by W E Johns
‘And what did you do?’
‘Got in my car and went along, leaving word for a doctor and an ambulance to follow on. I found the body lying spreadeagled on its stomach in deep bracken. It had obviously hit the ground hard, even though it had gone clean through an oak tree, tearing off a hranch on the way. The state of the body pretty well confirmed what I suspected had happened. It was badly smashed up. I had a good look round, but finding nothing of interest I had the body taken to the mortuary. Naturally, I started inquiries right away, but they haven’t got me anywhere. I must admit I’m beaten. Do you want to see the place?’
‘No thanks. No doubt you went over the ground thoroughly, so after the lapse of time I’m not likely to find anything fresh. What I’d like to do next, if you don’t mind, is have a word with Larwood. We’ve got our own car.’
‘That’s all right with me. I’ve plenty to do, so you won’t mind if I don’t come with you? The Grange is only a bit over a couple of miles from here.’ The inspector marked it on a map that hung on the wall.
‘By the way. Did Larwood go back with you to show you the body?’
The inspector smiled. ‘No fear. He said wild horses wouldn’t ever drag him near the place again. The spinney is only a clump of trees, so I didn’t need him.’
‘I’ll see you later,’ said Biggles, and with Ginger went out to the car.
A quarter of an hour later it ran to a stop at a lodge that guarded the drive to a grey stone house of some size. A woman was hanging out washing.
‘Mrs Larwood?’ questioned Biggles.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’m a police officer. I’d like a word with your husband. Is he about?’
‘He’s working in the garden.’ Mrs Larwood pointed. ‘There he is. Would you like me to fetch him?’
‘Don’t bother. I’ll walk over to him.’ Biggles did so and made himself known. ‘I’m making inquiries about the body you found. You may be able to help me. I want you to tell me exactly what happened that morning.’
‘Yes, sir.’ With a foot resting on his spade, in broad Yorkshire dialect the man told his story in his own way, of how he had gone to the spinney for a bag of leaf mould and came upon the body lying in the bracken under a tree. ‘The first thing I see was a face staring up at me out o’ the bracken,’ he concluded. ‘I couldn’t see much else, the bracken being deep.’
‘Did you examine the body?’
‘Not me,’ was the vehement answer.
‘You didn’t touch it?’
‘I didn’t go any closer. There wasn’t no need. One look was enough for me. Like I just told you, I could see from the poor chap’s face he’d been dead some time. It looked horrible, with dried blood on it. One look and I was off as fast as I could go.’
‘You’re quite sure about this?’
‘I ain’t never likely to forget it. I shall see that face for the rest of me days. Proper shook me up, it did.’
‘Then what did you do?’
‘Went back to the house as fast as my legs could carry me to tell the guv’nor.’
‘Where was he?’
‘Writing letters in his study.’
‘Did you see anyone else?’
‘There wasn’t no one else to see. Mrs Larwood had gone to Mapleton with Mrs Thurburn to do the shopping, like they do regular, every week.’
‘And the Colonel sent you to fetch the police.’
‘Right away. I went on my bike.’
‘Did you, on the way, tell anyone what you’d found?’
‘No. As it happened I didn’t see no one. The first person I spoke to was Sergeant Lane at the police station.’
‘Then you came back home?’
That’s right.’
‘You didn’t go back to the body?’
‘Not me. I’d seen all I wanted of that. Besides, the police were there by then. I see the car.’
‘Was the Colonel here when you got back?’
‘Yes, he’d lit a bonfire over there and was raking up the dead leaves. He sometimes lends a hand in the garden when he’s nothing else to do.’
‘How long do you reckon it was from the time you left here to fetch the police till the time you got back?’
‘Must have bin a good hour, I’d say. They kept me some time at the police station, asking questions. Here comes the Colonel now.’
‘Thank you, Mr Larwood.’ Turning away Biggles walked forward to meet the owner of the house.
Ginger followed. He saw a tall, clean-shaven, elderly man, with bright blue eyes and close-cropped iron-grey hair, who, when he was young, must have been a handsome, commanding figure. Now, although he maintained his poise he had begun to stoop a little. His face was deeply lined and his expression austere; but his manner, when Biggles introduced himself, was courteous.
‘I have been sent to investigate the death of the man found by your gardener, and if possible establish his identity,’ went on Biggles. ‘Can you spare me a minute?’
‘Certainly, although I doubt if I can add anything to what is already known.’
‘I came prepared for that, sir. May I ask where you were when Larwood reported what he had found in the spinney?’
‘I don’t see much purpose in the question, but I was in my study writing some urgent letters.’
‘You sent him to fetch the police.’
‘Naturally, as I am not on the telephone.’
‘What did you do then?’
‘The obvious thing. I stood in the garden until I saw the police car arrive.’
‘You didn’t go to the spinney to confirm what Larwood had told you?’
‘To what purpose? Larwood had told me the man had been dead for some time, so there was nothing I could do.’
‘So you didn’t go near the body?’
‘I have already said I waited here to watch for the police to arrive. I passed the time by doing some work in the garden.’
‘I see, sir. I think that’s all. I’m much obliged to you. Now I’ll be getting along.’
‘Can I offer you some refreshment — a glass of sherry, perhaps?’
‘No thanks, sir. I must be getting back.’
‘As you wish. In that case I’ll say good morning to you.’
‘Good morning, sir.’
When they were in the car on the way back to Mapleton Ginger asked: ‘What do you make of all that — if anything?’
‘You heard everything I heard. Work it out for yourself.’
‘Where are we going now?’
‘To the pub for some lunch.’
‘And after that?’
‘Tonight I shall go for a stroll. For the moment I’m thinking.’
Ginger looked at Biggles curiously but said no more.
It was half past nine, and a fine moonlight night, when after a substantial Yorkshire meal Biggles announced it was time they were moving off. They wouldn’t need the car. A little exercise would do them good.
‘Where are we going?’ Ginger wanted to know, not unnaturally.
‘Only as far as the Grange. I want to have a closer look at something.’
‘In the house?’
‘In the garden.’
A brisk walk of half an hour took them to the objective. A cautious reconnaissance revealed no lights either in the lodge or the big house. Ignoring the gate, which had been closed, they got into the grounds by climbing the wall farther along. Biggles then walked on as if he knew exactly where he was going. He stopped at a heap of bonfire ash.
‘I don’t think we shall be disturbed, but you’d better keep watch,’ he said softly, and dropping on his knees began groping in the ashes with his fingers.
Presently Ginger said: ‘What on earth are you hoping to find?’
‘Frankly, I don’t know. But there’s a chance I may find something that could turn out to be the kernel of the nut we’re trying to crack.’
It was some time before he found anything. Twice he stopped, sniffing. ‘Smell anything?’
�
��No.’
‘I can, but maybe that’s because I’m closer to the ashes than you are.’
A minute later he uttered a curious sound that might have meant anything. He rose to his feet. ‘Take a look at this,’ he breathed, holding out an object for Ginger to see. It was a metal ring about three inches in diameter.
‘What the deuce is it?’ asked Ginger.
‘You should know,’ answered Biggles, putting the ring in his pocket.
‘Is that what you were looking for?’
‘It certainly was not — but it should have been. But let’s get home. I need a wash.’
Ten o’clock the next morning found them, with Biggles carrying a large envelope, at the police station.
Inspector Cole was there, in uniform. ‘Well,’ he greeted. ‘How are you getting on? Solved the problem yet?’
His expression changed when Biggles answered evenly: ‘I think so. I shall be disappointed if I haven’t found someone who can tell us the name of the dead man. I’m now going to ask him. I thought you might care to come along.’
Staring hard at Biggles, the inspector reached for his cap. ‘You’re not pulling my leg?’
‘I don’t waste my time when there’s a job to be done. My car’s outside. We’ll use that.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the Grange.’
‘The Grange!’
‘I’m pretty sure the gallant Colonel can tell us all we want to know.’
On arrival the door was opened by the Colonel himself. He seemed surprised to see them. Said Biggles: ‘Good morning, sir. I’m sorry to trouble you again, but there’s one more question I’d like to ask. Can we go somewhere where we shan’t be disturbed?’
The Colonel took a hard look at Biggles’ face. ‘Come through to my study.’ He led the way. ‘Now, what’s the question?’ he inquired when they were in the room.
Biggles took a photograph of the dead man from the envelope he carried and placed it on the desk. ‘It may save trouble all round if you’ll tell us his name.’
The colour drained from the Colonel’s face, but he retained his composure. ‘What makes you think I might know?’
‘You haven’t answered my question,’ reminded Biggles softly.
No answer.
‘Very well, if you won’t tell me I shall have to tell you how much I know,’ resumed Biggles. ‘Why did you lie to the police?’
The Colonel flushed. ‘I’m not in the habit of telling lies.’
‘In the ordinary way, sir, I’m sure you are not. That’s what puzzles me. You told me you did not go near the body lying in the spinney. That was not true. After Larwood had gone for the police you went to the spot. You must have recognized the man or you wouldn’t have taken the trouble to remove everything which might have led to identification. You also took away the parachute which, by failing to open, was responsible for the man’s death. You hurried home with these things, but were then faced with the problem of disposing of them. You fetched paraffin, poured it over, and set fire to them in the garden. When Larwood returned you raked dead leaves on the fire. But the rip cord ring, being metal, would not burn. It remained in the ashes. I found it last night. I could still smell the paraffin.’ Biggles put the ring on the desk. ‘Now, who was this man and why did you do it?’
The Colonel looked stricken. ‘Do you mind if I sit down? I see I shall have to tell you everything.’ A long pause. ‘The dead man was my son.’
From Biggles’ expression it was clear this was an answer he did not expect.
‘My son was a bad boy,’ went on the Colonel heavily. ‘He was expelled from school. He ran away from home and went from bad to worse. I gave him money to go to South Africa. There he murdered a man and fled to South America. Later he returned to Europe. I needn’t go into the details, but his demands for money ruined me. I gave him all I could afford, but it had to end. Recently, in trouble in Paris, he demanded a large sum. I hadn’t got it, whereupon he wrote a letter threatening to come here and fetch it. Apparently he tried to do that. When I went to the spinney I was unprepared for the shock of seeing him. I had no suspicion. The possibility never occurred to me...’
‘Why did you act as you did?’
‘For two reasons, although I didn’t really stop to think. My first impulse was to save my wife any further distress. The boy had already broken her heart. Secondly, to a lesser degree, I hoped to avoid a scandal.’
‘Why do you think he parachuted into the country?’
‘I can only suppose he thought that if he travelled openly he would be recognized and arrested. He must have known someone who had an aeroplane and persuaded him, or paid him, to fly him over. As there was nowhere for the plane to land he dropped near the house by parachute. It failed to open.’ The Colonel buried his face in his hands.
Biggles touched the inspector on the arm. That’s enough for now,’ he said quietly. ‘Let’s go.’
‘What beats me,’ said the inspector when they were back at the police station, ‘is how you hit on the truth so quickly. It had been staring me in the face for nearly a month.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. There’s an old saying to the effect that if you look at a wood long enough you can’t see it for trees. Coming fresh on the scene I could see it more clearly. On the morning the body was found only three people knew about it; Larwood, the Colonel and you, in that order. From what Larwood told me the body must have been lying face up. He could describe the face. There was dry blood on it. He didn’t touch the body and that’s easy to believe. From what you told me, when you first saw the body it must have been lying face down — on its stomach, you said. The third person involved, the Colonel, said he didn’t go near the body. Someone not only went near it, but moved it. Who was lying? I could rule you out. Larwood was sent hot-foot for the police and you were on the spot before he got back. That left only the Colonel. A man of that type doesn’t lie readily. The unanswered question was, why had he done it?’
‘He didn’t want the body to be identified as his son.’
‘We know that now. There was another pointer. When Larwood ran back to the house to report what he had found the Colonel was writing urgent letters in his study. After Larwood had gone for the police did he finish writing his letters? No. What was more natural than he should go and look at the body? We can imagine the shock. If he was to do anything it had to be there and then. We know what he did. With his wife and Mrs Larwood in Mapleton, and Larwood not yet back, there was no one to see him. When Larwood did get back what was he doing? Finishing his letters? No. He was in the garden stoking a bonfire — hardly what you’d expect in the circumstances. It seemed to me he must have been in a hurry to burn something. What was it?’
‘Did you suspect a parachute?’
‘No. I had considered a parachute earlier but dismissed it because some of the fabric would have been caught up in the tree. I confess my imagination didn’t run to a parachute that had failed to function, although had I been wide awake it should have done. When I went to the bonfire I was hoping to find something, anything, that had not been burnt. Of course, when I found a parachute ring the picture was wide open. I was still puzzled about one thing. When Larwood found the body it must have been wearing the parachute. He never mentioned it. I could only conclude he didn’t notice it. That’s understandable, as it was in deep bracken. Moreover, if it was a seat-type parachute it would be under the body, then lying face up. Larwood said he took one look and bolted.’
‘Why did the Colonel take off the parachute?’
‘He had to remove the harness to get at his son’s jacket to see what was in the pockets. He couldn’t leave it lying there. That would have told you the body had been interfered with. So he took it home, with the jacket, and burnt it. This morning I decided to confront him with the ring, trusting that under the influence of shock it would produce the whole truth — which it did. What the old man did was understandable. Whether or not it was pardonable I leave to you. My own fee
ling is he has suffered enough without being taken to court.’
The inspector nodded. ‘I think you’re right. The only case against him is withholding information from the police.’
Biggles held out a hand. ‘Well, it’s all yours. We’ll be getting back to London.’
[Back to Contents]
THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT
‘It’s about time some of these star private detectives we see on the tele were dropped into the Force so they could try their hand at the real thing. It makes me laugh the way they find clues sticking out like organ stops — which, of course, the police were too dumb to notice.’ The speaker was Detective-Inspector Gaskin, of Scotland Yard, and in his voice there was more than a hint of sarcasm.
Biggles, who had gone to the canteen, and finding him there had joined him in a cup of tea, smiled sympathetically. ‘Don’t let it worry you,’ he consoled. ‘How else would you have the story end? Let the crook get away with it? That wouldn’t do.’
‘I suppose not. But why make it seem that amateurs are so much smarter than men like me who have spent half their lives learning the business?’
‘Maybe there are occasions when they are,’ bantered Biggles.
‘That’s a nice thing to say,’ growled the police officer.
‘You’re not forgetting I’m what you might call an amateur myself,’ reminded Biggles. ‘I’ve only become, shall we say, semi-professional, by virtue of being an air pilot.’
‘What’s so wonderful about that?’
‘Nothing, unless it is that flying teaches a man to think fast.’
‘The trouble is there are too many crooks, and some of ‘em seem to commit crime, even murder, without a motive,’ went on Gaskin lugubriously. ‘What can you make of such people?’
‘What you mean is, how are you to catch ‘em?’
‘Put it that way if you like.’
Biggles sipped his tea and lit a cigarette. ‘Come on,’ he invited. ‘Out with it.’
‘Out with what?’
‘Something’s biting you. What is it?’
