Biggles Investigates

by W E Johns

  ‘Suits me. As there doesn’t appear to be a road to the field I suppose we shall have to leave the car here.’

  ‘I wonder if you’d mind putting it at my disposal for a few minutes? I’d like your driver to run my assistant into Upgates to make some inquiries at the post office which may help to tie things up. It can be done in the time we shall be away.’

  ‘Certainly.’

  Biggles turned to Bertie. ‘Go to the post office — you may have to find the postman — and ask if any letters bearing foreign stamps have been delivered to Fennels farm recently.’

  ‘I’ll do that.’

  The inspector looked at Biggles curiously but made no comment.

  After the car had gone Biggles said: ‘This way, Inspector. I’ll show you the evidence that supports my theory.’

  ‘What is your theory?’

  ‘You’ll grasp it more easily when you’ve had a look at things.’

  They walked briskly to the aircraft. Nothing was said on the way. Reaching it Biggles said: ‘To start with, you can take it from me as an experienced pilot that only one thing could cause a plane, coming in to land, to turn turtle the way this one did; and that was an obstruction fouling the undercarriage, bringing it to a dead stop.’

  The inspector looked around. ‘I don’t see any obstruction.’

  ‘It isn’t here now. The man who put it up removed it after it had served its purpose.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I’ll show it to you in a moment. Now, if you’ll look closely at the undercarriage struts you’ll see that both of them, at the same distance from the wheels, have been scratched, scarred, by coming into contact with something while travelling at speed.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ said the inspector, thoughtfully.

  ‘Now let’s go back.’

  Just before reaching the gorse bushes Biggles pointed to the hole in the ground. ‘Remember that,’ he requested. ‘There’s a similar hole on the far side of the field. There may be others, but I haven’t bothered to look for them.’ As they went on through the gorse Biggles stopped again and pointed down at some loose turves where the ground had been disturbed. ‘If you dig there you might find something interesting,’ he remarked, and went on to the barn. He opened the door. ‘Make a note of that wire,’ he said. ‘It could be an important piece of evidence.’

  The inspector did not speak, but he looked at his companion with an odd expression.

  ‘I see your car’s back,’ observed Biggles. ‘Let’s hear what Sergeant Lissie has to report.’

  They joined Bertie, who said: ‘You were right. There have been several letters with foreign stamps. Last week there was a telegram.’

  ‘From Spain?’

  ‘Correct. Diverton is here. At least, I assume it was him. He was putting his car in the shed just as we got back.’

  ‘He must have noticed a police car. Did he speak to you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All the same, he must be expecting us to call. Let’s hear what he has to say. Afterwards, Inspector, as we’re on your ground, perhaps you’d like to take over.’

  ‘If that’s how you want it.’

  ‘It would be better that way. Let’s get on with it. Bertie, you can come.’

  ‘Are you expecting trouble?’

  ‘I think not.’

  They went to the door. Biggles knocked. It was opened instantly, as if someone had been watching, by a well-built, keen-eyed, clean-shaven man who was getting on in years. Before anyone else could speak he said in a cultured voice: ‘I suppose you’re the police making inquiries about the plane that crashed on my land last night.’

  ‘That is correct,’ acknowledged Biggles.

  ‘There isn’t much I can tell you.’

  ‘On the contrary, I think you may be able to help us quite a lot. May we come in? We won’t keep you longer than is necessary.’

  ‘Very well.’ Diverton took them into what was obviously the living-room and invited them to be seated. There was no one else there. ‘Now, what do you want to know?’

  ‘You say the accident happened last night,’ prompted Biggles.

  ‘It must have done.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because I walked across the field about eleven o’clock and it wasn’t there then.’

  ‘Wasn’t that late for you to be out?’

  ‘I’d been to look at a sick ewe.’

  ‘What was the first you knew about it?’

  ‘When a Fleet Air Arm ambulance unit arrived soon after daylight.’

  ‘Did you go to look at the machine?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘What about the pilot?’

  ‘I didn’t see him.’

  Biggles paused for a moment, his eyes on Diverton’s face. ‘Tell me, did you by any chance serve in the RFC or RAF during the wars?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘Would I be wrong if I guessed you were in the Special Air Service?’

  Diverton smiled. ‘You’d be right.’

  ‘In which case you’d have a pretty good idea of why the machine in your field crashed.’

  Diverton’s smile faded. ‘No. How would I know?’

  ‘If you served in the SAS you must have heard about fields being trapped to trip up machines putting down spies. It’s a fear that hangs over every pilot engaged in special missions. I know. I speak from experience.’

  ‘Now you mention it I seem to recall something of the sort.’

  ‘The usual trap was a wire stretched tightly across a field. The inevitable result for an aircraft running into it at speed was a somersault.’

  ‘Are you suggesting that’s what happened here last night?’

  ‘I’m not suggesting. I’m saying so, definitely. Can you think of anyone who would set such a trap, and why? It must have been someone who knew about the trick.’

  Diverton, who had lost some of his confidence, shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I can’t help you there.’

  Biggles went on. ‘I’m going to ask you some straight questions. You’re under no compulsion to answer them, but if you take my advice you will. I shall get the answers sooner or later, if not now. I think I know some of them already, but it would save time if I had your confirmation.’

  ‘I can’t imagine why I should be expected to know more than I have already told you,’ protested Diverton.

  ‘Let’s start from the beginning,’ proposed Biggles evenly. ‘I believe your wife came originally from Spain?’

  ‘She did. What has that to do with it?’

  ‘As the plane lying in the field is a Spanish type we must assume that it came here from Spain. We are bound to associate the two things. I know this could be coincidence, but I have reasons for thinking otherwise. Who else is living in this house apart from you and your wife?’

  ‘My wife’s brother is staying with us for a little while.’

  ‘He has been in correspondence with someone in Spain?’

  ‘I didn’t say so.’

  ‘I’m saying it.’

  ‘Well, what of it? Is there anything wrong with that?’

  ‘As the result of that correspondence you knew the plane that crashed here was coming. Am I right?’

  No answer.

  ‘The possibility of it landing here gave you cause for anxiety, if not alarm? Correct me if I’m wrong.’

  No answer.

  ‘You decided to take steps to prevent a normal landing.’

  Still Diverton did not speak. Biggles’ face seemed to fascinate him.

  ‘Which of you set the trap? You or your brother-in-law?’

  Diverton moistened his lips. His face was pale.

  ‘As you would know about such anti-aircraft methods I must conclude that the idea, at least, was yours,’ pursued Biggles relentlessly. ‘Oh, come on, Diverton, out with it. I’ve seen the abrasions on the undercarriage struts. I’ve seen the stake holes. The wire is in your barn. Why not tell us the whole truth? As a pilot
yourself I’m sure you wouldn’t deliberately crash an aircraft without a good reason. Why did you do it? Would you rather we dug up what you buried in the gorse bushes? Was it the body of the pilot?’

  Diverton nodded. With trembling hands he took a cigarette from a case and lit it. ‘You’re too clever,’ he said bitterly. ‘I should have known. With only the accident people to deal with I was hoping to get away with it. I didn’t reckon on an old hand like you coming along to investigate. All right. I’ll tell you everything. Then I hope you’ll understand. A man must stand by his relatives when they’re in trouble — above all, his wife.’

  ‘With that I agree — up to a point.’

  ‘The explanation of the whole thing is really quite simple,’ went on Diverton. ‘My brother-in-law came here as a political refugee from the present regime in Spain.’

  ‘Was his offence criminal?’ interposed Biggles sharply.

  ‘No. Nothing like that. Purely political. He, with others, plotted to overthrow the government. Neither my wife nor I knew anything about this at the time. The plot was betrayed. Most of the conspirators were caught and shot. Carlos, my wife’s brother, was one of the few who got away. He found safety here, temporarily, at all events. But they were determined to get him. You know how it is with dictators. Fortunately Carlos still had friends in Spain, some in high places. Through them he was kept informed of what was happening. Through them we learned that government agents had discovered Carlos was living here with his sister. Carlos was not only my wife’s brother; he was also a close friend of mine. In those circumstances I couldn’t refuse him hospitality, even though I didn’t agree with his politics.’

  ‘I understand that,’ put in Biggles.

  ‘The next step was inevitable. We heard, through the same source of information, that an agent had been detailed to kill Carlos before he could apply for political asylum in this country, as was his intention. That would have made him more difficult to get at, so it was decided to liquidate him right away. We were told this property had been photographed from the air, so the plan was fairly obvious. My big field was a ready-made landing ground. It would be easy for the killer to fly over at night, land, do his dirty work and return home without anyone being aware of his visit. By planting a bomb in or near the house he might have killed all three of us. We had to take precautions.’

  ‘That sounds plausible,’ conceded Biggles. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The trouble was we didn’t know when this man would come. It might be any time. It wasn’t practicable to sit up night after night waiting for him, so, as a result of my war-time experience I used the old trick of preventing a plane from landing clandestinely. I rigged up the wire at sundown and took it up at dawn.’ Diverton smiled wanly. ‘I didn’t want to trap one of our own machines making a forced landing. Well, it worked. The agent came and ran into the trap. That’s all.’

  ‘Not quite all. What happened to him?’

  ‘He was killed landing. His neck was broken, presumably by the sudden jolt. I ask you to believe me when I say I didn’t reckon on that.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I’ve heard of that happening.’

  ‘Actually, I was awake and heard the plane coming,’ resumed Diverton. ‘I heard the crash. It was in the early hours. I got up and went out. Carlos came with me. Finding the pilot dead put us in a flap, as you can imagine. We didn’t want questions asked, so after some discussion we decided to bury him and say nothing. I’m not going to pretend I shed any tears. He came to commit cold-blooded murder.’

  ‘You buried him in the gorse?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you hope to get away with that? The pilot of a foreign plane had to be accounted for.’

  ‘It may sound stupid to you, but it seemed reasonable to us at the time. Our intention was, having buried the body, as soon as it was daylight to set fire to the machine and so destroy all signs of recognition. The crash could have remained a mystery. We daren’t start the fire at night because it would be seen from a long way off. We were out of luck. At the crack of dawn what should fly over, low, but a Fleet Air Arm chopper. We knew the pilot had spotted the crash because he circled over it. As he must have seen the Spanish identification markings there was no point after that in burning the machine. All we could do was take everything out of the cockpit, maps, photographs, navigation notes, etc., and do away with them. That’s the truth, and the whole truth. Right or wrong, I still believe that if that damned helicopter hadn’t come over we might have got away with it.’

  Biggles agreed.

  ‘Is there anything else you want to know?’ asked Diverton. ‘I’m in your hands. All I ask is, don’t send Carlos back to Spain, because if you do it will mean certain death for him. He’ll confirm what I’ve said. Do you want to see him?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Biggles looked at the inspector. ‘Have you any questions?’

  ‘Not now.’

  ‘Then it’s all yours. I’ll leave the rest to you.’

  ‘I suppose I’m under arrest,’ said the ex-pilot wearily.

  The inspector looked uncertain. ‘I shall have to take instructions on that. If you’ll give me your word that none of you in this house will leave the farm until you hear from me again you can stay here and look after your sheep.’

  ‘You have my oath on that,’ said Diverton, readily. ‘I’ve nowhere else to go. Everything I possess is tied up here.’

  ‘All right,’ concluded the inspector. ‘We’ll leave it like that for the time being.’

  Biggles got up. ‘Come on, Bertie. Let’s go home.’

  After some delay, in which more than one British Government department had to be consulted, no action was taken against Diverton, his wife, or brother-in-law who, in the meantime, had applied for political asylum in Britain. In fact, it might almost be said that the case was hushed up when it was realized that to bring the matter into open court could have repercussions better avoided. There was never any question of murder. Diverton was able to produce letters which showed that the only deliberate murder intended was on the part of the foreign pilot who came at night for that purpose. A charge of manslaughter was considered, but even this was ruled out on the grounds that what Diverton had done was justifiable self-protection.

  With which decision Biggles was in full agreement.

  [Back to Contents]

  A RING O’ ROSES

  On a periodical tour of some of the smaller flying establishments Biggles was in Essex, in the club-house of Icarus Aviation, having a drink at the bar with Clinton, secretary and senior instructor, when to the delight of the pupils present an aircraft made a spectacular ‘falling-leaf’ landing and taxied on to the sheds.

  ‘Do you encourage that sort of show-off over the aerodrome?’ he inquired.

  Clinton shrugged a shoulder.

  ‘What is that racy-looking job? I don’t seem to know it,’ went on Biggles.

  ‘A new French product,’ explained Clinton. ‘They call it the Coursier. Only one or two have been built so far. I don’t think they’ll sell it over here.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s too expensive, both to buy and to run.’

  ‘Does it belong to one of your members?’

  ‘Yes. Nice lad. He’ll be along presently after putting his machine in its hangar. He insists on doing that himself. He’s a Persian1 named Zand. Kerman Zand. He claims to be of the old Persian nobility. Oodles of money. Here he comes now.’

  The new arrival was greeted in a manner that proclaimed popularity. He was a slightly built young man, dark-skinned, with finely cut features, teeth like pearls and sparkling black eyes. With a smile and effusive gestures he ordered drinks all round — which may have accounted for his popularity.

  ‘What’s he doing over here?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘His old man’s in business, very exclusive, which means pricey. Cosmetics. That’s big business nowadays. He runs it from one of those big old Georgian houses, Zand House, near Regent’s Park. Zand Cosmetic
s Ltd. You sometimes see their advertisements in the glossy magazines. They have branches on the Continent. You must have heard of a perfume called “Rosa Luna”. The trade mark of Zand Cosmetics is a Persian dancing girl wearing a yashmak — and not much else.’

  ‘I haven’t noticed it.’

  ‘“Rosa Luna”, in other words Rose of the Moon, is like no other perfume on earth. That’s why it commands the price it does. Kerman acts as his father’s overseas agent. He’s just back from abroad, now.’ Clinton grinned. ‘He’s a walking advertisement for the family product, as you won’t fail to notice if he comes near you. He puts it in his hair-oil.’

  The subject of the conversation, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a glass in the other, joined them. He also brought with him a strong waft of perfume which, while wonderfully fragrant, produced a faint frown of disapproval in Biggles’ eyes.

  ‘Not drinking?’ questioned the Persian, reprovingly, looking at Biggles’ empty glass. His English was fluent, with the merest trace of accent.

  ‘I’ve just had one, thanks,’ declined Biggles.

  ‘Have another.’

  ‘Not now. One’s my limit when I’m flying.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Clinton said, in an affected confidential voice. ‘He’s a cop.’

  The Persian’s eyes opened wide. ‘Really! What fun. How’s business?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘Caught any naughty boys lately?’

  ‘We pick up one here and there, once in a while.’

  ‘From what I read in the papers, no matter how smart the cops are the crooks are always one jump ahead.’

  ‘That’s because the crooks get the publicity,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘You only hear of the police when they fail to get their man.’

  ‘Seems a bit hard.’

  ‘It suits us. We prefer to keep out of the limelight. Mad a good trip?’

  ‘Very good.’

  ‘Been far?’

  ‘Only to Paris.’ Zand looked at the clock. ‘Sorry to rush away, but I must be getting home. My people get worried if I’m late.’ To Clinton he went on: ‘I shan’t be wanting the machine again until next week. I’ve put the papers in your office. You haven’t sent me a bill yet for the new tank. Let me have it and I’ll send you a cheque. Cheerio.’ With boisterous farewells the Persian departed.