by W E Johns
‘Only when I feel like it,’ returned Biggles cheerfully. ‘You go ahead and find something to prop yourself up if you’re as weak as all that. As far as I’m concerned it can wait. This is more important.’
‘You may scare whoever is at the other end of the line, if it happens to be a pal of the Sheikh.’
‘I’ll take a chance on that. This will either give us a new lead or leave us running in ever-widening circles.’ Watched by the others Biggles asked the operator at the switchboard what the letters T.E. stood for and then asked for the number. ‘Podbury, Surrey,’ he murmured, while he waited to be connected.
‘That rings a bell,’ put in Ginger softly.
With the receiver to his ear Biggles listened; and as he did so a slow smile told those watching him that he had gathered the information he wanted. ‘Sorry; I must have got the wrong number,’ he said, and hung up. Looking at the others he remarked: ‘I thought there was something vaguely familiar about that phone number. I once had occasion to use it, but that was some time ago.’
‘Well, come on. Out with it,’ requested Ginger impatiently.
‘It’s a flying club. Podbury Flying Club.’
‘Ah-ha. That smells interesting. Who did you speak to?’
‘The Secretary. He didn’t give his name. I didn’t ask for it. When he said Podbury Flying Club that was all I needed to know.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No. Anyway, not offhand. I may recognize him when I see him. I only ever called there once. That was when I was running short of petrol and dropped in for a fill-up.’
‘I can’t recall that we ever had any trouble there,’ Ginger said.
‘How much do we know about them? You might look up their file.’
Ginger went to the steel filing cabinet and took out a folder. Having flipped over some loose sheets he read aloud: ‘Podbury Flying Club and Flying School. Private company. Registered August 5th, 1964. Resident Secretary and General Manager, Kendrick Seaton-Thompson, RAF Retired. Telephone T.E.79791. Two Auster Aiglets, One Piper Cub. Open on Sundays.’
‘Anything else? Nothing about a Moth?’
‘No. That’s the lot.’ Ginger closed the folder and replaced it. ‘So it looks as if the Sheikh rang up the club from the farm,’ he observed, as he shut the cabinet.
‘Apparently. But it doesn’t necessarily follow that he’s a member, although he must know somebody there.’
‘So what’s the next move?’
‘I shall run down and have a look at the place. I thought it better not to ask questions over the phone.’
‘Are you hoping to find the Sheikh there?’ inquired Bertie.
‘I suppose it’s just possible, but that would be hoping for too much. There’s a fair chance that somebody at Podbury may know something about him. The fact that he may have rung them up at some time suggests that he has some contact with the airfield. Don’t forget the Sheikh is himself an R.A.F. trained pilot. This may be where the fellow Caine told us about, the chap who flew the Sheikh to the farm, keeps his machine. He said it was an old Gypsy Moth. It must be privately owned. If it was a club machine it would be in our record — or it should be.’
‘The Sheikh called his pilot Tommy,’ reminded Bertie.
‘That’s such a common name it isn’t much to go on.’
‘I agree, but a small organization like a flying club can’t exactly be swarming with people whose Christian name is Thomas. Anyhow, I’d like to have a few words with this particular specimen to find out how much he knows about the Sheikh. That’s why I’m going to Podbury right away. We’ve no time to lose. The Sheikh must know this Tommy pretty well, or he wouldn’t call him by his Christian name.’
‘Tell me this,’ requested Ginger. ‘Why should the Sheikh write the number of the club on the cover of the telephone directory?’
Biggles shook his head. ‘How could I possibly know the answer to that? But I could make a guess. He had forgotten the number — if he ever knew it. He was making the call from Hampshire. It would be a trunk-call. If he didn’t know the number he wanted he would ask the operator to get it for him. Having got it, in order not to forget he would jot it down on the nearest paper available. In this case it was the phone book. I’ve done the same thing myself. Bear in mind that at the time this happened the Sheikh had no reason to suppose we were likely to roll up at the farm. Anyhow, whatever the reason, he made a note of the number, and that’s all that matters. Obviously the Sheikh wanted to get in touch with somebody at the club. It may have been this fellow Tommy. It may have been to ask him to fly down to the farm to pick him up. No matter. Tommy is the man I want to see. I’d also like to see his logbook. If it has been properly kept it should tell us how often he’s been to the farm, and how many times he’s had the Sheikh for a passenger.’
Bertie came in again. ‘Caine isn’t a member of the Podbury club, that’s certain, or he’d have known Tommy when he landed the Sheikh at the farm.’
‘You make a point,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I don’t think Caine was a member of any club. I don’t see how he could have been, breaking the regulations as he was. That’s why he had to have a private landing field. Of course, he would have to get petrol from somewhere, and he may have landed at Podbury for that purpose. A private landing ground would suit the Sheikh no doubt. I suspect he was the brains behind that. But we’re wasting time.’ Biggles got up. ‘I’m going to Podbury right away,’ he announced.
‘How about a snack first?’ pleaded Bertie. ‘You may be a bally camel, but I’m not. I’m wobbling on my pins for lack of nourishment.’
‘Then you’d better stay here. I’ll take Ginger with me.’
‘Suits me,’ declared Ginger. ‘How do we go?’
Biggles hesitated. ‘I was thinking of going down by road, as it’s no great distance; but on second thoughts it might be better to fly down. We could make some excuse for landing. This will have to be handled carefully and a police car might set people wondering what was going on. We’ll fly. And we’d better get weaving, or we might find our bird has taken wing. Algy, you and Bertie can take turns to have a meal. I don’t care what you do as long as somebody is always at the phone in case I come through with something urgent. Come on, Ginger. Let’s go.’
CHAPTER 11
BIGGLES GETS TOUGH
It was getting on for four o’clock, with the daylight beginning to fade, when Biggles and Ginger landed their Auster on the small, somewhat primitive airfield used by the Podbury Flying Club. Like many similar organizations of this class, the landing area had been nothing more than a large field, and that was really what it remained. But little more was required. What had been a farm worker’s cottage, an ancient half-timbered dwelling with a thatched roof, had been turned into a club-house, a windstocking on a pole in front of it proclaiming its new purpose. A car stood at the door.
For the rest, a single hangar provided the accommodation for aircraft. An area of macadam, with a petrol pump behind it, had been laid out for ‘hard-standing’. At the time of the Auster’s arrival this was occupied by an Aiglet on which two men were at work. A little to one side, alone and unattended, was a Gipsy Moth which must have been even older than the Aiglet.
‘There’s the Moth, at all events,’ murmured Biggles as, having landed, they walked towards the club-house. ‘Caine was right about that; there can’t be many of them left in circulation, so I think we can accept that the one that landed at the farm came from here.’
‘The place doesn’t seem to be exactly buzzing with activity,’ observed Ginger.
‘One wouldn’t expect it to be at this hour and at this time of the year. It’s no weather for flying instruction, and it’ll be dark inside half an hour, anyway,’ replied Biggles. ‘Most of the business is probably done at weekends, when pupils can get time off. This is no better and no worse than most of the other small, privately owned clubs up and down the country. Generally it’s only a handful of enthusiasts who keep them going. We shall be lucky t
o find the secretary still in his office. If he isn’t we’ll have a word with those two mechanics.’
In the event they were lucky. As they walked into the cottage a man was just leaving a room marked ‘Office’. He was a shortish well-built man of about forty-five with a florid complexion, adorned by one of those outsize moustaches affected by some wartime pilots.
Looking at them in some surprise he said unsmilingly: ‘I suppose you want some petrol. The men working on the tarmac will attend to you. Don’t be long about it. It’s their knocking-off time. I’m just off home myself.’
‘Just a minute,’ Biggles said. ‘Are you the Club Secretary?’
‘I am,’ was the curt reply.
‘Flight Lieutenant Seaton-Thompson, I believe?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Sorry to detain you, but I’ve come down to have a few words on a matter of some importance.’
‘Some other time. I told you. I was just off home.’
‘No. Now.’ There must have been something in the way Biggles spoke that brought the Secretary to a halt. He frowned, looking hard at Biggles’ face. ‘What is it?’
‘We’re police officers from Scotland Yard,’ Biggles stated. ‘My name’s Bigglesworth. I’m in charge of air operations.’
‘Oh, so you’re the famous Bigglesworth,’ was the answer, spoken slowly with a suspicion of a sneer. ‘I’ve heard of you. All right. I can’t imagine what you want to see me about, but come in. You won’t find anything wrong here.’
The secretary turned back into his office. Biggles and Ginger followed and chairs were indicated. ‘Well, and what’s the trouble?’ inquired the secretary abruptly when they were all seated.
‘I merely want to ask you one or two simple questions,’ Biggles replied evenly.
‘Fire away.’
‘Have you among your members a man whose Christian name is Thomas?’
‘It won’t take long to answer that. No.’
‘You’re quite sure?’
‘Dammit, of course I’m sure. We haven’t many members and I know them all intimately. What’s this fellow Thomas been up to?’
‘That’s what I was hoping you’d be able to tell me.’
‘Well, I don’t know anyone of that name, so that settles that. Is that all?’
‘Not quite. Do you by any chance happen to know a man named Caine?’
‘No.’
‘He’s never been here?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Who is he? What is he?’
‘Among other things he’s an ex-RAF pilot. He now flies a machine of his own — a Starfinder.’
‘Never heard of him. Of course, he may have dropped in for petrol when I wasn’t here.’
‘In which case there should be a record of it in your books.’
‘I suppose so.’
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind checking?’
‘What — now?’
‘Yes. Now.’
‘But damn it all, you can’t hold me up for that. Unless you can give me a definite date a check would take some time.’
‘I realize that.’
The secretary had another long look at Biggles’ face. ‘All right,’ he grumbled. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll slip out and ask my fellows if they know anything about this.’
‘Very well.’
The secretary went out.
Ginger looked at Biggles. ‘Well?’ he said softly.
‘He’s not telling the truth,’ Biggles answered. ‘When a man resorts to lies he has something to hide. He’s worried. I fancy he’s only left us to give himself time to think. He’ll slip up, presently.’
The secretary came back. ‘No, they know nothing about a chap named Caine, or a Starfinder,’ he announced breezily. ‘Now I hope that’s all.’
‘Tell me this,’ Biggles said. ‘According to my records, you stated, when you applied for registration, that the machines the club had on its establishment were two Aiglets and a Piper Cub. Is that correct?’
‘As you seem to know, why ask me?’
‘What about the Gipsy Moth I saw outside?’
‘That happens to be mine.’
‘Why isn’t it shown on your application form for registration?’
‘It’s my personal property. It’s never let out on hire and it’s never used for training. Now perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what all this fuss is about?’
‘That’s reasonable,’ conceded Biggles. ‘It has come to our notice that there has been some infringement of Regulations, and, as I need hardly tell you, with the increase in air traffic this is a serious matter. We’re checking up on everybody — not only you. Have you ever put down your Moth on an unauthorized landing ground, leaving out unpreventable emergency landings?’
‘Certainly not.’
‘You have never, for instance, landed on a field in Hampshire?’
‘No. Why should I?’
Biggles shrugged. ‘You might have taken a passenger somewhere using your Moth as an air taxi.’
‘We don’t do that sort of flying. Why should anyone come to an out-of-the-way place like this to engage an air taxi when there are plenty of people who specialize in that kind of work, with the right sort of machines standing by ready to go anywhere at a moment’s notice?’
‘There may be people who prefer not to go near an official Customs airport,’ Biggles suggested.
‘Such as who?’
‘Well, a smuggler, or an escaped prisoner on the run, for instance.’
The secretary grunted. ‘We’re not open for that sort of member. We’re particular who we accept here.’
‘If you had an application for membership from a man whom you had reason to suspect wasn’t all that he should be, you’d turn him down, eh?’
‘On the spot.’
‘Even if he had plenty of money?’
‘Money would make no difference. Anyone who started flashing his wallet would go out on his ear,’ declared the secretary.
Biggles looked him straight in the eyes. ‘Have you ever had an application from a man named Lazor?’
The brief hesitation before the question was answered was not missed by Biggles. ‘Never heard of the man. Who is he?’
‘I can only tell you he’s an extremely nasty piece of work, so should he ever turn up here you’d be well advised to have nothing to do with him,’ Biggles said.
‘He isn’t likely to come here, but purely as a matter of interest, what’s he done?’
‘Among other things he’s just sliced half a man’s face off.’
The secretary looked horrified. ‘Good God! Who’s the man?’
‘The fellow I mentioned earlier: a private owner named Caine. Now you know what I’m driving at!’
The secretary lit a cigarette with a hand that shook slightly. He then took a bottle of whisky from a cupboard and poured himself a drink. ‘Have one?’ he invited, holding up the bottle.
‘No thanks.’ ’
‘Er — where’s Caine now? He isn’t here, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘I know he isn’t here. He’s in hospital with twenty stitches in his face. I’m looking for the skunk who did it.’
‘And you suspect — this fellow — Lazor?’
‘I don’t suspect, I know,’ Biggles said evenly.
‘How do you know?’
‘That’s my business.’
‘So if Caine dropped in here for petrol I’d be able to recognize him,’ the secretary said, with a smile that was obviously forced.
‘That won’t happen.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because Caine no longer has an aircraft.’
‘You mean — he’s sold it?’
‘There’s nothing to sell except scrap metal. The machine ran into trouble and was burnt out.’
The secretary stared. He moistened his lips. ‘What bad luck.’
‘You can call it that.’ Biggles got up. ‘Well, since you can’t help us we’ll be getting along.
Sorry to have kept you.’
In another moment he would have gone, but at this juncture the door was opened and a man put his head in. ‘Just to let you know I’m going home now,’ he said. ‘Good night, Tommy.’ With that he departed, closing the door.
Under Biggles’ cold scrutiny the secretary’s face slowly lost its colour.
‘So you’re Tommy,’ murmured Biggles.
‘That’s what my friends call me. People named Thompson often get this nickname Tommy.’
‘I was slow not to think of it,’ returned Biggles with a wry smile. ‘You might have pointed it out earlier, when I told you I was looking for someone named Tommy.’
‘You said nothing of the sort,’ disputed Thompson. ‘You said you were looking for a man with the Christian name of Thomas. It didn’t occur to me that I was the man you wanted.’
‘All I can say to that is, it should have done,’ retorted Biggles crisply. ‘It would have saved a lot of time and talk — unless there was some reason why you didn’t want me to know you were Tommy.’
‘But that’s ridiculous! Why shouldn’t I want you to know?’
‘You should be able to answer that question better than me.’
‘Okay. So I’m Tommy. What about it?’ demanded Thompson belligerently.
‘There’s one thing about it that becomes quite clear,’ replied Biggles, with iron in his voice. ‘You haven’t much respect for the truth.’
‘Are you calling me a liar?’
‘Not to mince words, you can put it like that if you like. To that I would add, you’re not very good at lying, either. You may do better with more practice.’
‘You’ve called me a liar. Prove it!’
‘Very well; if you really mean that, it should present no difficulty. You told me you’d never met a man named Lazor. You told me you’d never met a private owner named Caine. You told me you’d never landed your Moth on a field in Hampshire. In fact, you flew Lazor down to Hampshire, landing on a farm belonging to Caine. Is that enough, or do you want me to go on?’
