Biggles Investigates

by W E Johns

  It was nearly nine o’clock when Biggles, having landed at Dalcross and made arrangements for refuelling, arrived at the Station Hotel, Inverness, in a taxi. There had been no suggestion of flying back to London that night. On giving his name when booking rooms for himself and Bertie, he was informed there was a telephone message for him. The reception clerk took it from a rack behind him. Having explained why they had no luggage, Biggles opened it.

  ‘From Ginger,’ he told Bertie. ‘He’s flying Gaskin up. They’ll join us here. That’s all right with me if that’s how he wants it, but I can’t imagine what he hopes to do. However... I need a wash and brush up. Meet you in the dining-room in ten minutes. Bring the map with you.’

  ‘I’ve been doing some thinking,’ said Bertie, when presently they met in the dining-room for an overdue meal. ‘Was it necessary to tell those people we were coppers? Surely that was enough to put them on their guard.’

  ‘That was the intention. In the first place they’d think twice before they started any rough stuff when we talked of searching their machine. We needed authority for that. Secondly, they’ll have to do some hard thinking before they decide on their next move. Thirdly, as we’ve left them in peace they may kid themselves we were satisfied with their explanation.’

  ‘But you aren’t?’

  ‘Not by a long chalk. I laid a little trap to find out if they are as innocent as they pretend. I said we’d go on to Dalcross. If they are the people we’re after they’ll be anxious to know where we are. The first thing they’ll do is ascertain if we did really go to Dalcross. I arranged at the airport for a phone call to be put through to me here should anyone make inquiries about us.’

  Bertie nodded. ‘I get it. If they make inquiries it’ll support your belief that they are the crooks.’

  ‘Exactly. Why else should they bother about us?’

  ‘You didn’t tell them your name, so how can they inquire?’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary. They’d note the registration letters of our machine. That’s all they’d need.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ agreed Bertie. ‘But I’m still in the dark. They got away in an aircraft. It didn’t land on the way here. I’m prepared to swear there was no money in that aircraft when I went over it. How could that happen?’

  ‘There’s only one answer to that. When they realized they were being followed, as we know they did because the pilot said so, they dropped the suitcase overboard.’

  ‘In that case it’s going to take a bit of finding.’

  ‘Perhaps. But they wouldn’t be such fools as to drop it where they themselves would have a job to find it. They’d go low and dump it near an unmistakable landmark. I fancy I know the one they chose. We’ll have a look. We shall need a car. When we’ve finished eating go out and hire a four-seater, something with horses in its engine. I’ll wait for you in the lounge. I want to have a close look at the map.’

  ‘If they dropped the swag aren’t you afraid they’ll recover it while we’re sitting here?’

  ‘There is a risk of that but a small one. It wouldn’t be easy to find a suitcase in broad daylight, let alone in the dark. It’s my guess they’ll wait for daylight.’

  ‘Okay.’ Bertie finished his meal and went out. ‘See you later.’

  An hour later he rejoined Biggles who was studying the map in the lounge. ‘I’ve got a Vanguard,’ he said. ‘It’s outside.’

  ‘Good. That should suit us.’

  ‘And what now?’

  ‘We’d better wait for Gaskin or he’ll be peeved. No matter. There’s no hurry. We can’t do anything in the dark.’

  They were still waiting, talking the matter over, when a page came in to say Biggles was wanted on the phone. Biggles took the call. When he came back he said, with a note of satisfaction in his voice: ‘That was the airport. A man rang up to ask if an Auster of our registration had landed there, and if so, was it still there? Why should anyone be interested in our movements? I’ll give you one guess. Who, in Scotland, except the people we followed, knows our registration?’

  ‘Jolly good. Then it begins to look as if we’re on the right track.’

  It was well after eleven when Inspector Gaskin, with Ginger and a sergeant named Green, walked in. All were in plain clothes.

  ‘Where are they?’ demanded Gaskin, belligerently.

  ‘Take it easy,’ reproved Biggles, ‘There’s no need to get burnt up.’

  ‘There’s plenty of need,’ answered Gaskin grimly. That young constable they shot was a friend of mine. I persuaded him to join the Force. Inside a year and he’s shot dead. I shan’t rest till these devils swing—’

  ‘Sit down and order yourself a drink. Relax.’

  ‘Do you know where they are?’

  ‘I think so.’

  Then why didn’t you nail ‘em when they landed?’

  ‘I had nothing to nail ‘em on — apart from a minor civil flying offence. If you’ll listen I’ll tell you what happened. We picked up a plane which we had reason to think was the one the crooks used to give you the slip. We followed it here. When it landed, on a field said to be a flying club, we followed it in. There were three men on board, one, of course, being the pilot. We searched the aircraft, we found nothing.’

  ‘Then you must have followed the wrong plane.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Then what’s the answer?’

  ‘When they realized they were being followed by another plane they dropped the money.’

  ‘Did you see it fall?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how the hell can we hope to find it?’

  ‘With any luck we should catch ‘em when they go to recover it.’

  ‘And where’s that likely to be?’

  ‘I have an idea. I may be wrong, but it’s the best I can do. It’s safe to suppose they’d drop the stuff within reasonable distance of where they knew they were going to land. For obvious reasons they wouldn’t choose a built-up area. They’d take the loneliest place they could find. To be sure of marking the spot they’d have to fly low — really low. They tried to lose us in a cloud layer, but we went through after them. When we spotted them they were flying low, almost touching the treetops of a forestry plantation. I can think of only one possible reason, in the circumstances, why they should go so low, particularly as they had to grab altitude afterwards to reach their objective.’

  ‘They might have been trying to elude you.’

  ‘They had already tried that and failed. This, I must admit, is only surmise, but I’d say that with me on their tail they didn’t want to land with what they had with them.’

  ‘So they dropped it.’

  ‘That’s what I think. Duncan, the pilot, was born in these parts. He must know the country. That plantation fills the requirements. It’s near a road; not far from the landing ground; and it’s an unmistakable landmark.’

  ‘Could you find the place? I mean on the ground.’

  ‘Of course. I’ve been checking it on the map. It’s about twenty miles from here. The road is the one that runs from the coast to the Spey. The last part of it runs across open moor. There are several forestry plantations, but the one we want is marked by two small pools of water. It’s about half a mile long and a hundred yards wide with three fire breaks running across it.’

  ‘Then what are we waiting for?’

  ‘Daylight.’

  ‘What’s wrong with going now?’

  ‘Have you ever tried getting through a forestry commission plantation — in daylight?’

  ‘I can’t say as I have.’

  ‘If you had you’d know it wouldn’t be easy to find a herd of elephants. To find a suitcase in the dark would be next to impossible. Apart from anything else you’d tear yourself to pieces on the deadwood undergrowth.’

  ‘Then how will the crooks find the case?’

  ‘They have the advantage of knowing exactly where they dropped it, if in fact they did that. They’d be able to mark the precise
spot where it hit the ground. That, I think, is why they went down to treetop level.’

  ‘Why not go to their landing field and catch ‘em there?’

  ‘They may not be there now. Even if they were it’s unlikely they’d have, the money, so you’d have no case. We want them with the stolen money on them. My suggestion is, we go to the plantation and wait for them to arrive. That should be soon after daylight. I’ve laid on a car. It’s outside. If they don’t turn up — well, we can look for the case ourselves. If we can’t find it we shall have to do some more thinking. By the way, did you put a gun in your pocket?’

  ‘You bet I did. Sergeant Green has one, too. I’m taking no chances with gunmen who are already wanted for murder.’

  ‘Good. Then we might as well move off. It might take us a little while to locate the place and we ought to be in position by dawn.’

  On any night of the year a Scottish Highland moor is not the most cheerful place in the world. At two o’clock in the morning, under a lowering sky, it presents a melancholy picture indeed — peopled, according to local legend, by kelpies and other mischievous spirits. So Biggles and his party found it as they crossed the silent undulating expanse of heather to their objective. An occasional solitary wind-distorted pine, standing black and stark against the colourless background, did nothing to brighten an atmosphere now sinister with an unseen menace. Nothing moved. It was as if all life had died. The only sound was the purr of the car engine and the bite of tyres on a gritty road. A reed-girt pool lay like a sheet of black mirror glass.

  ‘That’s the second tarn,’ said Biggles, dropping his speed to dead slow. ‘This must be it.’ He stopped by what appeared to be a black wall with a ragged top. The plantation. He switched off all lights.

  They all got out and for a few moments stood still, listening. Complete silence greeted them.

  ‘I don’t see another car,’ said Biggles softly, peering into the gloom. ‘There’s no one here. If anyone was moving within a mile of us we’d hear them on a night like this. And remember, they’d hear us, so keep quiet.’

  ‘Strewth! What a country,’ muttered Gaskin.

  ‘You’re not seeing it at its best,’ murmured Biggles.

  ‘I meant for a crook to hide up.’

  ‘You couldn’t be more wrong. A stranger is a marked man. People naturally wonder what he’s doing.’

  Gaskin jerked a thumb at the plantation. ‘We shan’t find anything in this.’

  ‘I thought you’d think that when you saw it.’

  Actually, the trees were not yet half-grown and therefore not much taller than a man; but they were conifers, and as is usual with Forestry Commission plantations had been set so close together that their branches intermingled. Now, from ground level, it could be seen that the wood was on a slight slope.

  Biggles went on. ‘The first thing is to get the car out of sight. That would tell anyone arriving we were here. Ginger, take it along a little way. Try to find a place just off the road, but be careful not to get bogged. Leave the lights off.’

  Ginger was away about five minutes. They waited for him.

  ‘Now what?’ asked Gaskin. ‘I’m not used to this sort of country. Cities are my line. In London I know where I am.’

  ‘The people who live here know where they are, too. Never mind. All we can do is wait. Wait till there’s enough light for us to see what we’re doing. We might as well sit down.’

  They found seats in a small, sandy depression, that had once been a rabbit warren. Gaskin took out his pipe.

  ‘Don’t strike a match,’ requested Biggles, sharply. ‘A light would be seen for miles. The people we’re waiting for might be cunning enough to do some exploring on foot before they bring their car along.’

  Gaskin grunted and put the pipe back in his pocket.

  It was a long time before the first pallid streak of light appeared in the east to announce the approach of another day. As it grew stronger Biggles surveyed the scene. ‘It’s time we were getting into position,’ he decided. ‘Chief, I suggest you and I stay here. Ginger, you and Sergeant Green move, say, forty yards or so along the topside of the wood. Keep your heads down. Bertie, you take the lower side. Keep close enough to hear if anything happens. We should hear a car coming if we don’t see it. It may not have its lights on.’

  ‘What makes you think they’ll come to this end of the wood?’ asked Gaskin, as the others moved off.

  ‘When we spotted the machine it was approaching from this end. I imagine they used the road as a guide. They’d need one. Knowing they were coming back, they wouldn’t be likely to drop the case farther from the road than was necessary.’

  ‘I’d say they aren’t coming or they’d be here by now,’ said Gaskin, looking about now there was sufficient daylight.

  ‘Sit still and put the brake on your impatience,’ returned Biggles. ‘This is a cat and mouse game. We’re the cat.’

  Half an hour passed. It was now broad daylight.

  ‘They’re not coming,’ declared Gaskin. ‘If they were they’d have been here before this. There was a lot of money in that case, too much to leave lying around. We should have grabbed them at their landing ground.’

  ‘It’s unlikely we would have found them there — unless, of course, we’ve been on the wrong track all along. I told you I was working on a theory, the only one I could find to fit the case.’

  ‘Instead of sitting here getting stiff I feel like settling the argument by searching the wood. It wouldn’t take long.’

  ‘All right. Go ahead. I wish you joy. Don’t make a noise about it.’

  Gaskin got up and his burly figure forced a passage into the thickset saplings.

  More time passed. A good deal of crashing and twig-snapping told of Gaskin still searching. Biggles did not move. He was beginning to fear his plan had failed. Then Gaskin reappeared, dishevelled, carrying his bowler hat, his face red and covered with scratches. ‘It’s no use,’ he growled, sinking down beside Biggles and mopping his face tenderly with a handkerchief. ‘Talk about looking for a needle in a haystack. It’d take a month o’ Sundays to do that jungle properly.’

  With a sudden movement Biggles put out an arm and forced the inspector flat on his back. ‘Don’t move,’ he hissed. ‘I hear a car. It may be them.’

  In an instant the situation had changed. A car roared up and came to a skidding stop. Through a fringe of heather Biggles saw two men get out, making a lot of noise, apparently in a desperate hurry. They spoke loudly, as if precautions were unnecessary.

  ‘No one here,’ said one. ‘If there was we’d see the car. It’s okay. Come on. I can go straight to the place. It won’t take a minute.’

  They crashed directly into the plantation, leaving no one in the car.

  ‘Two of ‘em,’ Biggles told Gaskin who, being on his back had seen nothing. ‘The pilot isn’t with ‘em. I didn’t think he would be. He didn’t like the sound of murder. I saw his face.’

  ‘Stiffen the crows!’ muttered Gaskin. ‘They’re pretty sure of themselves, making all that din. We’ll wait here and catch ‘em with the stuff on ‘em when they come out. What about Bertie and the others? Should we fetch ‘em?’

  ‘They must have heard the car arrive, so they should be working their way towards us.’

  Gaskin put on his bowler. He took a revolver from his pocket, examined it and replaced it. ‘I’m ready,’ he said grimly.

  It took the bandits twenty minutes to find their loot. They could be heard crashing about, calling to each other and swearing. A shout of triumph announced the success of their search. Snapping twigs, coming nearer, betrayed the line of their return. Presently they appeared, one carrying a suitcase, within a dozen paces of where Biggles and Gaskin were crouching.

  Gaskin rose up like an avenging angel. ‘All right,’ he said sternly. ‘Don’t let’s have any fuss. Ah! So it’s you —’

  He got no further. The man with the case dropped it with a vicious curse and in a flash had whipp
ed out an automatic. Seeing what was going to happen, Biggles snatched up a handful of sand from a rabbit scrape and flung it in his face. This may have saved Gaskin’s life. The gun spat, and from the way the detective flinched Biggles knew he had been hit. Before the bandit could fire again Gaskin had pulled out his revolver and shot him. The man folded up and went down on his knees.

  The other bandit tried to back into the trees, shooting wildly, but Sergeant Green and Ginger now appeared on the scene and cut him off. Ginger grabbed the arm that held the gun. Green, who was a big man, had his own method. His arms went round the bandit’s chest and he squeezed, crushing the breath out of him until he gasped. Then he took a short pace back. His fist flew out. It met the bandit’s chin with a crack like a pistol shot. The man went over backwards as if struck by a charging bull. He lay still.

  Biggles had run to Gaskin who stood with blood running down his face. ‘Where did he hit you?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘Forget it. Just nicked my cheek, that’s all, thanks to you.’

  The bandit he had shot was sitting up, holding a shoulder, cursing luridly. Bertie, who had arrived, picked up his gun.

  ‘Pipe down, you rat,’ grated Gaskin. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for a long time. Get the bracelets on ‘em, Green. I’m taking no chances.’

  ‘We’d better get to a doctor,’ put in Biggles, practically. ‘Fetch our car, Ginger. We shall need both.’

  Gaskin picked up the suitcase. He looked inside. ‘All complete,’ he said. ‘Bring ‘em along.’

  So ended a chase that had started in the south of England and ended in the north of Scotland.

  Little more needs to be said. The bandit Gaskin had shot soon recovered, but to no purpose, for after their trial and conviction both men paid the maximum penalty for the murder of the police constable. Habitual criminals, with records of violence, they had no real defence. Ballistic experts were able to prove that the gun which had killed the policeman was the one carried by the man who had wounded Chief Inspector Gaskin. When arrested both men still had in their pockets the stockings they had used in the raid to cover their faces.