Biggles Does Some Homework

by Captain W E Johns

  “Which I imagine means heavy machines.”

  “Not always. I’ve had to ferry some trainer types to the manufacturers for overhaul and reconditioning.”

  “Fair enough. Did you bring your logbook with you?”

  “Yes. Signed up-to-date by the squadron office.” Mackay took from his pocket and laid on the table the small regulation service logbook in which all flights are recorded.

  Biggles opened it and perused the pages with a professional eye.

  “This seems to be okay,” he observed. “Now let’s come to more personal matters. Why did you choose the Air Force? I understand your people have always been Army.”

  “That’s right. But I had a fancy to fly and the Air Force was the only way I could do it. My old man wasn’t too happy about it because he’d hoped I’d carry on in the regiment we’ve always commanded. He was trained to do things the hard way — on your own feet. To him flying isn’t really soldiering.”

  “A lot of people have thought that but most of them have changed their minds when they’ve had a go at it. What do you like doing, apart from flying?”

  “Fishing, shooting and rock climbing. At home I’ve had plenty of opportunities for all of them. I do one or two other things but nothing to shout about. For an indoor occupation I like reading, mostly military history, no doubt because most of our books in the library are on that subject. Great generals, and all that.”

  “Then you would appreciate discipline.”

  “If you’d had an old man like mine you’d have had plenty, whether you liked it or not.”

  Biggles nodded. “I can believe that. Now then. If you were accepted for this job the idea would be for you to come for a month on probation, as a cadet, to see how you shaped. If all went well you’d be confirmed as a police pilot for pay and allowances. How would that suit you?”

  “Anything you say.”

  “When could you report for duty?”

  “Any day. I still have another month to serve but I have a month’s leave due so by taking that now I’d be free.”

  “Fine. But there’s no rush. Leave me your home address and I’ll get in touch as soon as a decision has been reached. That rests with the Air Commodore — on my recommendation.”

  “What do you think’?” asked Mackay, a trifle anxiously.

  “It’s too early to say. I’ll let you know — ”

  “Don’t you want to test me for flying?”

  “Not now. That can be done later, should it be necessary, which it shouldn’t, as for the moment your logbook tells me as much as I need to know.”

  “Right. In that case I’ll get along.”

  “Goodbye for now, Mackay.”

  At the door the candidate looked back and smiled. “Just call me Minnie,” he said. “It sounds less formal.”

  After he had gone Biggles reached for a cigarette and looked at the others. “Well, what did you make of him?”

  “Seemed the right type to me,” Algy said.

  The others agreed. “A drop or two of Red Indian blood in the gang could warm things up — if you see what I mean,” remarked Bertie.

  “In that case I’ll go down and tell the chief that as far as I’m concerned Mackay’s okay for a trial nm. There’s no point in bringing anyone else along yet. A crowd would only make the job of selecting one more difficult.”

  Chapter Three – A Strange Tale of a Bag

  Following the interview with the new prospective recruit events moved faster than Biggles had reason to expect.

  He reported his impressions to the Air Commodore, expressing himself satisfied with the man he had produced. He did not think they could do better and proposed giving him a trial right away.

  The Air Commodore agreed, saying he was all in favour of the build-up of the Air Section with the least possible delay. He invited Biggles to look around for a general-purpose aircraft most likely to suit their requirements. He himself was negotiating for the take-over of a new base convenient for London: Oakley aerodrome, recently evacuated by an American Air Force unit. There was all the accommodation they would be likely to need. There would have to be a resident caretaker. He would leave it to Biggles to find one, perhaps a retired N.C.O. who had at some time served under him. He would be enrolled as a constable in the Police Air Section. All of which was satisfactory although it did not mean Biggles was entirely happy with these new arrangements. He would have been content to leave things as they were. But as he told the others, this was the way of the world and they would have to keep pace with it.

  At all events, a week later Police Air Cadet Mackay reported for duty, having found himself a temporary lodging not far from the office.

  Now it had been Biggles’ intention to take this introduction of a new member of the team slowly, in stages, the first step being to show him their aircraft, tell him about their methods and general police procedure, of which he knew practically nothing. This would also provide him with an opportunity to get to know them. But this did not work out as planned, the reason being that on the very day that Minnie — as they already called him — was due to report, Biggles was called to the Air Commodore’s office and a case for investigation brought to his notice. This was before Minnie arrived.

  “What’s the trouble, sir?” asked Biggles when he went in.

  “That’s what I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me,” answered the Air Commodore. He went on: “There might be nothing to it, at least as it would affect us. However, we’ve been asked to look into it. The matter was brought to light by the Surrey Constabulary, who apparently could make nothing of it and sent it here for the Yard to sort out. It has finally arrived on my desk.”

  The Air Commodore reached down to pick up an object that lay beside his chair. “The story won’t take long to tell,” he continued. “Last week a young man named Peter Ramsey, a schoolmaster in East Grinstead and an enthusiastic botanist, having time on his hands since the school was closed for the summer holiday, took a walk through the fields and woods between Newchapel Comer and Lingfield looking for some rare flowers said to occur there. Instead, he found this.”

  The Air Commodore placed on the desk a large, light-coloured canvas bag, or sack. There were brass-bound loopholes round the neck through which a cord had been threaded to close the mouth when it was in use. On the side there was a jagged tear.

  “That looks to me like a kitbag, the standard, regulation article issued to a soldier,” observed Biggles.

  “That, in fact, is exactly what it is,” confirmed the Air Commodore.

  “Then what’s the problem?” inquired Biggles. “It appears to be empty.”

  “It is now, but it wasn’t when it was found. It was packed, and it was natural that the finder should open it to see what it contained. When he saw what it was, being a law-abiding citizen he fetched the police.”

  “You’re keeping me in suspense,” complained Biggles, “What was in it?”

  “It was packed with registered Post-Office mail. Stolen mail.”

  “Had the bag been buried?”

  “No. It lay quite openly on the ground under an oak tree, one of several that formed a small clump, call it a copse, or spinney, as if it had been casually thrown there. Presumably by someone who didn’t want it, since he didn’t bother to come back to collect it.”

  “Why has the thing been passed to us?”

  “To see if we can make anything of it, I suppose.”

  “But this isn’t one of the heavy mail bags normally used by the Post-Office,” Biggles pointed out. “Of course it isn’t. And that poses two interesting questions. Firstly, why was the stolen mail transferred to this bag and why was it dumped in a wood in Surrey?”

  “I hope you’re not asking me to guess,” Biggles said. “Tell me more, if there is any more to tell.”

  “Quite a lot. We know that the bag had been lying there for a least a week because it had rained on it, although that hadn’t affected the contents. The letters and packets inside had not b
een opened. They were the fruits of a raid on a Post-Office van in North London. The driver was coshed. He is still in hospital in a serious condition. The Post-Office knows from its records of registered mail when and where the letters were posted. They have now been delivered. Why were they dumped and abandoned by the thieves? Doesn’t that strike you as strange?”

  “Very. There must have been a reason.”

  “Can you suggest one?”

  “The crooks may have been after one particular packet which they knew was there, and having got it couldn’t dispose of the rest fast enough.”

  The Air Commodore shook his head. “That to me doesn’t sound very convincing. It’s probable there was money in nearly every envelope or it wouldn’t have been registered. Money is always money, and crooks wouldn’t be likely to throw any away.”

  Biggles lit a cigarette and considered the problem. “Was there one item of particular value in that load of mail?”

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The counterfoils of the slips handed out to the public when a letter is registered are retained by the Post-Office. Every address has been checked, so it is known roughly how much money was involved, all told.”

  “How much?”

  “About five thousand pounds, some of it being payment for wins on the football pools.”

  “You couldn’t know if one particular letter was missing?”

  “Not yet. That would take time. A lot has been done, but so far nothing has provided a clue to the riddle.”

  “Could gang warfare come into this? Were the thieves themselves robbed?”

  “It doesn’t sound very likely. That wouldn’t explain why the loot should be transferred from one bag to another and then dumped without even the letters being opened. Besides, had the idea been simply to get rid of the stuff there are easier ways than dumping it in a wood. It could have been burnt on an ordinary house tire or sunk in a river, or pond.”

  “I imagine this bag has been thoroughly examined by the forensic experts!”

  “Of course. It tells us nothing.”

  “At one time it must have belonged to a soldier. I seem to recall that it’s usual for a soldier to put his name and regimental number on his kitbag for easy recognition.”

  “There’s no trace of any such thing on this one. It appears to be a new bag.”

  “Then how did it get torn?”

  “That may have happened as it was dragged into the wood.”

  This Biggles had to admit. “Are you asking me to try to sort out this little conundrum, sir’?”

  “I’d like you to have a shot at it.”

  “That’s a pretty tall order. I’m not clairvoyant.”

  “You’ve solved more difficult problems. This is at least an interesting one.”

  “Very well, sir, if you say so. For a start I’d like to see the exact spot where this bag was found.”

  “That can easily be arranged. The man who found the bag will now be back in the classroom at the end of the holiday, but I can ask for the constable who collected the bag to meet you somewhere handy — say, at the Star Inn, on the main road, not far away.”

  “Do that, sir. Any time would suit me. This afternoon would do. Say, three o’clock. I’ll see what I can make of it but I don’t hold out much hope. May I take the bag?”

  “Certainly, but don’t lose it. It may be needed.”

  Carrying the bag Biggles left the room and returned to his own office where he found that the new member of the Air Section had arrived and was chatting cheerfully to the others.

  Bertie eyed the kitbag with askance. “Hello, hello, what’s all this?” he questioned, adjusting his monocle. “Are we going camping or something?”

  “It could happen, although I sincerely hope it won’t,” answered Biggles, putting the bag on his desk and turning to shake hands with the new recruit. “Welcome to our little fug-hutch,” he greeted. “You may have arrived at the right moment to try your apprentice hand at a little job that has just cropped up.”

  “Goody-goody,” declared Minnie. “I’m flat out. Where and when do we start?”

  “At a wood in Surrey at three o’clock this afternoon, unless you’re able to cover yourself with glory by doing a Sherlock Holmes act here and now.”

  “What’s cooking?” asked Ginger, his eyes on the kit bag.

  “The cooking has already been done,” Biggles stated succinctly.

  “What we have to find out is who did the cooking and for whom the r gravy was intended. Now, if you’ll all pipe down and listen I’ll tell you what was in the pot.”

  Biggles sat at his desk, lit a cigarette and narrated the tale of the bag as he had just heard it from the Air Commodore. Nobody spoke until he had finished. Then Minnie said in a puzzled voice: “I’m not quite with you, boss. What has this to do with flying?”

  Biggles replied: “As far as I can see at the moment, nothing.

  Absolutely nothing. But,” he added, “as the wise man said, you never can tell.”

  “Then we’re not aviating a flying machine to this wood in Surrey?”

  “We are not. There would be no point in it, and in any case it’s unlikely there’d be any place to put our wheels on the carpet. We shall go in an old but comfortable motor car I happen to possess, and as we’re due to meet a copper of the county constabulary on or near the spot at three o’clock, I suggest we repair to a pub I know round the corner and wrap ourselves round a plate of steak and kidney pud.”

  “That’s me all over,” declared Bertie. “Just lead me to the trough, old boy.”

  As they filed through the door Minnie said softly to Biggles: “Does he always talk like that?”

  “Usually,” answered Biggles. “But take no notice. As you’ll soon discover, it doesn’t mean a thing.”

  “Are we all going on this jaunt to the Surrey countryside?” Algy wanted to know.

  ¢ “Unless anyone has any particular reason for staying at home the invitation is open to everyone,” stated Biggles. “It’ll take all the brains we can muster to sort this out. Between the lot of` us someone might get a brainwave.”

  Chapter Four – Rural Reflections

  At three o’clock precisely Biggles’ car pulled up at the Star Inn on the main road between Newchapel and East Grinstead in the county of Surrey. A policeman, as arranged, was standing there, apparently waiting. They all got out, Biggles carrying the kitbag. He introduced himself “I think you must be the officer detailed to show us where this thing was found,” he said, holding up the bag.

  “That’s right sir. P.C. Murray.”

  “Good. Have we far to go?”

  “About a mile or a little more. Except for a stretch of cart track it’s across the fields.”

  “Okay. You lead the way. I take it you’ve been to the place?”

  “It was me who fetched the bag after Mr. Ramsey came to the station to tell us what he’d found.”

  “Did you see anybody about when you were there?”

  “Not a soul. I wouldn’t expect to. It isn’t the sort of place anyone would go without a special reason. It’s a nice quiet bit of country; proper rural, as you might say. Not a house anywhere near.”

  The party set off. As the constable had said, it was a quiet, pleasant stretch of country, a little of it cultivated farm land but mostly rough grazing. They cut through a fairly extensive wood, not of heavy timber but secondary growth of chestnut saplings where the original trees had been cut. The leaves were just taking on their early autumn tints filling the air with the fragrance of the season. On the far side of this was a wide area of coarse tussocky grass occupied by a stand of pewits which rose at their approach. Clearly, the place was seldom disturbed.

  Pointing, the policeman said: “That’s the place, straight in front of us.”

  The place he indicated was a circular group of trees, mostly oaks, covering perhaps a quarter of an acre of ground; isolated, it stood like an oasis in a green sea. It was, in fac
t, one of those copses or spinneys, now fast disappearing, established by Victorian landowners to provide cover for game, or, in hunting country, perhaps foxes.

  As they walked up to it Biggles asked: “Isn’t there any sort of road leading to this place?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Not even a footpath?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Then how did the man who dumped the kitbag get here?”

  “I reckon he must have walked across the fields,” surmised the constable. “I don’t see how he could have got here any other way. He must have wanted something to do.”

  “Did you notice any footmarks when you first came here?”

  “No. Only those made by Mr. Ramsey and me. I’ll admit I didn’t spend much time looking.”

  Entering the spinney they stopped and looked around. All was quiet. Apart from the calls of various birds there wasn’t a sound.

  Biggles said: “It certainly is quiet. What’s the nearest house?”

  The constable thought for a moment. “I reckon it must be Lotton Hall, the big red brick place that stands back just this side of the crossroads. That’s the end of my beat.”

  “I see. All I want you to do now is show us the actual spot where the bag was found; then we needn’t keep you any longer.”

  “Just as you like, sir. I’ll walk as far as the end of my beat and look in on the way back in case you want anything.”

  “As you wish.”

  They walked on through a sea of bracken, just beginning to show its autumn tints, their feet rustling a carpet of dead leaves. The policeman stopped under an oak tree of some age. “This is the spot,” he said. “Mr. Ramsey said the bag was lying here amongst the ferns as if someone had thrown it down and forgot it.”

  “Thank you, officer, that’s all I want to know,” Biggles said, whereupon the policeman touched his helmet and departed.

  Biggles lit a cigarette, and looking pensively at the ground under the tree remarked: “What we’re going to make of this I can’t imagine. I don’t really know why I bothered to come here at all. Just a matter of routine, I suppose, to inspect the scene of the crime; although, of course, this isn’t where the crime was committed. Has anyone an idea? Don’t all speak at once.”