by W E Johns
‘All this newspaper criticism because we haven’t been able to find the man who knocked this kid Nellie Tomkins on the head. You must have read about it.’
‘Only the headline; not the details.’
‘Want to hear ‘em?’
‘If you like. Get ‘em off your chest and we’ll see if an amateur can make anything of ‘em. I take it this has nothing to do with aviation?’
‘Nothing at all. And I wish you’d stop pulling my leg. This is murder.’
‘Sorry. Go ahead.’
‘Nellie Tomkins was twelve. She was the only child of a couple who live in a cottage near Watton, in Hertfordshire, where she went to school. Actually, the cottage is a lodge at the entrance to an estate. Last Monday she was walking home from school as usual, only a matter of a mile or so, when some devil hit her on top of the head and left her dying beside the road. In a matter of minutes she was seen and picked up by a passing motorist. By the time they’d got her to hospital she was dead. That’s as much as we know.’
‘No clue to the killer?’
‘One. If you can call it a clue. A couple of yards from where the body was found lay a box of chocolates which she may have been carrying or holding when she was struck down. Not cheap chocolates, either. It was a two-pound box of high-class stuff, roses on the lid, gold ribbon and so on. The point is, they weren’t the sort that could have been bought in the village. In fact, we know they weren’t bought anywhere near. That’s been checked. Who would give that poor kid such a box of chocolates and why were they left lying beside the body?’
‘Had the girl any other injuries?’
‘No. She’d simply been coshed with the proverbial blunt weapon.’
‘If it comes to that, why was the body left beside the road? Why wasn’t it hidden, in a ditch, or behind the hedge, for instance?’
‘I can only suppose the murderer was in too much of a hurry to get away. He may have heard the other car coming — the one that found the body. Normally the road, a secondary one, doesn’t carry much traffic.’
‘What about the man, driving the car, who found the body?’
‘You can rule him out. He happened to be a parson. His wife was with him. They’d been into Hertford to do some shopping. They must have been the first people to come along after the kid was struck.’
‘These chocolates. Had the box been opened?’
‘No. It was still wrapped in fancy paper, the sort of stuff they use around Christmas time.’
‘Were there any signs of a struggle?’
‘None. The girl was killed by a single blow that fractured her skull. She wasn’t wearing a hat. There was no blood about.’
‘There wouldn’t be if only one blow was struck. It’s a second blow in the same place that makes the splashes. But you’d know all about that.’
‘I suppose you wouldn’t care to run down and have a look at the place where it happened?’ suggested Gaskin tentatively.
Biggles tapped the ash off his cigarette. ‘There doesn’t seem much point in it. I take it you made a thorough search of the area?’
‘We’ve combed every yard. I reckoned to find the murder weapon, but nothing has turned up.’
‘Could the girl have been accidentally struck by a hit and run motorist?’
‘No. I considered that. Had she been knocked down by a passing car there must have been bruises on the body. What sort of vehicle could have hit her on the head without making a mark anywhere else?’
‘What’s your theory, so far?’
‘Naturally, at first I thought the murderer must be someone who knew the girl’s habit of walking home, and the time; but I had to discard that when all the men I questioned, local men who might have been there, had convincing alibis. Now all I can think is, some devil, presumably a stranger, in a car or on a motor bike, seeing the girl walking alone along the road, stopped her and gave her the chocolates, or offered them to her, hoping she’d go off with him. Obviously she refused, or her body wouldn’t have been where it was found. So he coshed her, maybe, if he had a car, intending to take her with him anyway. The trouble is I can’t find anyone who remembers seeing a car, or any other vehicle, about that time. Not that that’s conclusive. No one pays much attention to a car. The parson who found her didn’t see anyone in front of him, although he must have reached the spot within minutes of the kid being knocked down. Can you see anything wrong with that line of reasoning?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘I suppose it could have happened that way, but I find it a bit unconvincing. For instance, if the man was a stranger who didn’t know the girl, how did it happen that he had a box of chocolates handy — expensive stuff, moreover, that couldn’t have been bought locally? That sounds as if he knew what he was going to do; if so he must have known about the girl.’
‘He may not have been looking for Nellie. Maybe he didn’t care what girl it was.’
Biggles thought for a moment. ‘I’m puzzled about these chocolates. I feel they’re the axis about which the whole thing revolves. Did you tell the Press about them?’
‘No. They were the only clue I had, so I kept it up my sleeve for the time being. Well, there it is. Now the newspapers are creating. Look at the headlines. What are the police doing? Another unsolved murder! etc., etc. What do they think we are — magicians? As I said just now I’d like to see some of these TV sleuths have a go at this. They always find the answer.’
‘I’d say you’ve got the answer in that box of chocolates if you can winkle it out.’
Gaskin stuffed tobacco into his pipe. ‘Perhaps you can tell me how. I’ve contacted the makers. The box was one of ten thousand made for the Christmas trade and they were distributed from one end of the country to the other. I’ve been over that damn box a score of times looking for a mark that might tell me something. It’s true one corner is dented, but that could have happened a hundred ways, even before it was bought. The outside wrapping and the string were the sort you can buy anywhere.’
‘The box must have been handled. What about fingerprints?’
‘Nothing but a lot of smudges. The man who last handled the box, before giving it to the kid, must have been wearing gloves. The same with the parson who picked it up. He handed it to his wife. She put it in the car. It was a chilly day and they were both wearing gloves; so you can imagine how many paw marks there were on the box by the time it reached me.’
‘You’re talking about the outside wrapping. What about the box itself?’
‘Oh that. It must have been handled by scores of people, men and women, probably shop girls, before it was sold. You’d expect that. It’d be put on the shelf. Taken down again. Put in the window. Taken in again to show a customer... No, that won’t get us anywhere. Do you want to have a look at it?’
‘No. What could it tell me that it couldn’t tell you? I’d rather have a look at the place where the body was found. How far away is the nearest house?’
‘A hundred yards. It’s the cottage where the poor kid lived. She was in sight of home when she was murdered.’
The parents heard nothing?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No car?’
‘No.’
‘I was thinking, if the child was attacked she’d scream.’
‘Her parents told me they didn’t hear a sound.’
‘Surely there’s something queer about that?’
‘They were in the kitchen having their tea when it must have happened, expecting Nellie to walk in any minute.’
Biggles stubbed his cigarette. ‘I still think there’s something odd about this. Of course, with so much noise these days it’s always possible to hear something without noticing it. Somehow I can’t see any man bashing a girl on the head before she could open her mouth. Let’s go and have a look at the place.’
A little more than an hour later, Inspector Gaskin, driving his own car, pulled up at the spot where the tragedy had occurred. This is it,’ he said.
It was a typical, rather narrow country road, little
more than a lane, with a bank topped by a hedge on one side and a grass verge with a hedge beyond it on the other. They got out.
Gaskin pointed down the road. There’s the gate of the cottage where the girl lived. What do you make of it?’
The first thing that strikes me is this,’ answered Biggles. ‘No man in his right mind would commit murder in broad daylight so close to a house — any house, never mind the one where the girl lived, assuming he knew that. If he had come prepared, and was carrying the chocolates as a bait, why let the girl get so close to a house? There are places that should have suited his purpose better before she got as far as this.’
‘He may not have known what he was going to do.’
‘Then why did he bring the chocolates?’
‘It may be he just happened to have them with him.’
‘In which case we may wonder what he intended to do with them in a country lane such as this? Sit on the bank and eat them? All by himself! There may be men who do that sort of thing, but I’ve never met one. Let’s go on a bit.’
They got back into the car and cruised on slowly to a cottage that stood beside the entrance gate to a drive leading into an estate of some size. One side of the drive was bounded by a stand of fine old beech trees. The other side was typical parkland with various isolated trees at intervals.
‘This is where the kid lived,’ said Gaskin, thumbing the cottage. ‘Are you going in to have a word with them?’
‘No. What more could they tell me? Poor souls. Why worry them? We shan’t find the answer to our problem there.’
At this moment a cock pheasant flew out of the beeches with a cackle of alarm and crossing the drive glided down in the park.
“There’s somebody in that wood,’ remarked Biggles.
‘What about it?’
‘Who is it, and what’s he doing there?’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It might. One never knows. I’m prepared to take an interest in anyone wandering about so close to where the girl was killed. Never leave a stone unturned, as they say — even a pebble if it might hide something.’
‘There’s your answer,’ returned Gaskin, with a wan smile as he filled his pipe.
From out of the trees not far away had stepped a well-dressed attractive young woman. After a glance up and down the drive she crossed it and meandered away across the park. Biggles watched her without speaking.
‘I can tell you who she is since you’re so interested,’ offered Gaskin.
‘Who is she?’
‘Diana Fairfax, daughter of the man who owns the place.’
‘How do you know?’
‘In the course of my inquiries I went to the big house and had a word with her father, Sir Eustace Fairfax. She was there.’
‘Did you go for any particular reason?’
‘To check up on the staff, any man-servants, who would of course know Nellie.’
‘Were there any?’
‘One, the butler. He’s over seventy, so we can forget him.’
Biggles was still watching the young woman, now wandering back across the park towards them, her eyes on the ground. ‘She seems to have lost something,’ he observed. ‘I wonder what it could be?’
‘Why not go and ask her?’ suggested Gaskin in a tone of voice that implied he did not expect to be taken seriously.
‘Do you know anything about her?’
‘Only that she’s engaged, and last Monday when I called was her twenty-first birthday. When I went in she happened to be unwrapping her presents.’
‘Do you by any chance happen to know who she’s engaged to?’
‘Yes. Her father mentioned it when I asked him for the names of any men who had recently visited the house. You might know him. He’s a lad in the RAF. Flying Officer named Paget. Not the type to murder anyone, let alone a kid like Nellie, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I wasn’t thinking on those lines,’ answered Biggles. ‘As you’ve already met Diana you might go and ask her what she’s looking for.’
Gaskin gave Biggles a long penetrating stare. ‘What the devil has it to do with us?’
‘As I’ve said before, one never knows.’
‘Do you think you know what it might be?’
‘Let’s say I have a notion. I could be wrong.’
‘Oh, come on. Don’t waste my time. What could it be?’
‘Possibly a box of chocolates.’
Gaskin blinked. A frown furrowed his forehead. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘Well, there she is. You might just see if I’m right. It won’t take a minute.’
‘I’d say you’re anything but right — in the head.’ Gaskin strode off.
Biggles waited, smoking a cigarette, while the detective had a conversation with the girl lasting about five minutes. When Gaskin came back there was a slightly dazed expression on his face.
‘Well,’ inquired Biggles. ‘What’s she looking for?’
Gaskin seemed to have difficulty in speaking. ‘A box of chocolates,’ he breathed. ‘Her fiancé rang up to ask her if she’d found the box he’d dropped for her. She’s been looking for it ever since. How the devil did you guess?’
A smile spread slowly over Biggles’ face. ‘Guess? You as good as told me.’
‘How do you make that out?’
‘By putting together a number of apparently irrelevant details which nevertheless added up to an idea. Monday, the day Nellie was killed, was Diana’s birthday. You saw her unpacking her presents. A common present for a girl is a good box of chocolates. Diana is engaged to a flying officer. To my certain knowledge he wouldn’t be the first pilot, by a long chalk, to drop a present to his girl from an aircraft. It’s so much more romantic than having the postman deliver it. Unfortunately our dashing young airman, Flying Officer Paget, was a bit wide of the target, which I imagine was the lawn in front of the house. The box hit the road, or it would have done if it hadn’t landed on the head of that unlucky child. You told me a corner of the box had been dented. No wonder the girl didn’t scream. She never knew what hit her. So there we are. It all fitted like a jigsaw. What happened was a million to one chance, but sometimes Luck, or Fate, has its little joke by making them come off. Had you not withheld from the Press the information about the chocolates no doubt Diana would have read about it and put two and two together. Did you tell her they had been found, and where?’
Gaskin shook his head. ‘No. Not yet. What’s the use? The mischief has been done and there’s no sense in making anyone else miserable. It’ll have to be reported, of course. Well, let’s get home. I must say for an amateur you don’t do too badly. What beats me is that a box of chocolates could kill anyone.’
‘That box would come down with the force of a brick. You’d be surprised. Hit on the head it would have killed a horse, never mind a child without a hat. I once saw an airman killed by a spent cartridge, weighing perhaps an ounce, that fell from an aircraft flying at under a thousand feet. It went through a sun helmet like a bullet and then into his skull, knocking him out cold. Maybe that experience counted today. If so, you’ve had the benefit of it. Now, as you say, let’s get along. As you’ve nothing on your mind we might stop for a snack on the way.’
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE AMATEUR YACHTSMEN
The tenuous blanket of dawn-mist which night had spread over that part of the Atlantic known as the Western Approaches writhed and coiled as it was pierced by the lances of a new-born summer sun. It lifted, dispersing as it rose, so that in a few minutes it had vanished as completely as if it had never been to reveal the broad face of the ocean in its most tranquil mood.
Air Police Constable ‘Ginger’ Hebblethwaite, flying at 5,000 feet, was glad to see it go, for he was bored with gazing into the empty blue void over his head or an apparently endless mass of cotton-wool below. He could now get on with his work, which on this occasion was not an ordinary routine patrol. He was looking for something, although he did not know ex
actly what it might be, except that it would come within the broad definition of transport, marine or air. Land, being little more than irregular smudges on the northern and southern horizons, could obviously be ruled out.
He checked his position, and finding himself beyond the end of his allotted beat, and a little concerned at being so far from solid ground in a machine with wheels on its undercarriage, he turned about to retrace his track, at the same time exploring the atmosphere for Biggles, who was — or should be — farther west in the flying-boat amphibian ‘Gadfly’. Failing to spot him, turning in wide circles but always edging nearer to the English coast, he gave his attention to the sea.
This, to survey it thoroughly, would, he knew, be a longer operation, for strange though it may seem to a landsman who sees ships only from ground level, a vessel on the ocean, unless it happens to be a very big one, from a high altitude appears as a very small object indeed, easily overlooked. Moreover, although there are a great many ships in the world, of one sort or another, water covers so much of the earth’s surface that when they are distributed there can be great distances between them. Although the English Channel is one of the busiest sea-traffic lanes, one can sail across it without seeing another ship.
On this occasion Ginger was not interested in big ships.
He made out a tanker, easily recognizable by the length of its hull with the superstructure aft, evidently from its course making for that base for such vessels, Falmouth Harbour. A big liner, outward bound, was hull down on the western horizon. Looking eastward he saw three warships coming down the middle of the Channel. Judging from the trails of white water they left behind them they were travelling at a rate of knots, presumably engaged in an exercise. There was little else: a few small craft, probably fishing-boats, were working closer inshore.
After another examination of the blue dome of heaven above and around him Ginger continued his search, methodically but without enthusiasm scanning the calm surface of the sea, section by section — without enthusiasm because he had been convinced from the outset that his assignment was in the nature of a wild-goose chase.
