tidied up. I’ll fly down and have a word with him on the spot. You can come if you like. Algy can take over here when he comes in.”
Ginger smiled. “A little fresh air and sunshine wouldn’t do me any harm.”
“Right. Then as we shall be operating over his territory you’d better call Paris on the private line and tell Marcel Brissac what we’re doing. Say we haven’t time to call at the Bureau in Paris but we’d be obliged if he’d notify airfields on our route to save possible questioning. That should give us a clear road.”
“Okay. I’ll do that.”
A little more than three hours later the Air Police Auster was circling the scene of the crash. There had been no difficulty in finding it, for it lay scattered over two or three acres of open ground on a lonely waste that faded into distant horizons. A single road, obviously second class, ran north and south, linking Arles with the sea. There was only one house in sight, a farm, isolated and dilapidated, at the end of a short accommodation track, perhaps three hundred yards from the wreckage. Two white horses, of the Arab strain left behind by the Saracens centuries earlier, occupied a paddock. For the rest, a small herd of the half-wild cattle of the region grazed on parched grass. Occasional pools of water glittered under the sun.
Two cars stood close against the remains of the aircraft. Apart from police uniforms there were only two or three spectators.
Biggles landed, switched off and joined them. “Is Mr. Bales here?” he asked.
“I’m Bales,” said an elderly, well-dressed man.
Biggles smiled. “You’ve put on a bit of weight since I last saw you. Remember me? Bigglesworth of 266. I’m now at Scotland Yard, Air Section.”
Recognition dawned in Bales’ eyes. “I thought I knew your face.”
“I’ve run down to see if I can be of any assistance.”
“How did you know about this?”
“The morning paper. Your partner told me you were here.”
“I landed at Arles. The police brought me along.”
“What a mess. I gather Marsden was carrying a load of gold. I trust it’s all right.”
“I wish it was.”
Biggles’ expression changed abruptly. “You mean —you haven’t found it?”
“It isn’t here.”
Biggles drew a deep breath. “So that’s it. Mind if I ask you one or two questions?”
“Go ahead.”
“How many people knew about this shipment of gold?”
“Not more than was absolutely necessary.”
“Then how did the newspapers know about it?”
Bales shrugged. “How do they get to know about these things? Possibly through the French police. They had to be told as soon as we knew the machine was down on their territory.”
“Hm. Who found the crash?”
“The man who lives at the farm. There he is, standing over there. He didn’t see it happen but he heard it. He ran out. Having no phone he saddled a horse and rode to Arles to tell the police. They came, and finding the logbook, phoned us.”
“This is your third crack-up in six months. Were they all in Southern France?”
“No. One was in Morocco. The other was not far from here.”
“What were these machines carrying?”
“Gold. The machine we think went down in the Mediterranean was also carrying gold.”
“Did you lose the gold every time?”
“No. The machine that crashed near here was burnt out. The gold melted and ran under one of the engines. We recovered most of it.”
“Do you often carry gold?”
“Not very often.”
“These machines you lost. Were the crews killed?”
“Every time. There has never been a survivor to tell us what happened.”
“Have you ever lost a machine carrying ordinary merchandise?”
“Never.”
“Doesn’t that strike you as odd?”
“It strikes me as being thundering bad luck. After this I’m afraid the insurance people will refuse to cover us.”
“You could hardly blame them,” said Biggles dryly. “Where does this gold start from? I mean, where do your pilots pick it up?”
“Accra, on the Gold Coast—or I should now say Ghana. It’s shipped by a firm of agents there to the Bank of England.”
“So the people who work in the office of the agents would know about the shipment.”
“I suppose they’d have to.”
Biggles looked round the widely scattered wreckage. “Is it known what time this happened?”
“According to the farmer just after four o’clock.”
“Did Marsden make a signal saying he was in trouble?”
“None was picked up.”
“Have you seen the bodies?”
“I had to, for identificatio
n. That’s why I flew down. They’ve been taken to Arles.”
“Did the police doctor find any wounds or injuries not consistent with the crash?”
“No.” Bales looked puzzled. “That’s a queer question. What else would you expect to find?”
“I don’t know. Gunshot wounds perhaps.” Seeing Bales’ look of incredulity Biggles went on: “It strikes me as remarkable that a man of Marsden’s experience could do this in flat, open country—if he was fully conscious. Engine trouble wouldn’t worry him. Admittedly, structural failure of the air-frame might do it, if it was bad enough to cause the machine to break up.”
“The aircraft was all right when it left England and it would be checked at Accra before it started back.”
“By whom?”
“Our own mechanics. We have a staff in Accra, all ex-R.A.F. men, efficient and trustworthy. Does this imply you suspect foul play?”
Biggles did not answer the question. “I can think of only one alternative to structural failure. Marsden was not conscious, or not fully conscious, when he did this.”
“He had a second pilot, fully qualified, beside him. If Marsden was behaving strangely he’d notice it and take over.”
“Provided he wasn’t in the same state as Marsden.”
“Oh, come now, Bigglesworth,” protested Bales. “You’re not asking me to believe that both pilots could be taken ill at the same time.”
“Not unless it had been organized,” returned Biggles evenly. “I’m not asking you to believe anything. I’m simply trying to find a reason to account for what has happened. Had the gold not disappeared it would be a different matter. But you say it isn’t here. Obviously, someone has taken it, and ruling out the farmer who found the crash that implies several things.”
“Why rule out the farmer?”
“He couldn’t have known the cases on board contained gold; and had he discovered that, and decided to pinch it, he wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to fetch the police. But somebody knew there was gold in this aircraft; someone who knew the machine was going to crash; and, moreover, had a pretty good idea of where it was most likely to occur. That’s why your gold isn’t here now.”
