Biggles Investigates

by W E Johns

  ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘I’ve got to go across tomorrow night anyway, to pick up a passenger.’

  This, thought Bertie, was better and better. ‘I don’t want to arrive at an airport.’

  ‘Don’t be damn silly. Do you think I do? I’d put you down not too far from London. I could have a taxi waiting. You’d need twenty-five quid for the fare.’

  ‘Do I need a taxi?’

  ‘Unless you feel like walking nine miles to the nearest station and waiting there for the first train in the morning. Well, how about it?’

  ‘The best I can do is a hundred and fifty, part English pound notes and part in francs. That’d leave me twenty-five for the fare and a bit in my pocket.’

  ‘Okay. Call it a deal. Say a hundred when we get to the plane and the rest when we’re across. That’s fair enough.’

  Bertie agreed. ‘What’s the drill, exactly?’

  ‘You stay here. I have some phone calls to make, one to London for your taxi. At twelve midnight I pick you up in my car and we go to the airfield. The plane will be waiting. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘Where do we land?’

  ‘You’ll see when we get there.’ Grattan got up. ‘See you later.’

  It need hardly be said that Bertie was well satisfied. This was better than he could have hoped. It seemed too good to be true. From what had been said, unless he was lying, which seemed pointless, Grattan and his partner were obviously running an illegal service, even if, as a cover, there was a legal side to their business. Marcel’s suspicions had been well founded. He was tempted to ring him to tell him so but decided not to risk it in case he was being watched. That could come later. So all he could do was have more coffee and watch the customers, wondering how many of them were criminals. Anyhow, it was clear that this was where Grattan did the shady side of his business. No one molested him.

  A little before twelve Grattan came in. Without sitting down he simply said: ‘Come on. We’re all set.’

  They went out. A fast-looking sports car was waiting. Grattan only paused to say, ‘I hope you’ve got that money on you. God help you if you’ve been wasting my time.’

  ‘Don’t worry. You’ll get it,’ answered Bertie. ‘Want to see it?’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it till we get to the plane.’

  The car sped away, heading north, as Bertie had anticipated, this being the direction of Chantilly. During the twenty mile drive that followed there were moments when he told himself that whatever else happened that night he would not be in greater danger, such risks did Grattan take. No names had been mentioned, but he had no doubt about the identity of his companion. He was relieved when the car turned on to a secondary road and then through a gate to come to a halt near an aircraft which, with airscrew ticking over, stood outside a hangar. A man made a signal.

  Grattan turned to Bertie and held out his hand. Bertie, who had already bundled the agreed amount, passed it over. Grattan counted the money and put it in his pocket. That was all. In a matter of minutes the machine was in the air. It was a side-by-side two-seater. It showed no lights. Looking down, Bertie could see the vague shape of the famous race-course of Chantilly, with its stands and stables.

  Of the flight that followed nothing need be said. Grattan flew like an experienced pilot. The compass showed a course a trifle west of north. The Channel was crossed without the slightest trouble at 4,000 feet. Grattan glided across the coast, and in fact did not touch the throttle again before going down to a smooth landing on English soil. They got out. Bertie handed over the rest of the money, and looking about him saw to his surprise they were on an aerodrome — from the absence of lights, one not in use.

  ‘Where the deuce are we?’ he exclaimed.

  Grattan chuckled. ‘If you served in the war you should remember the Easterhangar emergency landing ground. They packed it up when it was no longer wanted, which suits me fine. Here comes your car. Don’t forget the twenty-five nicker. That’s the arrangement. There’s no need for me to stay. I’ll get back. So long. If you ever want me again you know where to find me.’ Grattan got into his seat and disappeared into the night sky.

  The car, an ordinary taxi, showing no lights, drew up. ‘Here we are,’ said a voice. ‘Pay in advance is the rule.’

  Bertie handed over twenty-five pounds and with a feeling of unreality got in. This was too easy to be believed.

  ‘Where do you want me to drop you off, guv’nor?’ asked the driver.

  ‘You mean in London?’

  ‘I ain’t going anywhere else.’

  ‘Trafalgar Square suit you?’

  ‘Okay by me.’

  The car moved off, the driver switching on his lights as soon as they were on the main road, and an hour later, for there was no traffic, put him down in Trafalgar Square. Still slightly dazed by the ease and simplicity of the trip Bertie took its number as it continued on its way. Taking a taxi from the rank in Leicester Square, he reached the flat a little after three a.m. Trying not to disturb the others, he let himself in quietly and was making a cup of tea in the kitchenette when Biggles, in his pyjamas, appeared in the doorway. ‘I thought I heard something,’ he said. ‘What the devil are you doing here? I expected you to be away two or three days.’

  Bertie smiled. ‘I’ve just come from Paris by a service specially laid on for me.’

  ‘What are you talking about? Didn’t you fly home in the Auster?’

  ‘No. It’s still in Paris. Let me get a cuppa and I’ll tell you all about it.’ Having made the tea, he went through to the sitting-room.

  Ginger, putting on his dressing-gown, came in, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Listen, chaps, you’re not going to believe this,’ said Bertie seriously. ‘Has Gaskin picked up Pug?’

  ‘No. Not a sign of him. Don’t say you’ve seen him!’

  ‘I’m hoping to before very long, although this is by no means certain.’ Bertie told his story. ‘So, while this may not be the route Pug Donovan is using, I seem to have got my hooks in a pretty smart outfit,’ he concluded. ‘Grattan’s coming over again tonight, so we should soon know what he’s up to.’

  Biggles drew a deep breath. ‘Of course, we always realized this sort of thing could go on. Easterhangar. A disused airfield without a guard. It’s too easy. We shall have to take up this question of wartime emergency landing grounds. Tonight should provide us with a concrete case to lay before the Commissioner. He can take it up with the Ministry. We’ll be waiting for Grattan when he comes. We’ll take Gaskin along. I’ll tell him to do nothing about the taxi. We can deal with that on the airfield.’

  ‘Will you tell Marcel what goes on?’

  ‘Not yet. We’ll get this end buttoned up first.’ Biggles looked at Bertie. ‘This is your show, so if you want to come with us tonight you’d better finish your tea and get some sleep.’

  Shortly before midnight a police car, showing no lights, tucked itself close to the one dilapidated hangar on the silent abandoned airfield. In it were Biggles, Gaskin, Bertie and Ginger. They got out and walked along the cracked and broken perimeter track to a hut above which a windstocking pole stood stark against the sky. The door sagged open, hanging on one hinge.

  ‘We’ll wait here,’ said Biggles. ‘The taxi is pretty certain to use the track for as far as it goes. We’ll grab it when it stops. It should be here before the aircraft. Having got the bracelets on anyone who’s in the cab, we can keep out of sight in the hut till the machine arrives. Now we’d better keep quiet. Ginger, keep watch from the door. On a still night like this we should hear the taxi coming from a fair distance.’

  Said Bertie: ‘Weather conditions are the same as last night. We touched down a little after two o’clock.’

  ‘If Pug arrives in that cab don’t forget what I told you about him being a tough customer,’ warned Gaskin. ‘Being an old-timer I don’t think he carries a gun.’

  It seemed a long time before anything happened. In fact it w
as nearly two hours. But at last, speaking from the door, Ginger said quietly: ‘Here it comes.’

  The taxi, lights switched off, purred to a stop where the track ended a few yards from the hut. For two or three minutes no one got out, but muffled voices indicated the presence of at least two people. Then the door was pushed open and a heavily built man carrying a suitcase got out. The driver stepped down from his seat and joined him.

  ‘I usually wait here till I hear it coming,’ he said.

  ‘If you say so,’ was the answer. ‘Here you are.’ Something passed between them.

  ‘It’s Pug,’ breathed Gaskin. ‘Come on.’ He strode out with the others close behind.

  The fight that followed need not be described. The taxi-driver had soon had enough, but Pug lived up to his reputation as a bruiser. Cursing luridly he fought like a trapped tiger, and by the time he was overpowered and the handcuffs were on his wrists everyone bore the marks of his flailing fists and boots. However, the odds against him were bound to tell and he was finally secured.

  ‘Any more trouble from you and I’ll knock your block off,’ panted Gaskin, as with a spare pair of handcuffs he locked Pug to the taxi. ‘And keep your mug shut or I’ll shut it for you.’ No mean pugilist himself he spoke as if he meant it. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got here.’ He opened the suitcase, and the light of a torch revealed it to be packed with notes.

  There was another wait, but this time only for a matter of minutes. Then the sighing of air over wings announced the approach of a gliding aircraft. Vaguely through the gloom it was seen to touch down and run to a stop about fifty yards away. The pilot jumped down and lit a cigarette. By the time he looked up the police were almost on him. Taken by surprise there was little he could do, which was just as well, for when Gaskin ran his hands over him he found an automatic. What Grattan said when he recognized Bertie need not be repeated.

  ‘The machine can stay where it is for the time being,’ decided Biggles. ‘I’ll ring Marcel when we get back and let him know where it is. Well, I think that’s about the lot. Let’s get home.’

  [Back to Contents]

  BIGGLES CRACKS A NUT

  Biggles broke off what he was saying to Ginger when the door of Air Police Headquarters opened and their Chief, Air Commodore Raymond, walked in. He carried a large envelope. ‘Sit still,’ he said. ‘I was passing your room after having a word with Gaskin of “C” Department, so I thought I’d look in instead of calling you to my office. The Yard has been given a toughish nut to crack, and as there may be an aviation angle Gaskin thinks your crackers may do the job better than his.’ The Chief pulled up a chair and went on:

  ‘Do you remember, some time ago, an unidentified body being found in peculiar circumstances, in Yorkshire?’

  ‘No, sir. I may have been away, or working on something else at the time.’

  ‘Then I’ll give you the facts as far as they’re known. A month ago, near the little town of Mapleton in the West Riding, a gardener employed by a certain Colonel Thurburn went to a copse not far from the house to get a bag of leaf mould. Under a tree he found the body of a young man. He reported this to the Colonel, who sent him on his bicycle to Mapleton to inform the police. According to the county pathologist, the body must have been lying where it was found for at least a month. It is still unidentified. The local police now admit they’re baffled and have called in Scotland Yard.’

  ‘Where is the body now?’

  ‘Buried. There was no point in keeping it any longer.’

  ‘And where does the aviation angle come in, sir?’

  ‘From the injuries the body had sustained, and the fact that the tree had been damaged from top to bottom, the Divisional Police Inspector is convinced it fell out of the sky. The skull had been fractured, both legs and some ribs were broken, consistent with the theory that the body had fallen from a height. A broken branch, with which apparently it had come in contact, lay near it. There were traces of skin on the bark.’

  ‘Was there anything else to suggest foul play — a bullet wound, for instance?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Was this man wearing flying kit?’

  ‘No. That’s the queer part of it. All he had on was an open shirt, a pullover, trousers, socks and shoes, all of foreign manufacture. No hat, no jacket. Hardly the way you’d expect a man to be dressed for flying.’

  ‘What was in the trouser pockets?’

  ‘Not a thing. There wasn’t a single clue that might have led to identification.’

  ‘That is queer. Seems as if it might have been deliberate.’

  ‘That’s the view taken by Inspector Cole at Mapleton.’

  ‘What has he done about it?’

  ‘Everything possible. The RAF has no one missing. No civil air line operator has lost a passenger. The district has a thin population. Everyone living near has been questioned without result. No one remembers seeing an aircraft — but of course, whether it was accident, suicide or murder, it could have happened after dark.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘It wasn’t suicide. At all events, I can’t see a man bothering to half undress if he intended to destroy himself.’

  ‘It sounds to me more like murder,’ asserted the Air Commodore. ‘Someone decided to dispose of his victim by throwing the body out of an aircraft.’

  ‘Then why not drop it where no one was ever likely to find it — in the sea, for instance, with a weight to take it to the bottom?’ Biggles reached for a cigarette. ‘What do you want me to do, sir? By this time any scent there may have been will be stone-cold. The aircraft from which the man fell, if in fact he did fall, could be anywhere in the world.’

  The Air Commodore smiled lugubriously. ‘We’re expected to find out the name of this man, how the body came to be where it was discovered and who was responsible.’

  Biggles looked pained. ‘Have a heart, sir. I’m not surprised Gaskin pushed the case along to us.’

  ‘I warned you it would be a tough nut to crack.’

  ‘Unless there’s a flaw in the shell it looks as if I shall need a sledge-hammer,’ returned Biggles cynically. ‘I take it photographs of this curious corpse are available?’

  The Air Commodore laid on the desk the envelope he carried. ‘Here are some prints. You’ll find full physical details written on the backs.’

  Biggles withdrew one, and Ginger, looking over his shoulder, saw the face of a man in the early twenties, good-looking in a hard sort of way. Even in death it had a touch of ‘class’ about it.

  ‘Has this portrait been published?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘No. Inspector Cole thought it better not to let it be known yet that the body had been found; hoping, of course, that anyone who knew where it was would return. Well, that’s as much as I can tell you. See what you can make of it.’

  ‘Do you happen to know if there is anywhere handy for a plane to get down?’

  ‘Anticipating that question I asked the inspector. No. It’s all rough country. No airfield for miles. You’d better run up by car. You’ll need one when you get there, anyway. Anything else?’

  ‘You could save me time by letting the inspector know we’re on our way, and ask him to book two rooms for us at a reasonable hotel. We shall have to go home for our kit, so we may arrive late.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ promised the Air Commodore, and left the room.

  After the door had closed behind him Ginger remarked: ‘This looks like being a complete waste of time.’

  Biggles drew gently on his cigarette. ‘I wouldn’t say that. All we have to do is sort out the things that don’t make sense, put them together, and there we should find the kernel of the nut.’

  ‘None of it makes sense to me.’

  ‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ reproved Biggles. ‘Something must make sense or the affair couldn’t have happened. No one can live without being known to somebody. Someone, somewhere, must have known this dead man who they say dropped out of the sky. Our job is to find him.’
<
br />   ‘Where do we start looking?’

  ‘In Yorkshire. Why was the body found in that particular locality? Of course, it may have been purely accidental; on the other hand there may have been a reason. If there was a reason it shouldn’t be impossible to find out what that reason was. Now let’s get on with it.’

  At ten o’clock the following morning Biggles was introducing himself to Divisional Inspector Cole at Mapleton police station. The inspector, a big, square-faced man with a calculating eye, received them cordially, admitting frankly that he had run into a dead end.

  ‘May I start by asking you a few questions?’ requested Biggles.

  ‘As many as you like.’

  ‘I take it you’ve made inquiries locally.’

  ‘Of course. I worked on two lines. First, had anyone noticed a stranger in the district. No one had. Then, concentrating on the flying angle, I asked everyone within a radius of a couple of miles if he or she had seen a plane flying low about the place. That got me nowhere, either. But then, who looks up at a plane nowadays?’

  ‘You’re convinced the man, dead or alive, dropped from the air?’

  ‘Everything pointed to it.’

  ‘What houses are there in the area?’

  ‘The nearest is a biggish place known as Mapleton Grange. Apart from that there are a couple of farms and a dozen farm cottages.’

  ‘I believe it was the gardener of the Grange who found the body?’

  ‘That’s right. An old fellow by the name of Larwood. He’s lived around here all his life. He now works for Colonel Thurburn, a retired army officer who bought the Grange about four years ago. Larwood occupies the lodge at the entrance gate.’

  ‘Who lives at the Grange?’

  ‘Only the Colonel and his wife. They’re both getting on for seventy. Larwood’s wife helps in the house as a daily woman. I don’t think the old people can have much money. When Larwood told the Colonel what he’d found in Foxhole Spinney, as the place is called, the Colonel sent him straight to me. Larwood looked proper shaken, white as a sheet, when he walked in here.’