Biggles in the Underworld

by W E Johns

  He turned the car, stopped the engine, and then got out to survey the scene more thoroughly. He could still see the farm standing with its two trees stark against the sky. There was no sign of life, human or animal. That there were no people about was understandable, but it struck him as a little odd that there were no animals, horses, cows or sheep, in such a big pasture. Finding he could still see the house from the seat of his car, he got back in and prepared to watch it. He sat there for more than an hour. Nothing happened.

  Wondering how to proceed, for his task he felt was far from complete, he saw that if he got behind the hedge that bounded the field to his left, and then took another that ran off from it at right angles, it would bring him close to the farm buildings, close enough to see a plane if there was one there. This was what he really wanted to know. Naturally, he was anxious not to be seen, for it would be hard to find a reasonable excuse for trespassing should he be discovered and questioned about his purpose. This, he decided, was a chance he would have to take.

  It was now evening with the short November hours of daylight already closing in, conditions being made more uncomfortable by a slight drizzle that had started. He consoled himself with the thought that the reduced visibility might be to his advantage in the long run. Anyhow, leaving the car as it stood, he set off for the hedge which he hoped would take him as near the farm as would be necessary for his purpose. It meant a fairly long walk; but he didn’t mind that.

  In due course, without any interference, he came to the end of the hedge that brought him within a stone’s throw of his final objective — the farmhouse and, scattered around a big yard, the customary outbuildings. There was still no sign of life of any sort. Judging from external appearances the place might have been unoccupied. In fact, as there was no light showing from the house, and already it must have been dark inside, the thought crossed his mind that this might be so.

  Of the several outbuildings, from where he stood he could only see one large enough to house an aircraft: there was no sign of one standing in the open. This was a big Dutch barn, which as the reader probably knows is a semi-circular domed roof supported by iron uprights, the sides being left open. It is designed to protect perishable crops, hay, corn and the like. This one appeared to be filled to the top with hay, so the plane, if there was one, was evidently not there. The only other possibility was a cowshed, or stable, into which a machine with folding wings might just be squeezed.

  Bertie paused to consider the situation. Not that there was much to see. Near him a gate gave access to the big field from the yard. It had been left wide open; but as there were no animals to stray this did not matter. There were some chicken houses, but as far as he could see, no chickens. This he thought was a little strange because in most farmyards there is poultry of one sort or another wandering about. Moving on a little nearer he came to a pigsty. There was no pig. Gaining confidence he moved forward to the cowshed. There was no plane in it, and what was perhaps more remarkable, no cows. He tried a stable. There was no horse. Bertie began to wonder what sort of a farm this was. Again he paused to consider the matter.

  Still thinking he walked back slowly to the big barn. He noticed wheel tracks in the muddy ground, apparently those of a car. Where was the car? He couldn’t see one. And what would a car be doing in the yard, off the hard ground round the house? Where had all this hay come from, he wondered. From the big field? The hay was, he noticed, stacked in trusses. If there were no animals to feed what was the purpose of so much fodder? He walked all round the barn. The trusses nearly reached the roof. There was no way in. The hay, it appeared, was not being used; but if there were no animals to feed this was understandable.

  All this time he was of course keeping a watchful eye on the house. There was still no sign of anyone moving. With twilight deepening he had expected any moment to see a light come on at one of the windows. Could it be possible there was no one in the house? There was a strange, almost uncanny, absence of sound — for a farm. This, too, struck him as curious. Unnatural.

  Then, as he stood there, from somewhere at hand a gentle waft of breeze brought a familiar smell to his nostrils. There was no mistaking it. It was the smell of an aircraft. It was faint in the stronger reek of hay, and lasted only for a moment, to leave Bertie wondering if his imagination had taken charge of his senses.

  An aeroplane has a unique aroma of its own, consisting of a mixture of petrol, oil, and more particularly, the sweet, sickly smell of dope; that is, the waterproof cellulose varnish sprayed on any fabric to shrink it on its frame and hold it in place. To a pilot, or anyone who has worked on aircraft, it is unmistakable and never forgotten, wherever it may be encountered.

  Then, as Bertie stood there sniffing the damp atmosphere for a repetition of the smell, there came a sound that caused his nerves to twitch and sent him backing into the hay as closely as he could press his body. It was a cough. A man had coughed; or perhaps merely cleared his throat. Anyway, there was no doubt whatever about this. The sound had been close. Uncomfortably close.

  Bertie held his breath, expecting to see a man come round the corner of the bam, his brain groping feverishly for an excuse for being there. No one appeared. He waited, standing rigid, for two or three minutes, and then moved silently to the end of his side of the barn. He risked a peep. There was no one there. He listened. Not a sound. There was still no light showing from the house.

  What to make of all this Bertie did not know. He could have been mistaken about a plane; but beyond any shadow of a doubt there was a man somewhere in the yard. Where was he? What was he doing? The situation was becoming ‘creepy’.

  Then, as he stood motionless, not daring to move and completely baffled, there came another sound, even more unexpected than the first, to rattle his straining nerves. It was a tinkle of metal on metal as if someone had dropped an instrument or small tool of some sort. The extraordinary thing about this was the sound seemed to come from somewhere behind him. He stared into the dusk. He could see no one. Not a movement.

  He was thinking seriously of retiring, to get Biggles’ advice on this uncanny situation, when a more natural sound brought some relief. It was prolonged and marked by moving lights. A car was coming up the track across the field to the house. He watched, but could not see much because it was now dark.

  The car came on into the yard. It stopped at the back door of the house. There was a quick toot-toot on the horn, presumably to announce its arrival. The engine stopped. The lights were switched off. A man got out. The car door slammed. All Bertie could see was the vague outline of the man. He went to the door, opened it and went in, leaving it open, as was revealed when a light in the hall came on. A minute passed. The man came out again. He whistled; a particular whistle that sounded as if it might have been a recognition signal. With the light behind the man, still all Bertie could see was a silhouette.

  Then Bertie was again pressing himself into the hay. There were footsteps. Another man appeared, walking towards the one still standing at the door. He appeared to have come from where he himself was standing. Bertie was amazed. Indeed, flabbergasted. Where had he come from? This, evidently, was the man who had coughed. Why hadn’t he seen him before?

  The man joined the one at the house. A few words were spoken. They went indoors-together. The door was closed. A light came on in the house, instantly to be doused as if a blind had been drawn.

  Bertie waited, wondering if he should watch for any further developments or go home to report. He realized there was nothing really remarkable in what he had witnessed. It could happen anywhere. He decided there was one thing he could do; get the make of car and its registration number. This, moving with caution, he did. He would have liked to know what was going on in the house: if only to get a glimpse of the faces of the men inside. But this, he quickly discovered, was not possible, for the simple reason the blinds were drawn.

  He retired to a safe distance to think things over. It was dark, and with the fine drizzle falling from an o
vercast sky conditions were far from comfortable. He thought, for all the good he could do now, he might as well go home. Nothing more was likely to happen. Yet he hesitated to leave with his mission incomplete. All he had learned was, there was no plane. There were two men in the house, but he hadn’t seen enough of either to recognize them if he saw them again. Caine must have lied about owning an aircraft. Yet he couldn’t shake off a feeling that he had missed something. That something queer was going on. There was mystery in the air.

  He had more reason to think so when from the house came voices raised in what sounded like a furious argument. All he could do was stare, seeing nothing. Then things happened. The door of the house was flung open and a man rushed out. For a second two figures were framed against the lighted hall. One man dashed to the car. The house door was slammed, cutting off the light. The car was started. The headlights came on. Another moment, fast gathering speed they were racing down the track in the direction of the lane.

  What to make of all this, not surprisingly Bertie did not know. Unable to make sense of it he turned to go, but stopped when again the house door was opened. He glimpsed a dog being let out. It was a big dog. An Alsatian, he thought. Evidently a guard dog. It disappeared in the darkness. He did not see which way it went. The door was shut as if it was intended to leave the animal outside for some time, if not for the night.

  Bertie began quickly to retire in the direction of the place where he had left his car. He had no intention of taking on the dog, in the dark, with his bare hands. As he hurried along the side of the barn, somewhere not far away behind him he heard the animal growl. Pausing to listen, he could hear the quick patter of its feet above the noise it was making in its throat. Clearly, it had winded him, or was suspicious. To run across the open field would obviously be inviting attack.

  There seemed to be only one way to escape the attentions of the dog and in his desperation Bertie took it, although a moment before, in cold blood, he would have said it was attempting the impossible. He started to climb up one of the iron girders that supported the roof of the barn. In this he was helped by the fact that the hay was stacked in trusses. Had it been loose no doubt it would have pulled out in his hands. As it was he could get his fingers through the ropes of hay that held each truss together. These also sometimes offered support for his feet.

  In this way, after a struggle he managed to clamber up the side of the rick, his efforts being expedited by the furious behaviour of the dog, now below him, obviously having located him.

  Reaching the topmost truss, just below the roof, feeling safe Bertie paused to get his breath and find a more comfortable position in case the dog remained on guard. He also backed a little from the edge in case the noise the dog was making brought the man from the house with a torch. In doing this he felt the truss wobble as if it was insecure; but this was understandable and he thought nothing of it. But a moment later he was clutching wildly for support as it overturned and he felt himself plunging into a well of darkness. His groping hands found nothing to arrest his fall, and he crashed on solid ground. His head struck something hard and the world exploded in a cloud of stars that faded swiftly to utter blackness.

  * * *

  1 The Old English word ‘hanger’, originally ‘hangra’, has many meanings, one of which is a wood on the slope of a hill. It is common in English village names.

  CHAPTER 5

  WHAT HAPPENED AT THE CLUB

  It will be remembered that Biggles had announced his intention of going to the Icarian Club on the off-chance that Caine might come in. If he did, the conversation of the previous evening could be resumed, in which event Caine might do some more talking about his affairs. In a word, Biggles hoped to gather some further information from his indiscreet boasting that would open a trail to the whereabouts of the man he was really looking for; the escaped convict known in the underworld as Nick the Sheikh. Actually, Biggles thought it unlikely that Caine would come in. If, as Ginger had reported, he had left his London flat in a car, with a suitcase, it was probable he had gone to his farm in the country. If he should come in, his behaviour might indicate if he was aware of the attack made on Biggles when he left the club the previous evening.

  As time drew on, and it came to nearly ten o’clock, it began to look as if Caine was not going to show up; but a little later, just as Biggles was thinking of leaving, he came in. He looked tired, Biggles thought, and worried; an impression that was to some extent confirmed by his behaviour. He went straight to the bar and ordered a double whisky. This he took at a gulp and ordered another. As he raised his glass a second time his eyes went round the room and came to rest on Biggles. He looked surprised. After a brief hesitation he came over glass in hand, and joined Biggles at his table.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here.’

  ‘Why not?’ inquired Biggles evenly.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ replied Caine awkwardly, as if he was unprepared for the question. He went on as if to explain: ‘Somehow I didn’t expect you to become a regular.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘Matter of fact, neither did I.’

  ‘Why did you come?’

  ‘Any reason why I shouldn’t?’

  ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘I came hoping to see you,’ informed Biggles.

  Caine did not attempt to conceal his astonishment: or perhaps he couldn’t. ‘Why did you want to see me?’

  ‘To finish our last conversation.’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘You hinted you might be able to find me a flying job.’

  ‘Did I?’

  ‘It was your suggestion, not mine,’ reminded Biggles.

  Caine looked uncomfortable. ‘I must have had a drink too many. Anyway, I’m afraid it’s off,’ he ended abruptly.

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘And what I told you about owning a plane myself was a dream. I was talking through my hat. A few drinks have that effect on me.’

  ‘Is that so?’ murmured Biggles.

  ‘Yes. Not a word of truth in it. I don’t remember what I said. I must have been tight.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘Lay off the stuff if you can’t take it.’

  ‘By the way,’ went on Caine. ‘They tell me you run a sort of flying squad at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘That’s right. Who told you?’

  ‘A friend of mine happened to mention it.’

  ‘Was that because he saw you talking to me?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘In view of what you told me about breaking Air Traffic Regulations, that must have got you worried,’ Biggles suggested banteringly.

  ‘Not in the least,’ declared Caine. ‘It was all bunkum.’

  ‘Weren’t you afraid I might run you in?’

  ‘No. I’ve nothing to fear.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘You must have a dangerous job,’ Caine said. ‘Always poking your nose into other people’s business.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘I’ve been doing a dangerous job ever since I left school. It keeps me from getting old too fast. That’s one of the reasons why I’m here. I have a feeling this could be a dangerous place.’

  ‘For whom?’

  ‘For me. Perhaps for you. When I left here last night after talking to you a fellow in the street tried to knife me. Does that surprise you?’ Biggles spoke with his eyes on Caine’s face.

  Caine did not answer the question. He drank some of his whisky. ‘In that case why did you come back here tonight?’

  ‘I thought you might have heard about it,’ Biggles said casually.

  ‘Not a word.’

  ‘I merely mentioned it to show you what can happen in this part of London on a dark night.’

  ‘Thanks. But nothing like that is likely to happen to me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure.’

  ‘No one has any reason to pull a knife on me.’

  ‘You never know. You might wake up one morning to
find yourself with only half a face.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Take it how you like. I’m dangerous company.’

  Caine was looking strained. ‘Have another drink,’ he suggested.

  ‘No thanks. I’ve had my quota.’

  Caine fetched himself another large whisky from the bar.

  Biggles went on, ‘I’ve told you why I came back tonight. Why did you come back?’

  ‘No particular reason.’

  ‘Let’s put it this way. Who told you to come back?’

  ‘No one. Why should you think anyone told me?’

  ‘Let’s say I was guessing. I thought maybe you’d spoken to someone after you’d left Town.’

  Caine stared, frowning. ‘Have you been spying on me?’

  ‘Part of my job is to spy on people, if you care to put it like that. In the world today a lot of people spend a lot of their time spying on a lot of people. At the moment we’re both being spied on.’

  ‘What! By whom?’ Caine looked startled.

  ‘Our mutual friend Charlie Nestos hasn’t taken his eyes off us since you came in. I wonder who he’s most interested in, you or me? If there’s a dictaphone near us, and that wouldn’t surprise me, someone should find our conversation interesting.’

  ‘It must be you he’s watching,’ Caine said. ‘He can’t have any interest in me.’

  ‘As I said before, I wouldn’t bet on it,’ returned Biggles dryly.

  ‘What gives you that idea?’

  ‘It wasn’t long last night before it was known to someone you were here, talking to me; and as I’ve already remarked, I’m dangerous company.’

  ‘Just what are you getting at?’ demanded Caine, trenchantly.

  ‘I’ve told you what happened to me last night.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting I had anything to do with that!’

  ‘Of course not. Anyway, not wittingly.’

  ‘I’m still not with you,’ retorted Caine.

  ‘Then let’s see if we can get on the same wavelength,’ Biggles said, pleasantly. ‘Shall we put it like this? As one flying man to another, and speaking as a man who has had more experience of the world than you have, I think you would be well advised to choose your friends more carefully.’