by W E Johns
“Well, sir, Dunnage wouldn’t be likely to take the rifle home after what he’d done. He’d want to be rid of it. He might have left it in the public house at Hayford, or he might have given it to Siggins to take care of; but I think it’s more likely that he would hide it before he got to Hayford, just in case anyone saw him with it. I saw which way he went. It was my intention to track him—I know his footprints—and find out where he put the rifle. I told you I’d had some experience of tracking. What worries me, though, is that it might rain before next Wednesday afternoon. Rain would blot out Dunnage’s footprints. Or by that time he might have moved the rifle to another place.”
The Head was silent for a long time. At last he said: “I dislike very much the idea of you boys being mixed up in this nasty business; but a wicked crime has been committed, and it is our duty to do everything in our power to bring the murderer to justice. Would you like to be excused school in the morning?”
Biggles’ lips parted. “That would be wonderful, sir. May Smith come with me? It might be a good thing to have a witness.”
The Head smiled wanly. “If Smith tertius wishes to go, he may.”
“Thank you, sir.”
The Head rose. “Now you had better be getting back to your beds.” He pointed to the pheasant. “You can leave that beastly mess here. Not a word of this to anyone. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
The boys left the room. “I always knew the Head was a jolly good sport,” declared Smith, as they hastened along the corridor.
“Of course,” answered Biggles. He was beginning to feel that everything was turning out for the best.
CHAPTER 13
ON THE TRAIL
To Biggles’ great satisfaction no more rain fell that night, and it was in almost high spirits that, as soon as he had finished breakfast, he set out with Smith for Foxley Wood. His optimism was not shared by Smith, who expressed doubts as to the outcome of the quest, with, moreover, a certain degree of morbid apprehension. He made no secret of his fear of Dunnage. On the other hand, Biggles hated the man whom he was convinced had killed the old gamekeeper. He was determined at any cost to see that justice was done. As he averred, Mr. Barnes could not be brought back to life, but he could be avenged.
The wood was reached without incident, and Biggles went straight on to the place in the fence where he had seen the poacher leave it. In the bright morning light the whole atmosphere was different, and he was soon showing Smith the artfully-contrived gap. He also pointed out the post on which Dunnage had beaten the luckless pheasant to death. A gruesome stain on it, to which still adhered some small feathers, confirmed his story.
“Don’t touch anything,” he warned. “That post may be evidence. It will at least prove that I didn’t make up the tale.”
They got through the gap, replacing the staves behind them, and there on the yielding ground were the footprints, so plain that there was no difficulty in following them. There were no others, except an occasional mark made unmistakably by a rabbit. “Walk on the grass,” Biggles told his friend. “We may have to show the police these footprints. Come on.”
They went on, walking briskly and without a check to the first obstacle, which was a stile through a hedge. The track continued on beyond it, but Biggles spent a minute examining the ground closely to make sure that Dunnage had not left the track on either side with the object of hiding the rifle in the hedge. On again to another hedge, with another stile, and beyond that a path that ran diagonally across a stubble to a grass field on the far side. The path was still plain, and although the footprints were sometimes lost, as if Dunnage had strayed in the dark, they were always found a little farther on. There were some horses in the grass field, and they had in places crossed the track, leaving here and there a hoof mark superimposed on the nailed boot; but there was no real check in the trail.
“Dunnage can’t have much of a brain or he would have had more sense than to leave a track like this,” observed Biggles as they walked along. “He should have kept off the bare ground.”
“It was dark, don’t forget,” reminded Smith. “Perhaps he was afraid that if he got off the path he wouldn’t find it again. Perhaps he didn’t know he was leaving a track. No doubt he was in a hurry, too; and, after all, he didn’t know you’d seen him leave the wood.”
“I’m jolly glad he didn’t,” returned Biggles with feeling. “If he had he’d have put a bullet into me by now.”
“It all goes to show you never know who’s about,” remarked Smith heavily.
Now came another stubble field, on the far side of which a gate provided a way through a tangle of briars. Both boys spent some time in the bushes, stamping about and getting well scratched to no purpose, for the rifle did not come to light. Beyond the gate a big grass field sloped down at a gentle incline towards a group of elms, above which, in the distance, rose the smoke from the chimneys of Hayford village. There were some cows grazing in this field, a few scattered about, but most of them in the far corner, near the path, where presently appeared a pond. The path skirted the pond to reach another stile, after which it went on down rather sharply to a lane which Biggles imagined led to the village.
Reaching the pond, Biggles stopped and looked at it thoughtfully. “If I wanted to get rid of something in a hurry, that’s the place I should choose to put it,” he remarked.
“The track goes right on,” Smith pointed out.
“I know it does, but Dunnage could have thrown the rifle into the water without leaving the track. No one would be likely to find it in the pond by accident. Let’s have a look.”
Keeping on the grass he followed the track, studying each footprint in turn. “Here you are,” he said sharply, “ He did something here. Look. That footmark has a twist in it. See how the nail marks slide sideways.”
“He might have slipped,” suggested Smith.
“He might,” agreed Biggles, “but why should he? He hasn’t slipped anywhere else. Personally, with those nails in his boots I don’t think he would slip. I’m not going past this pond without searching it. After all, Dunnage must have known he was getting near Hayford, and unless he intended giving the rifle to the publican or Siggins to take care of, he’d soon have to get rid of it. Personally, I don’t think he’d care to go into the pub with the rifle on him.”
“Would he know Siggins was there?” queried Smith.
“My guess is that Siggins used to come to the village with his dogcart to wait for him. That’s where they met after Dunnage had been poaching. That would save Dunnage walking home with the pheasants on him. If I’m right, it would account for why poor old Barnes never caught Dunnage on the Hertbury road. He told me he’d spent a lot of time on it, waiting for him.”
“How are you going to search the pond?” asked Smith dubiously.
“By paddling, of course. It doesn’t look deep. If the rifle is there I shall feel it with my feet. Dunnage wouldn’t be such a fool as to throw the rifle in deep water, where he couldn’t get it again.”
“You’ll get in an awful mess. The bottom looks all mud.”
“I can’t help that,” answered Biggles firmly, and sitting down began to pull off his shoes and socks. This done, he rolled up his trousers to above the knees and stepped gingerly into the water. He grimaced as his feet were submerged. “Phew! It’s beastly cold,” he muttered.
The first thing he found was an old iron hoop. He threw it aside and carried on, working each portion of the pool systematically. He found two or three old cans, a broken lantern, a bent bucket and a china doll, all of which he discarded. Then he winced as his toe struck another object. Stooping, he groped in the mud, found the thing and held it up. It was a rifle with a skeleton stock, still folded. “ That’s it,” he said in a voice brittle with excitement. Dropping the weapon, he splashed quickly to the bank.
“Aren’t you going to keep the rifle?” exclaimed Smith in surprise.
“Keep it? Not likely.”
“Why n
ot?”
“What would be the use of that? Dunnage would disown it. As he isn’t supposed to have a gun of any sort he’d swear it wasn’t his. Then who could prove that it was? No, the police will have to catch him with it on him.”
“How are they going to do that?”
‘ By watching him. He won’t leave the rifle there for ever. It’s worth money. Besides, he’ll want it again, no doubt.”
Biggles said this sitting on the grass, wiping his feet with his handkerchief, which was soon a nasty, wet-looking mess. “Lend me yours, Smith, to finish off with,” he requested.
Smith obediently handed over a dirty piece of rag. “Don’t get mud on it,” he warned. “It’s the only one I have.”
Biggles rubbed his feet, pulled on his socks, and got into his shoes. He had just laced them when a slight sound made him look up. A man was getting over the stile, less than a score of yards away. Biggles stiffened with shock when he recognised him. It was Dunnage. He managed to hiss “Cave!” and then pretended to be looking for something in the grass.
A choking, “Oh, my gosh!” informed him that Smith had grasped the situation.
Dunnage walked slowly forward. “What are you doin’ here, you young devils?” he growled.
“We’re just out for a walk,” replied Biggles evenly.
“Why ain’t you at school, eh?”
“Because we’ve got a holiday,” announced Biggles.
Dunnage scowled. “Well, clear out—the pair of yer—before I puts my foot be’ind yer.”
“Yes, Mr. Dunnage,” said Biggles meekly, for he suspected from the man’s flushed face that he had been drinking, and he had no desire to argue with a drunken man. With Smith beside him looking thoroughly scared, he began to walk away in the direction from which they had come.
Actually his brain was racing. That Dunnage might return so soon was something he hadn’t reckoned on, and for a moment he was afraid that his scheme had come to nothing. Glancing over his shoulder he saw Dunnage still standing by the pond, watching them out of sight.
“Do you think he’s come to fetch the rifle?” asked Smith, seeming to speak with difficulty.
“I can’t think of any other reason why he should be there,” answered Biggles. “Keep going. Don’t look round. Wait till we get to the gate.”
By the time they had reached the gate with the briars on either side of it, Dunnage had turned away and was staring at the pond. Biggles crouched behind the briars, pulling the twigs apart for a better view of the field they had just left.
“He’ll see the mud has been stirred up,” said Smith nervously.
“He’ll think it’s the cattle,” returned Biggles. “By gum! I’m jolly glad he didn’t come a minute or two earlier and catch me in the water.”
“Suppose he’d seen you with the rifle in your hand?” suggested Smith. He swayed at the thought.
Biggles was still watching Dunnage. “There he goes!” he exclaimed. “He’s in the pond. Didn’t bother to take his boots off.”
“What are we going to do?”
“Wait to see if he gets the rifle. Then we’ll watch which way he goes.”
There was no more talking for a minute. Stiff with interest the boys watched Dunnage groping about in the mud. They saw him stoop and lift the rifle out of the water. He washed it quickly and after a swift glance around put it into his trousers. He came out of the water, stood for a minute looking up and down, and then walked quickly away, taking the path that the boys had taken.
“He’s coming this way!” Smith’s voice cracked with alarm.
“You’re right,” agreed Biggles, in an agitated whisper. “Let’s push on to the next hedge. Keep low. We don’t want him to see us.”
Bent nearly double, the boys sprinted to the next stile, scrambled over it, and, again getting behind the hedge, looked back.
“He’s still coming,” panted Smith. “Let’s go. I don’t like this. He’ll wring our necks if he spots we’re watching him.”
Again the boys ran to the next hedge. Again they halted to look back. Dunnage was still coming on. Biggles spoke tersely. “I’ll tell you what. If the police can grab him with that rifle on him, he’s as good as on the gallows. I’ll stay and watch where he goes. You run for all you’re worth to the Head and tell him what’s happened.”
“Why not go to the police—it’s nearer?”
“No use. They won’t believe you. They’ll believe the Head. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s already told the police what I told him last night. Go on. Don’t stop for anything.”
“You watch out,” gasped Smith.
“Don’t worry about me. I can race him if he comes for me.”
“He may shoot you.”
“He’ll have to clean the rifle before he can use it. It must be full of mud. Go on. Don’t argue.”
Smith needed no further pressing. Bending low, elbows in his ribs, he went across the field as if a bull was on his heels.
Biggles watched for Dunnage to come into sight, when he, too, beat a retreat. And so it went on, Dunnage advancing and Biggles retreating, but keeping the man in sight, until Foxley Wood was reached. There Biggles was in some doubt as to what he should do for the best, because it was apparent that if Dunnage went into the wood he would lose sight of him altogether. No matter where he stood, the man might leave the wood on the opposite side, although the chances were, he thought, that Dunnage would carry on to the Hertbury road.
Biggles had no intention of being caught in the wood by a ruffian whom he was sure had just committed one murder in it; so he went on to the far side, and after waiting for a minute or two continued on to the Hertbury road. Reaching it, he again took up a position from where he could watch without being seen.
When Dunnage had not appeared in a quarter of an hour it became evident that he had either stopped by the wood or gone into it. Biggles could think of many things that he might be doing. He might be lying low, waiting for darkness to return home. He might be hiding the rifle in another place, although it seemed improbable that he would choose a spot so near the scene of his crime. He might have stopped to clean the rifle, or to remove traces of his previous visit to the place—the footprints by the fence, for instance.
More time passed and Biggles became really worried. Smith, by now, should have reached the school. The thought was no consolation to Biggles, who realised that if the police now appeared, while Dunnage was out of sight, the man might see them before they saw him, in which case he would either go into hiding or conceal the weapon which would be required to prove his guilt.
Biggles was greatly relieved, therefore, when Dunnage now came into sight, striding towards the road as if he hadn’t a care in the world. As Biggles realised, he no longer had the gamekeeper to fear.
Keeping well below the hedge to avoid being seen, Biggles began to move slowly towards Hertbury; but he had not gone far when who should he see coming towards him, with a purposeful stride, but Grumble, otherwise P.C. Grimble. In the far distance, a cautious spectator, appeared Smith.
Biggles guessed what had happened. Smith had obviously not been all the way to school and back. He must have met Grumble and told him his story. He would naturally do that if he met the policeman, reasoned Biggles. But he felt that it would not do for Dunnage to see the policeman first, so he tore down the road in the hope of reaching Grumble before Dunnage got over the gate. In this he succeeded. “Hide! Hide!” he called. “He’s coming!”
“What ‘ave I got to ‘ide for?” demanded the constable belligerently.
“Because if he sees you he’ll either bolt or shoot you,” panted Biggles. “The rifle’s in his trousers. Hide, and jump out on him when he’s close. That’s the best way.”
Apparently the constable thought there was something in this argument. Anyhow, he followed Biggles’ advice by getting clumsily into the ditch. Biggles strolled on a little way pretending to pick blackberries, but in reality looking sideways along the road. To his great satisfa
ction he saw Dunnage climb over the gate and saunter unsuspiciously towards the trap. Biggles could hardly breathe for excitement. He could see Smith standing, a lonely figure, in the middle of the road a long way away. He waved to him to come nearer. Smith waved back but remained where he was.
Biggles was about thirty yards away when Dunnage drew level with the policeman.
Grimble then rose like a pillar of authority, and advancing, said loudly: “I want a word with you, Dunnage.”
The poacher’s eyes narrowed under their shaggy brows. “Wot do yer want?” he grated. “Can’t a man walk down the public road without bein’ interfered with by a lousy copper?”
“I want to have a look at what you’ve got in your pockets,” said P.C. Grimble, with all the confidence in the world, but, thought Biggles, rather foolishly.
“Oh, yer do, do yer?” rasped Dunnage.
“Yes, I do,” said the constable.
Dunnage, apparently, had no intention of being searched, for with an oath he turned to run. But the policeman was ready for such a move; he jumped forward, grabbed him, and spun him round so that they were face to face. Dunnage struck out viciously.
Grimble struck back. Then the two men closed and stood straining and swaying on their feet, the poacher cursing, Grimble silent. Biggles ran in close, crying: “Where’s your whistle, Mr. Grimble ?—give me your whistle!”
No doubt the policeman would have done so had he been able to; but both his hands were occupied and the request met with no response.
The end came suddenly, and it came in a manner that sent Biggles staggering back with a cry of dismay. Dunnage tore himself free by sheer brute strength. He leapt back. Then, in a flash, he whipped out the still-folded rifle, swung it, and brought it crashing across the policeman’s head. Grimble’s legs crumpled under him and he collapsed on the road. His helmet rolled off. He tried to get up, but fell again.
Biggles, paralysed by shock and fear, could only stand and stare.
“I’ll get you for this, you little swine!” Dunnage roared at him, his face convulsed with fury.
