Biggles Investigates

by W E Johns

  ‘The devils! We may be able to do something to help. A sports car being chased by a police car shouldn’t be hard to spot. Keep in touch with Ginger for the latest news. Tell him what we’re doing. Ask him to relay everything Gaskin says.’

  Bertie complied.

  Already the Auster had its nose down for speed and in a minute Hatfield was in sight, with the broad grey ribbon of the Great North Road running on beyond. Biggles did not speak. His eyes were exploring the northbound traffic for a red sports car, travelling at racing speed, with a black police car in pursuit.

  The Auster was down to two thousand when Bertie said: ‘They’ve turned off the main road at Baldock. Now heading east on the A505 for Royston.’

  ‘Ah! That’s to dodge the road blocks.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  This was followed by a rather long silence. Then Bertie burst out: ‘Gaskin’s lost ‘em.’

  ‘What! How?’

  ‘They’re away in a plane.’

  ‘A plane. How the devil —’

  ‘Just a minute. Ginger’s coming in again... Gaskin says they must have known the plane was there — waiting for ‘em — part of the getaway plan. He found the red car — a stolen Jag. — up a lane. He overshot it before he spotted it. By the time he could stop two men with a suitcase were running across a field. A plane was there with its engine running. Before Gaskin could do anything they were away. There was nothing he could do — except swear.’

  ‘Did he recognize the type of plane?’

  ‘No. All he can say is it was a monoplane.’

  ‘That’s a fat lot of good. Did he get its registration letters?’

  ‘No. It took off directly away from him. All he can say is it was a small plane painted white or silver. A light colour, anyway. He watched it out of sight. It was flying north when it disappeared.’

  ‘If the plane was there waiting it must have had a pilot. That makes three of ‘em; so the plane must have been at least a three-seater. If it stays on a northerly track we may be able to spot it. They won’t expect an aircraft to trail them, so it’s likely they’ll travel at cruising speed. If so we should be able to catch ‘em.’

  The police Auster was now racing north on full throttle with Biggles’ eyes probing the sky ahead. It was a typical spring day, mostly clear but with occasional fronts of high, fleecy, cumulus clouds. Some were showing above the northern horizon.

  Apparently Bertie noticed them, for he remarked; ‘If they get into that stuff we shan’t have much hope of finding them.’

  ‘Not imagining they’re being followed it’s likely they’ll keep out of it. A pilot doesn’t fly blind from choice. Tell Ginger what we’re doing and ask for a met. report on the weather farther north. Urgent.’

  While Bertie was waiting for this information to come through the Auster was kicking the air behind it at top speed, with Biggles’ eyes scrutinizing the sky ahead, section by section, with the methodical thoroughness that comes from war experience.

  ‘Light broken cloud, sky six tenths covered nearing the Border: increasing overcast farther north,’ reported Bertie.

  ‘If only I can spot that machine before we get as far north as that I’ll see it doesn’t lose me,’ muttered Biggles. ‘Has Ginger any more news?’

  ‘No. Gaskin is coming home. Now we’re on the trail he’ll stand by.’

  ‘Good thing we were topped up when we started. We shan’t have to worry about petrol.’

  ‘Suppose the plane goes abroad?’

  ‘Why should it be flying north if it intended to do that? But the first thing is to find it. Hold hard! I may have got it. I can see a machine against that cloud dead ahead.’

  Bertie stared. ‘You’re right, old boy. Little feller, too. How are we going to know if it’s the one we’re after?’

  ‘We shan’t know till it touches down somewhere. I shall be with it. The one we want will have the money on board.’

  ‘You’re not forgetting these johnnies have guns. They’ve already shot one copper so they’ve nothing to lose by shooting another.’

  ‘We’ll deal with that situation should it arise,’ answered Biggles grimly, his eyes still on the speck ahead, clear against a white background of cloud and travelling directly away from them. ‘We should be able to catch up on him. As long as he doesn’t realize he’s being tracked he’ll probably be content to carry on at cruising speed. I’ll get a bit closer — but not too close.’

  ‘They’re climbing. They must have decided to go over that next cloud formation.’

  ‘So would I were I in their shoes — assuming they’re the men we want. They wouldn’t overlook the possibility of people on the ground being alerted to watch for them. They’ll keep out of sight if they can.’

  ‘They might take to the clouds. Then what?’

  Biggles smiled faintly. ‘I’ve played this game before. I’ll see they don’t lose me. Tell Ginger we may have sighted the bandits. We’ll give him our position from time to time. Gaskin can make what use of it he likes.’

  The chase continued. Nothing more was said for a time. Then Bertie, still in touch with Ginger, reported: ‘Gaskin is back at the Yard. He’s raging at having lost his men. He says if we tell him where the plane lands he’ll come along.’

  ‘What’s he talking about? If we keep on as we’re going we shall soon be in Scotland, so if he wants to be in at the death he’ll have a devil of a long way to come.’

  Presently Biggles continued. ‘By thunder! I believe we are going to Scotland. East Scotland. I’ll tell you something. The pilot in front of us is following the A.1.’

  ‘Why East Scotland?’

  ‘From the way he jinked when he was in the clear over Scotch Corner. The road forks there. Had he been going to West Scotland he would have taken the left fork. He took the right. That’s Darlington below. I’d say the man at the stick knows the way north by road, but I doubt if he’s flown over it before. He’s not using his compass. He’s flying with his eyes on the ground.’

  Durham and Newcastle slid away below. ‘It looks as if I was right,’ resumed Biggles. ‘There’s Alnwick ahead. We shall soon be over the Border. Had he been going down short of it he’d have started losing some altitude. Are you still in touch with Ginger?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell him where we are.’

  Having done so Bertie turned to Biggles. ‘Shall I tell you what I think?’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘The chap in front has spotted us in his reflector. He’s realized we’re following him and is trying to run us out of petrol.’

  ‘Could be. But if that’s his idea he’s on a loser. Unless that machine has some extra long-range tankage he’ll be out of juice before we are. There is this about it. He isn’t going overseas. If, as I believe, the machine is an Auster, he can’t have enough petrol left to reach Ireland or the Continent. With our extra tank we should be able to outfly him. We’ll get him at the end.’

  The chase continued for some time without any serious change in the weather conditions, although after crossing the Firth of Forth the meteorological office proved to be right in the matter of increasing cloud. Great ‘cauliflowers’ of cumulus were rolling in from the north-west to more than half cover the ground. For a while the fugitive pilot went round them, but as they thickened he went above them. After leaving Perth astern he went down again; but he still showed no sign of landing.

  ‘I fancy he’s not sure of his position,’ said Biggles, closing the gap between them. ‘Where the devil can he be going? I wasn’t prepared for a trip like this.’

  ‘I tell you, he knows we’re after him and isn’t going down until he’s shaken us off his tail.’

  ‘I’m beginning to think you’re right. Well, he can’t go much farther. Neither can we if it comes to that. Look where we are. Those are the Cairngorms in front. He can’t get down there, that’s certain. If he tries it he’s liable to find the clouds have rocks in ‘em.’

  Both machi
nes were now at about five thousand feet over the rugged peaks of the Cairngorm massif, still showing snow on the high tops and north-facing slopes, when Bertie remarked: ‘We look like losing this bird after all. That’s a solid-looking layer of overcast ahead of us. Sky must be pretty well covered. We can’t follow him in that lot.’

  ‘It depends on whether he stays above or goes below.’

  ‘If he holds his height he’ll be above.’

  ‘Sooner or later he’ll have to go through to see where he is. He must have known where he was going and prepared for it, or he’d have been out of petrol before this, even though the pilot filled his tanks somewhere down south in readiness for the getaway.’ Biggles glanced at his petrol gauge. ‘If this goes on much longer we shall end up ourselves by looking for somewhere to get our wheels on the carpet. Where the devil can the man be making for?’

  ‘Lossiemouth?’

  ‘A Fleet Air Arm station? I can’t see him landing there with or without a load of stolen money on board. We’re north of Aberdeen. He might try Dalcross, although at the moment he isn’t on a course for Inverness. Are you still in contact with Ginger?’

  ‘Yes, but at this distance there’s some interference. Gaskin is still with him.’

  ‘Give him our position. All I can say is I think we’re somewhere over Morayshire.’

  ‘He wants to know the type of machine we’re after.’

  ‘We’re still not sure. We’ve only seen it end on from behind. It may be an Auster.’

  Another pause. Then Bertie said: ‘Ginger says Gaskin is talking of coming up.’

  ‘What does he think he’s going to do? It’ll be dark in an hour.’

  ‘He’s mad to get his hands on the crook who shot the policeman. He reckons we shan’t get back tonight whatever happens. Where are we most likely to refuel?’

  ‘Probably Dalcross. I know of nowhere else within reach. In that case, if we sleep anywhere, it will be in Inverness. Station Hotel. We’ve stayed there before so they know us.’

  While Bertie was passing on this information, both aircraft, under a darkening sky, had reached the overcast. It appeared to be unbroken.

  ‘I must say I don’t care much for this,’ said Bertie, frowning. ‘From what I know of the country under this murk it’s no place to run out of petrol.’

  ‘The fellow in front must be raving mad — unless he knows of a private airfield handy,’ growled Biggles.

  ‘Watch out! There he goes.’

  A gap, little more than a hole, like a tear in a blanket, had appeared in the cloud-layer, and the leading machine was diving for it at a steep angle. Biggles, who had closed the distance between them to a few hundred yards, also made a rush for it; but before he had reached the spot the banks of vapour, gold-tinted where they caught the rays of the setting sun, had rolled together, sealing the opening.

  Said Bertie, lugubriously: ‘He knows he’s being shadowed. He’s fooled us.’

  ‘Not yet,’ snapped Biggles, as another hole appeared, only to start closing again. He stood the Auster on its nose and went down like a stooping falcon. The hole closed behind him as he went through it. ‘Look for him,’ he rapped out. ‘He can’t be far away.’

  Under the far-reaching overcast, the ground, about a thousand feet below it, lay dull and gloomy in a dismal twilight, a wide expanse of moor, apparently heather, since there were only occasional areas of cultivation. Across it a single narrow road lay like a carelessly dropped piece of tape. Horizons faded into a colourless blur. At widely spaced intervals black patches of curiously geometrical patterns marked what were obviously Forestry Commission plantations.

  ‘I’ve got him,’ said Bertie sharply. ‘There he goes, skimming that long stand of timber half left, near the road.’

  ‘By gosh! He’s low. He can’t be going to land there. What the devil does he think he’s doing?’

  ‘Trying to give us the slip.’

  ‘Pin-point the spot on the map. Of course, if these plantations are recent they won’t be marked on it. Note those two small pools on the other side of the road.’

  ‘He’s climbing again,’ observed Bertie.

  ‘He’s changed course, too. Due north. We must be near the sea. There it is.’

  ‘Must be the Moray Firth. Can his objective be Invergordon?’

  ‘If it is we’ve been following the wrong machine. What’s that town ahead?’

  ‘Nairn — or maybe Forres. Wouldn’t swear to either. It—’

  ‘He’s going down,’ broke in Biggles. ‘This must be it. Tell Ginger.’

  ‘I’ve never heard of an aerodrome here.’

  ‘Nor I. But I can see a big field with a windsock. There’s a building of some sort to one side. Must be a private airstrip. Watch him.’

  The leading aircraft had lined up with the big field with the obvious intention of going down.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘Follow him in.’

  ‘We shall look a pair of twits if we’ve chased an innocent aircraft five hundred miles.’

  ‘I wouldn’t see anything funny in that. We shall know more about it when we’ve searched that plane.’

  ‘They may object.’

  ‘Not if they have nothing to hide. Keep your eyes on that machine while I’m getting down. Check the number of people who get out and if they carry any luggage. I see it is an Auster. Take its registration.’

  The plane which had been followed for so long now glided in, and having touched down ran on to stop near a dilapidated-looking cottage.

  ‘Three men getting out,’ reported Bertie, while Biggles was occupied with landing. ‘They’ve gone to the house. Now standing watching us.’

  ‘Any luggage?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  Having landed, Biggles taxied on to the other machine. Its colour was not exactly white, or grey, but more of a biscuit tint. To Bertie he said shortly, as he switched off: ‘I’m going to search that machine. The stolen money was in a suitcase. Whatever it’s in now must make a fair-sized parcel, so it can’t be overlooked. There may be trouble. If there is it should be enough to tell us all we want to know. Honest men would cooperate. I haven’t come all this way to be put off by some footling argument.’

  Biggles got down and with Bertie in attendance advanced to the three men who, with drinks in their hands, stood waiting at the door of the cottage. One was young, in his early twenties, and, wearing an RAF tie, presumably the pilot. The other two were of an entirely different type, middle-aged and thickset, with hard expressions and calculating eyes.

  Said the pilot, jokingly: ‘Are you the chaps who have been on my tail all the way from England?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘What’s the idea?’

  Biggles answered the question with another. Looking around he inquired: ‘What is this place?’

  ‘North-East Highlands Flying Club.’

  ‘It doesn’t look much like a flying club to me.’

  ‘We’ve only been functioning for a couple of weeks. We’re not properly organized yet.’

  ‘I don’t remember you applying for a licence to operate.’

  One of the other men spoke. ‘What do you mean — you don’t remember. What’s it got to do with you? Who are you, anyhow?’

  ‘We’re air police officers. Here’s my card, if you want to see it.’

  The pilot came in again. ‘How interesting. What are you hoping to find here?’

  Again Biggles ignored the question. ‘You won’t mind if we look over your machine?’

  The pilot grinned. ‘Go right ahead.’

  Biggles did not smile. With an inclination of his head he said to Bertie: ‘Take a look.’

  Bertie went off. No objection was raised. Said the pilot: ‘Care for a drink?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘What’s all this nonsense about a licence?’

  ‘As a pilot you should know.’

  ‘I haven’t long been out of the Air For
ce.’

  ‘Then you’d better make yourself acquainted with Civil Flying Regulations. What’s your name?’

  ‘Duncan. Murdo Duncan. Ex-Flying Officer, RAF.’

  ‘You come from these parts?’

  ‘Inverness.’

  Bertie came back. ‘Nothing,’ he said quietly.

  Biggles did not show any chagrin he may have felt. ‘Sorry you’ve been troubled,’ he said evenly.

  Said the pilot: ‘Just as a matter of curiosity what were you looking for?’

  ‘A serious crime was committed in London earlier in the day and the crooks got away in an aircraft.’

  ‘How much money was stolen?’

  ‘I didn’t say anything about money. A police officer was murdered. We’re looking for the thug who killed him.’ Biggles spoke with his eyes on the pilot’s face.

  There was a brief silence. Then, after a glance at the darkening sky, Biggles went on: ‘Well, we’ll be getting along.’

  ‘Where are you going now?’ asked Duncan.

  ‘Probably Dalcross. I need petrol. Don’t forget what I said about Regulations.’ Biggles turned away.

  Not until they were in the machine, and airborne, did Bertie speak. ‘What a sell-out,’ he sighed.

  ‘Don’t jump to conclusions.’

  ‘Aren’t you satisfied—’

  ‘I’d make a wager that was the getaway plane.’

  ‘But there’s nothing in it. I went over it from prop boss to tail skid.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it. There’s nothing in it now.’

  ‘They didn’t unload anything. I never took my eyes off them. Why are you still suspicious?’

  ‘I could give you several reasons. Did you happen to be looking at the pilot’s face when I said a policeman had been murdered?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you had you’d have seen him change colour. That’s something a guilty man can’t prevent. I’d say he was prepared for robbery, but not for murder. He’s probably new to crime. I could have asked a lot more questions: why had they been to England: who owned the aircraft: who were the passengers, and so on, but I decided it was better to let them think they’d fooled us. We haven’t finished yet. Let’s get to Dalcross for a start. We haven’t far to go. Then we’ll find quarters in Inverness. It’s time we had something to eat.’