by W E Johns
The final interview with the Air Commodore, who had acted as a sort of link between Biggles and Tommy at one end and the Higher Authority at the other, had ended in something in the nature of a compromise, one which, while not entirely satisfactory from Biggles’ point of view, had to be accepted; and had in fact been agreed to by Tommy, although with understandable reluctance.
It was simply this: It was now up to Tommy to prove his statement about the Regent Street jewel raid and all that had followed it, the most important item, of course, being the recovery of the stolen property. If Tommy would do that his case would be examined in the best possible light. No definite promise of anything could be given, but it was hinted that a free pardon might be forthcoming if all went well. This was the proposition which Biggles had to convey to Tommy, and it had needed all his powers of persuasion to get him to agree. The deciding factor may have been an assurance that, if he refused to accept the terms, he would certainly be arrested and brought to trial. Dusty had advised his son to do what was required of him for his own sake, whatever might be the ultimate verdict.
So Tommy had accepted, and all that then remained to be done was the organization of the expedition. This, of course, had been left to Biggles, while the Air Commodore, on his part, would arrange matters with the Canadian Government and as far as possible with the local authorities. These were still in progress when the Merlin had left England, so Biggles still did not know exactly what sort of reception to expect. It had, however, been confirmed that there was a landing ground at Rankinton, but with no permanent staff, although refuelling and radio facilities were available. This was all Biggles really needed to know. It was enough.
With the mainland in view the next step was to locate the small settlement of Rankinton. On a sparsely inhabited coast this was not expected to be easy. Nor was it. The country looked wild and rugged, much of it under forest; and off-shore islands were numerous. Tommy, having seen the place only from ground level, could do little to help. Biggles, in making the crossing by dead- reckoning, had deliberately inclined towards the north, the tip of Labrador at the entrance to Hudson Bay, this being the shortest sea crossing. He now felt safe in heading south down the deeply indented coastline.
This proved to be correct, and it was his questing eyes that spotted an open area with a white circle in the middle near a seaside settlement. A shed and a wind-stocking on a pole at one end could only mean one thing. Landing grounds here, he thought, must be few and far between, so he went low for a closer investigation. A helicopter standing near the shed was all the inducement he needed to land. If nothing more, he would be able to ascertain his position and so get a line on his destination should this not be it.
Having checked the wind by the wind-sock, he landed and taxied on towards the shed in which presumably the helicopter was housed. As he neared it a man emerged and stood waiting, from his conspicuous and well-known uniform a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.1 From head to foot he was immaculate.
‘Smart lad,’ remarked Biggles approvingly as they approached.
The police officer did in fact look little more than a lad, although he must have been a year or two older than his slim figure and lean, clean-shaven face suggested. His hand went to the level of a pair of shrewd eyes in a formal salute. ‘Inspector Bigglesworth from England, I think.’
‘That’s right,’ acknowledged Biggles.
‘Jack Fraser, sir, at your service.’
Smiling, Biggles offered a hand, ‘Pleased to meet you. You seemed to be expecting me.’
‘Sure. That’s why I’m here. I was detailed by the head office to meet you and give you any assistance you may need.’
‘Good. Were you told why we were coming here?’
‘No. My orders were to stand by in case I was wanted. I have the keys of this depot should you want to refuel or use the radio.’
‘Thanks. We shall have to fill up before we go any farther, but there’s no immediate hurry about that. Are you going to stay here?’
‘For as long as I’m wanted.’
‘Fine. I shall need some information. But let me introduce my friends,’ Biggles went on as Ginger and Tommy joined the party. The introductions made, he said: ‘Mind if I call you Jack? There’s no need to stand on formality on a job of this sort. I’m usually called Biggles. Less of a mouthful than my full name.’
‘Okay with me,’ agreed Fraser, smiling.
Biggles indicated the helicopter. ‘This your machine?’
‘Sure.’
‘So you flew up?’
‘Easiest way to get about here.’ Fraser was evidently a man of few words.
‘Do you know this district?’
‘Pretty well. I cover this stretch of territory. But we needn’t stand here. Come inside. I’ve a pot of coffee on the stove.’
The visitors followed the officer into a cabin where a bench provided seats.
‘Perhaps you can tell me this,’ Biggles said as cups of coffee were handed round. ‘We shall need accommodation for the time we’re here, although how long that will be I don’t know. Do you know of a place where we can put up?’
‘There’s a joint on the waterfront called the Blue Dolphin, sort of pub, general store and post-office. I know Charley Murray who runs it. He acts as a general factotum. He’s all right. It may be a bit rough by your standards, but Mrs Murray is a good cook.’
‘Don’t worry,’ answered Biggles. ‘If we have any standards we don’t bring them with us.’
‘I’ll show you the place. It’s only a short walk down the hill.’
‘Will my machine be all right here?’
‘No one here’s likely to interfere with it. No matter what it looks like, this is a law-abiding community. We might be able to squeeze your machine into the shed if there’s a change of weather. At present it looks set fair, but one never knows.’
‘Then we appear to have struck lucky because we have a little exploring to do.’
‘In which direction, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘Marten Island. Do you know it?’
Fraser raised an arm, an extended finger pointing to a dark mass out to sea. ‘That’s it.’
‘Nice and handy,’ Biggles said. ‘Tell me this, Jack. Do you know anything about a man named Raulstein?’
‘No. I heard there was a stranger here some time ago, but he must have moved on. Has he been up to something?’
‘He’s wanted for a double murder. I’ll tell you more about that later. Another man I hope to see, as he may know something about him, is Angus Campbell, who I believe lives here.’
Fraser’s expression changed. ‘He used to live here.’
‘Do you mean he’s left?’
‘Left for good. He’s dead.’
Biggles stared. ‘Dead!’
‘You’re talking about the guy who ran a fox farm on Marten Island?’
‘That’s right. What did he die of? I understand he wasn’t an old man.’
‘All I can tell you is he’s presumed dead. Drowned at sea.’
‘How did that happen?’
‘He had a power boat for getting to and from his island. He went out one day and he didn’t come back. That’s all we know. Nobody saw anything. He hasn’t shown up, so we can only assume he had an accident, boat capsized, ran into fog or something. Accidents of that sort are not uncommon here. It’s a dangerous coast for any sort of craft. Anything can happen here.’
‘So I imagine.’ Biggles thought for a moment or two. ‘Had you any reason to suspect foul play?’
Fraser’s eyes opened wide. ‘Good Lor’, no. What reason could there be for anything of that sort in a place like this? Campbell had nothing of value. He never behaved as if he’d got a lot of money.’
‘What about his boat?’
‘If his engine packed up he might have tried to swim ashore and couldn’t make it. In that case the boat would probably drift out to sea.’
Biggles caught Tommy’s eye and frowned
a warning to him to say nothing. He turned back to the Canadian. ‘Was Campbell alone on his last trip?’
‘As far as anyone knows. I suppose so. He always went alone.’
‘Have you, or has anyone else, been to Marten Island since this happened?’
‘Not that I know of. Campbell’s brother, Ian, who lives in Toronto, being his next of kin, was informed of what had happened. He came up to settle affairs. He didn’t stay long. There’s no one in the house now.’
‘Have you ever been to Marten Island?’ inquired Biggles.
‘No. Never had cause.’
‘Has anyone been lately?’
‘Not as far as I know. No reason for anyone to go there.’
‘Do the off-shore fishermen never land there?’
‘They keep well clear. There are dangerous currents and a rip tide, not to mention the risk of fog.’
‘What about the foxes? Wouldn’t it be worth someone’s while to trap some of them?’
‘That would be poaching. No one has any right to touch them. Campbell had the place on lease and it still has over a year to run. Meanwhile it remains his property. What’ll happen when the lease expires I don’t know. Maybe Ian will renew the lease. If he doesn’t and no one else wants it, I suppose it will become free to all, like most of the other islands. Any foxes that are left will have to fend for themselves.’
While this conversation had been going on the party, having finished the coffee, had been walking down a slight incline towards the settlement — Rankinton could not claim to be much more than that — with its tiny natural harbour which, by providing a haven for a few fishing boats, was probably the reason for it being there. Approaching the cluster of timber-built dwellings, Tommy touched Biggles on the arm and pointed to a house that stood a little apart from the rest.
‘That’s where Campbell lived,’ he said.
Had the visitors not been told that the owner was no longer in residence, it would have been apparent that the house was not occupied. Weather-worn, a window broken, a smokeless chimney, the surrounding ground overgrown with weeds, the place wore the melancholy look that a house quickly adopts when it is left empty.
‘Yes, that’s where Campbell lived,’ confirmed Fraser. Then a thought seemed to strike him. He looked at Tommy sharply. ‘How did you know?’
‘He once spent a night there,’ explained Biggles casually. ‘Why has no one taken possession?’
‘Legally it remains Campbell’s property until there’s proof of his death, unless his brother puts in a claim. He never comes near the place, which I can understand. One needs a reason to settle in a remote spot like this, for half the year practically out of touch with civilization except by radio.’
Biggles paused to look again across the grey water to the island they had come so far to visit.
‘You seem mighty interested in Marten Island,’ remarked Fraser curiously. ‘Is there some reason?’
‘A very good reason,’ returned Biggles. ‘That, in fact, is why we’re here. We’re going over to it. I suppose we could hire a boat to get us across? It would be a simple matter to fly, but there would be no point in that unless we knew there was a place to land.’
‘I’ll run you across in my ‘copter to have a look round if you like,’ offered Fraser. ‘I don’t need much room to put myself down.’
‘Thanks. That’s uncommonly kind of you,’ accepted Biggles. ‘I’ll take you up on that.’
‘Not at all. I was sent here to help in any way I could.’
‘You must be wondering why we want to go there?’
‘Frankly, as you mention it, I am. But here it’s considered impolite to ask questions that might be embarrassing.’
‘Well, there’s no reason why you shouldn’t know,’ Biggles said, having decided that the best policy would be to tell the whole truth. In fact, in the circumstances they could hardly do otherwise, particularly as Fraser was likely to be a useful and trustworthy friend. He went on: ‘When we’ve had a rest and a meal and a tidy up, I’ll tell you all about it.’
‘That’s up to you,’ stated Fraser. ‘I’m here to help. That doesn’t mean you have to take me into your confidence if you’d rather not.’
The Canadian had now stopped in front of a large frame-timber building facing the harbour. ‘This is Charley Murray’s place,’ he stated. ‘Come in and meet him. Always being on the spot, he may be able to help you with your inquiries. Then I shall have to be getting back to the post. I have to send some signals. Your people at home have asked to be informed of your safe arrival.’
‘Fair enough,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I’ll tell you what, Jack. Will you come along at, say, six o’clock and have a meal with us? The story I have to tell is a long one and may take time. But you’d better hear it, so that you can set your own clock right. Meanwhile I’ll ask Charley if he knows anything. He may be able to tell us when Raulstein left here. It wouldn’t have surprised me to find him still hanging about.’
‘He isn’t here now, or I’d have seen or heard something of him,’ Fraser said.
They went in, and a minute later were talking to a small, wiry man with a freckled face and flaming red hair who had not entirely lost his Scottish accent. Charley Murray.
* * *
1 The Royal Canadian Mounted Police, formerly the North West Mounted Police, the most celebrated uniformed military police in the world, was formed in 1873 with the object of pacifying the Red Indians after their rebellion in 1671. Posts were set up on the plains where life had become hazardous for the thin population of settlers. One of their tasks was to distribute food to the half-starving Indians of the prairies as they made their way to lands reserved for them. The Indians soon came to regard the men in the scarlet jackets — the colour appealed to them — as friends to be trusted. The ‘Mounties’ then took over the work of maintaining law and order in the ‘bad lands’ where they established a reputation for integrity, fairness and courage. In 1920 the name of the corps was changed to Royal Canadian Mounted Police.
CHAPTER 7
THE PLAN
‘HELLO, Charley,’ greeted Fraser. ‘I’ve brought along some friends of mine. They’ve just arrived from England. They want to stay a few days, so I’m hoping you’ll be able to fix them up.’
‘Okay, Jack,’ said Charley. ‘Friends of yours are friends of mine. You know I’ve only single rooms if that’s all right? There’s nobody in ‘em right now, so they can pick their own.’
‘As long as the rooms have beds in ‘em they’ll do for us,’ stated Biggles cheerfully.
‘Now that’s fixed I’ll leave you to Charley,’ Fraser said to Biggles. ‘See you later. Meantime if there looks like being a change in the weather, and anything can happen this time o’ the year, you’d better come up to the airfield and put your plane under cover.’
‘I’ll watch it,’ returned Biggles. ‘We shan’t be using her again today, so we’ll fill her up in the morning.’ He turned to Ginger. ‘You might walk up with Jack and bring our kit along.’
‘I’m on my way,’ Ginger agreed, and followed Fraser out.
While they were waiting, Biggles and the others sat at one of the plain wooden tables with which the room was provided. It might have been called a rather primitive saloon in that it had a bar with bottles on shelves behind it. Biggles lit a cigarette, called for drinks and invited the proprietor to join them. Which he did.
‘In case you’re wondering what we’re doing in Rankinton, we’re interested in a man named Raulstein,’ Biggles said. ‘We have reason to believe he was in these parts not so long ago. Did you see anything of him?’
Charley scowled, his eyes narrowing. ‘He a pal of yours?’
‘Anything but.’
Charley looked relieved. ‘I’m glad to hear that.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s a skunk. He stinks.’
Biggles smiled faintly. ‘Oh. So you found that out.’
‘If you’re looking for him you’re not likely to find
him here,’ volunteered Charley. ‘He won’t come back. Not him.’
‘I gather he wasn’t popular,’ prompted Biggles.
‘He stayed here for a week, borrowed twenty dollars off me — which he forgot to pay back — and then slipped off without settling for his board and lodging, or the drinks he put on the slate at the bar,’ growled Charley in a voice cold with disgust.
‘There are people in the world like that,’ Biggles said. ‘In England we have a name for ‘em.’
‘What are you looking for him for?’
‘He’s wanted in England by the police. And I might as well tell you— but keep this to yourself— I’m a police officer. That’s why Jack Fraser was here to meet us.’
‘So that’s it,’ Charley said understandingly. ‘I hope you find the rat. We can do without his sort here. If there’s anything I can do to help, just say the word.’
‘If you feel like that, maybe you wouldn’t mind me asking a few questions?’
‘Anything you like.’
‘Do you know how Raulstein got here?’
‘Angus Campbell brought him along. I understand he picked him up somewhere. He told me on the quiet he didn’t know anything about him. He’d put him up for a couple o’ nights. He hadn’t any luggage when he came to me apart from one or two odd things Angus had given him. Angus couldn’t do with him any longer because he had to go to St John’s on business, which meant closing the house. I believe Angus gave him a few bucks to help him along.’
‘What did Raulstein do while he was here?’
‘Just hung about, mostly. Said he was looking for a friend who’d come ashore with him. Young feller. I’m told he tried to borrow a boat. He wrote some letters.’
‘Do you know who they were to?’
‘No. I never asked. But he did say he was writing to a friend in the States who would send him some money. When it came he would pay me back. He’d run out and was borrowing off me.’
‘Did the money come?’
‘Not that I know of. He never did say much, either about himself or anything else.’
