by W E Johns
A tiny white feather which could only be foam caught his eye and held it. It was obviously the wake of a very small but high speed craft. Using his binoculars, which lay on the seat beside him ready for use, he was able to make out what he decided was a motor-boat, a cabin cruiser. It struck him as odd that such a boat, used chiefly for inshore pleasure trips, should be so far from land. Moreover, it was obviously going somewhere in a hurry. By watching the wake, which was constant, he was able to work out its approximate course. If it was maintained it would reach the English coast at Devon or Cornwall. A line extended behind it showed that it had started from a point in north-western France.
Ginger now took more interest. Was this what he was looking for? It was possible, if improbable. Easing the control column forward, he went ‘downhill’ for a closer inspection.
In doing this he presently saw something else, a dark object he had not previously noticed, either because it was small or more likely because it appeared not to be moving. He took it to be a fishing-boat. It had a mast, but the sail was furled. It was a mile or more from the motor-boat, but it lay directly on its course. He was sure the man at the wheel of the powered craft must have seen it, but so far he had made no move to change direction.
Ginger didn’t know much about sea-fishing, but he was under the impression that small fishing craft kept on the move in order to work their nets. Could this be a rendezvous? Now having something to engage his interest he watched, half turning away, on half throttle both to lose a little more altitude and reduce engine noise.
Which brings us to the operation on which he was engaged. There was really nothing extraordinary about it; and, strictly speaking, it was not a matter for the British Air Police beyond co-operation in general terms between members of Interpol — The International Police Bureau. A robbery had occurred in France. A van carrying gold ingots to the value of nearly £100,000 had disappeared in transit between Paris and the port of Cherbourg. The van had been found abandoned. The gold had disappeared. So, of course, had the bandits. There was no clue. The French police thought it likely that an attempt would be made to smuggle the gold out of the country, wherefore sea and airports had been alerted, even though it seemed unlikely that the thieves would risk using any form of regular transport.
It seemed reasonable to suppose that if the gold left France it would be by a private conveyance, by sea or by air. To prevent this the forces of Interpol had been mustered, and to the British Air Police was given the assignment of watching the English Channel, both the sea and the air above it, for movements of a suspicious nature.
Biggles had accepted the task without pleasure, taking the view — as he told his Chief — that as the raid had been so cleverly planned it could be assumed that the disposal of the gold would be handled with the same efficiency. However, a watch had been laid on with all the police aircraft available, the pilots, generally flying solo, covering allotted sections of the Channel from dawn until dusk. Nothing could be done by aircraft after dark. On the present occasion it had been Ginger’s turn, in an Auster, to watch for any sort of craft moving without any apparent reason between north-west France and the Devon-Cornwall peninsula.
His interest in the motor-boat will now be understood. It had come from France. Where was it going? He also kept an eye on his petrol gauge, noting how much longer he would be able to remain airborne without refuelling.
His interest mounted when he saw the motor-boat run alongside the other craft — fishing-boat or whatever it might be — and stop. For what purpose? What could they have in common, he wondered? Such behaviour was at least unusual, if not suspicious. He kept his distance, watching, unable to see what was going on, yet not daring to go closer for fear those below might realize what he was doing.
The situation revealed the one big disadvantage under which an aircraft must work — as opposed, for instance, to a motor-car. A police officer in a car can challenge a suspected vehicle and if necessary search it. A police pilot in an aircraft can only watch. He cannot make direct contact, so he cannot ask questions. Thus with Ginger now.
The two craft lay side by side for perhaps ten minutes, ample time, Ginger reasoned, for something or someone to be transferred from one to the other. Then they parted, the motor-boat headed back for the long dark smudge that was the coast of France, the other setting a sail and taking up a course a little west of north. Extending an imaginary line, should this course be maintained, Ginger reckoned its landfall would be either Devon or Cornwall. As he couldn’t track both craft he devoted his attention to the one making for England.
He was now getting worried about petrol. It was obvious from the speed at which the fishing-boat was travelling, and the distance it had to go, that he would have to break off his patrol long before it reached land. There were other problems to exercise his mind. He realized that if he did follow his quarry to port, wherever that might be, he would probably lose sight of it among others of its class. Even from ground level he would be unable to identify it.
Yet he felt certain that he had seen some irregular transaction take place, probably nothing to do with the gold which was the primary object of his mission. That was too much to expect. The more he thought about it the more convinced he became that this meeting at sea was not an accident. The way it had happened suggested a prearrangement, an appointment. If this was correct there must have been an object. He could think of only one. Something, or perhaps somebody, had been switched from one boat to the other; but the way that object was now travelling, towards France or to England, he did not know and had no means of finding out. Why go to all this trouble unless the operation was illegal?
A detail about which he was in ignorance was the procedure that would be followed when the boat he was watching reached port. Would it automatically be checked by Customs and Excise officers? Was this a usual practice? He didn’t know. In this case the officials could hardly know where the boat had been and would have no knowledge of the meeting that had taken place at sea. Even if he found a way of warning them, how was the boat to be identified?
While these thoughts had been passing through his mind Ginger had been cruising towards the English coast, clear in the bright sunlight. Now, suddenly he made up his mind to do two things. First he must be able to recognize his quarry if he saw it again. He wouldn’t be likely to learn its name, but there might be some mark, some peculiarity, if only the colour of the sail, to make identification possible. If he succeeded in this he would make flat out for the nearest station where petrol was available, refuel and return; in time, he hoped, to watch the boat make port. There was a risk of losing it, but that had to be accepted.
Forthwith he set about putting the first part of his scheme into action. He went off for some distance, losing height, and then swung round in a wide circle on a course towards the coast, passing from a fairly low altitude the boat he was watching. Using his binoculars he was able to make out a common brown sail, and on it two letters in white, one above the other. They were N and K. There appeared to be a number under them, but it was too small for him to read. He also noted a small pointed pennant at the masthead. There was a device on it, but he could not make out what it was. A pile of dark-coloured objects lay on the deck. They could have been anything.
Having done as well as he expected, he flew straight on at top speed now making for the nearest RAF station, a training unit at Lidcombe, in south-west Devon. In ten minutes he was there.
Having landed and reported to Station Headquarters, the production of his police pass and Interpol Carnet were sufficient to obtain the service he needed. While this was being attended to, having permission to use the telephone, he put through a call to Algy, who was on duty in the office at Scotland Yard, and reported the incident of the meeting of the two craft at sea. He asked for Biggles to be told. He also suggested it might be worth while letting the coastguard service know about it as they might be interested.
In a few minutes he had signed for the petrol and oil he had take
n and was on his way back to the coast.
Reaching the open sea he made for the last known position of the boat in which he was interested, expecting to find it on the same course and closer to land. To his chagrin it was not where it should have been. In fact, it was not even in sight. Knowing it could not be far away, he made a systematic search, and after a little while found it lying inconspicuously, close inshore, against a rocky headland; which explained why he had had some difficulty in spotting it. He noted that it must have moved faster than he had thought possible. The sail was down, which also surprised him considering its position, and he could only conclude that it had an engine of some sort. He could see two men moving about on deck, but it took him a little while to make out what they were doing.
It was a line of black dots on the water that eventually told him. He had seen lobster pots before — or rather, the cork buoys that marked the position of the wicker-work traps that had been lowered to the sea bed. He realized that what he had seen lying on deck was a heap of lobster pots.
On the face of it nothing could be more natural, and as Ginger flew on he had a feeling that he had been making a mountain out of a molehill. He had to consult the Admiralty chart he carried in order to learn the name of the short, stumpy, rocky headland, against which the boat was working — if in fact it had a name, since it was hardly large enough to be called a cape. He made it out to be Bull Head, an insignificant physical feature apparently shown only on large-scale maps, for he had never heard of it.
Still flying straight on he had second thoughts about the situation. Why, if the boat was a lobster fisher, had it wasted time far out over the deep water of the Channel? There seemed to be something peculiar about that. However, there was nothing more he could do at the moment. Having plenty of petrol, he resolved to check where the suspect eventually came to anchor or found a mooring. So, from a safe distance, he watched the boat, under sail, cruise along the coast for two or three miles and then turn into the little harbour of Poltruan, where he lost sight of it among the small craft already there.
As there was nothing more he could do, still full of doubts about the whole business, he set a course for home. The time was still only nine o’clock.
It was some minutes short of noon when he walked into the office at Scotland Yard to find Biggles and Bertie there, both having come in for food and a rest after four hours in the air. Algy had departed to continue the patrol.
‘Well, did you see anything exciting at your end?’ greeted Biggles.
‘I wouldn’t say exciting, but maybe interesting,’ returned Ginger, dropping into a chair. ‘There may be nothing to it, in which case all I’ve done is waste a lot of time and petrol. I rang Algy when I went ashore to refuel. Didn’t he leave a note about it?’
‘He did. Now you’re here you can give us the details.’
‘Did Algy ring the coastguard people as I suggested?’
‘Yes, he did that, but as they haven’t reported back, either they did nothing about it or, if they did, drew blank.’
Ginger shrugged. ‘There was nothing else I could do. This is what happened.’ He went on to describe his activities of the morning.
When he had finished Biggles said: ‘I don’t see how you could have done more. Queer business. You did right to report it. This meeting at sea, obviously an appointment, looks suspicious, to say the least of it. Something irregular was cooking, that’s certain.’
Bertie spoke. ‘Why should a boat from our side go so far afield if its real intention was to bag a few lobsters?’
‘That’s what I asked myself,’ answered Ginger.
‘Well, you did as much as you could,’ consoled
Biggles. ‘If the Excise people aren’t interested I don’t see why we should lose any sleep over it.’
The intercom telephone at his elbow buzzed. He picked up the receiver. ‘Bigglesworth here.’ Then he listened for two or three minutes, a wry smile creeping over his face. At the finish all he said was: ‘Very well, sir.’ He replaced the instrument and looked up. ‘That’s all the thanks you get for trying to be helpful,’ he remarked bitterly.
‘I imagine that was the Chief,’ guessed Ginger.
Biggles nodded. ‘It seems I spoke a bit too soon. Some senior coastguard official has just rung up the Air Commodore to request that in future the Air Police mind their own business.’
‘Here, I say, that’s a bit thick,’ exclaimed Bertie indignantly. ‘What exactly are we to take that to mean?’
‘When Ginger’s boat returned to harbour at Poltruan some officers were there waiting for it. They made a thorough search.’
‘What did they find?’
‘A fish box.’
Ginger half rose in his chair. ‘Ah! What was in it?’
‘Fish,’ answered Biggles succinctly.
Bertie threw back his head and laughed.
Ginger scowled. ‘What’s so funny about that?’
‘Your expression. Sorry, dear boy.’
Biggles was not amused. ‘The two chaps on board admitted they’d been out in the Channel for a sail, the weather being perfect. They’d tried hand-lining for fish, but all they’d managed to catch were a few pollack. They’d seen nothing of a motor-boat.’
‘That makes them liars for a start,’ growled Ginger. ‘I saw a powered craft tie up alongside. That’s why I kept an eye on them. You don’t suppose I imagined it.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t.’
‘Was nothing said about lobsters?’
‘Not as far as I know. If you’ll listen I’ll tell you the rest of the information the Air Commodore has just passed on to me. The boat, which by the way has an auxiliary engine, doesn’t belong to a local fisherman. Actually it’s a small Dutch barge that has been converted into a private yacht. It’s owned by a couple of London gents — whatever that may mean — keen amateur yachtsmen who are taking a holiday sailing along the south coast. They’ve been at Poltruan for a week. According to them they’re members of a well-known yacht club, for which reason they took exception to being questioned. They demanded an apology and, I’m sorry to say, got one.’
‘Well, blow me down!’ breathed Bertie.
Biggles went on. ‘I don’t care who they are. What I don’t like is the way we’ve been given the brush-off as if we were a bunch of interfering twits. That’s the thanks you get for trying to be efficient.’
‘What had the Chief to say about it?’
‘He said we should be more careful.’
‘I call that pretty rich,’ muttered Ginger.
‘Forget it. He’s probably feeling a bit sore at having been ticked off.’
‘I feel more than a bit sore,’ asserted Ginger.
‘I don’t take it too kindly myself,’ put in Bertie, polishing his monocle briskly. ‘It would give me lots of joy if, we could prove some of these johnnies were wrong and we were right.’
‘And me,’ agreed Biggles thoughtfully. ‘That isn’t impossible, either. From the fact that these so-called gents lied about the motor-boat it wouldn’t surprise me if, when the Customs men went aboard, they adopted a high and mighty attitude as their best defence. Crooks can be pretty slick at that sort of thing.’
‘Then in spite of what has been said you still think they have been up to something?’ said Ginger.
‘I think what they did this morning justifies a more convincing explanation than the one they gave. If they’ve put down lobster pots round Bull Head it means they’ll be going back there, either tonight or tomorrow morning. I’ve a good mind to run down and have a look at these amateur yachtsmen.’
‘Why not, old boy?’ said Bertie, briskly. ‘It can do no harm.’
Biggles glanced at the clock. ‘To be mobile when we get there we shall need a car, which means going down by road. It’s about a five-hour run and will mean staying the night. No matter. Let’s press on.’
In ten minutes, with the emergency cases of small kit held in readiness for urgent occasions, they were on their
way to Poltruan.
They arrived at the little Cornish port just after seven, having stopped for a meal on the way, to find its narrow streets crowded with trippers and holiday-makers. This was to be expected for it was the high season, and they would have struck the same conditions at any seaside town, large or small. Having with some difficulty found a place to park the car, they made their way to the harbour, a simple affair formed by a concrete mole thrown at an angle half-way across a tiny natural bay.
Reaching the sea, Ginger indicated a towering mass of rock farther along the deeply indented coast. ‘That’s Bull Head,’ he remarked. ‘The place I told you about. The lobster pots were put down on the far side.’
‘We may have a closer look at it presently,’ answered Biggles.
Poltruan, like most West Country coastal villages — for it was little more than that — had until modern times been for centuries the home of a few families which for generations, father and son, had made a precarious livelihood by fishing. There were still half a dozen well-worn Cornish-built fishing-boats in the harbour, but much of the space was now occupied by pleasure craft, privately-owned small yachts, but mostly dinghies of various sizes, with outboard motors, which could be hired with or without a local man in charge. Fishing for mackerel with hand-lines was popular, these fish occurring in large numbers and being easy to catch. A party was just coming ashore with a good basket.
Said Biggles, as they stopped on the quay to survey the scene: ‘There’s the boat we came to look at, moored inside the mole. Let’s move nearer.’
Joining the several casual visitors who were doing the same thing, they strolled along the concrete barrier, looking at the various craft that lay alongside, until they came to the one in which they had a particular interest, identified by the burgee, or pennant, that decorated the masthead. There was not much to see. The boat itself was not, strictly speaking, a fisher; it was one of the type known as a Dutch ‘barge’; of shallow draught and built of massive timbers to stand up to the battering of the North Sea, which can on occasion be nasty. It had obviously been converted into a yacht, which many have on account of their seaworthy qualities. Its name was Scamperer.
