by W E Johns
Ginger, watching, observed, somewhat to his surprise, that the chopper still showed no signs of losing height, as he thought it should by now if Brindon Park was its objective. It became increasingly evident that this was not so; the aircraft was holding its height and flying straight on, a course which, if maintained, would take it miles from the Park. Naturally, Ginger began seriously to wonder if he had been too quick to jump to the conclusion that the chopper was the one they hoped to find. Such machines are not uncommon and this one might well be on legitimate business. They were too far apart for him to check registration markings. He passed on his doubts to Bertie. His doubts increased when he observed that the helicopter, far from losing height as if preparing to land, was now climbing, a manoeuvre which, if sustained, would take it into or above the approaching clouds. Had the chopper spotted that it was being followed by the Auster and was now taking evading action? he wondered. If it went into the clouds it would obviously be more difficult, if not impossible to keep under observation; yet to close in on it would almost certainly be to invite suspicion — that is, if the pilot of the chopper was in fact engaged in some improper business.
Ginger conveyed his thoughts to Bertie. ‘What are we going to do about it?’ he questioned, anxiously. ‘At this rate we shall soon be over the coast. Then what?’
Bertie considered the matter while turning on a course that would take it closer, but not too close, to the helicopter. ‘There’s only one thing to do, laddie, and that’s stick to the blighter for as long as possible,’ he decided. ‘If he goes through the cloud I’ll go topsides, sit in the sun and watch him from there.’
‘Fair enough,’ agreed Ginger. ‘I’ll keep an eye on him?
For the next five minutes, during which time the English Channel had crept up over the southern horizon, the helicopter continued to climb, finally to disappear into the cloud. The Auster, too, had been climbing steadily and at the same time closing the distance between the two machines. As soon as the helicopter was out of sight, Bertie, after a short dive for maximum speed, pulled the stick back sharply and went up like a rocket through the mass of vapour. For the short time they were in it they could of course see nothing, but as they burst out into clear air with only blue sky above Ginger at once picked up the machine they were shadowing, now flying level on its original course, which was slightly west of south.
‘There he is,’ he called to Bertie. ‘Over the sea and still heading south. He must be going to France. He’s got a nerve, going overseas in broad daylight without a Customs check.’
‘What’s to stop him?’ returned Bertie. ‘If anyone on the ground did happen to see him, he’d assume he was a navy type on some sort of rescue job. During the holiday season they do regular patrols along the coast on the look-out for silly asses who capsize their sailing dinghy or float away with the tide on one of those mattresses you can blow up. There’s nothing unusual in a chopper being over the Channel at this time of the year.’
‘Well, this chap’s not on a rescue job, that’s for sure,’ declared Ginger. ‘He’s too high to see anything smaller than a tanker. What are we going to do?’
‘Stay with him. What else? Having come so far, we’ll see where he ends up,’ replied Bertie cheerfully.
‘If we had to come down in France, there’d be a fine old stink. That’s happened before today.’
‘Why should we have to go down?’
‘How do we go for petrol?’
‘All right for another hour, anyhow. You keep your eyes on the chopper in case he tries to give us the slip, as he might if he spots that we’re trailing him.’
Nothing more was said. For the next 20 minutes the position remained unchanged; then the helicopter dropped into the cloud, now an almost unbroken layer. Bertie, having been advised of this by Ginger, went down after it, and there, below them, running east to west, were the same sandy beaches of the Normandy coast. The helicopter was flying directly inland into France.
Ginger, always cautious of breaking the Regulations it was their duty to enforce, was now for turning back; they knew the helicopter had gone to France and that was enough, he argued. But Bertie wouldn’t hear of it. What was the use of going home with only half the story? he objected. ‘Let’s see where the blighter touches down. That’s what Biggles will want to know.’
The subject was not pursued. Ginger concentrated on watching the helicopter, not so easy now that it was well below them and could only be seen against the multicoloured fields of northern France. However, he was able to keep it in sight, and ten minutes later was relieved to see the chopper circling, obviously preparing to land. It went down in a meadow flanked by a wood that was almost large enough to be called a forest. It took shelter under the nearest trees.
Unfortunately Ginger had no means of pinpointing the actual spot. There was no main road, or a railway, near. There was a village about two miles away, but he had no means of ascertaining its name. The Auster did not carry the large-scale map of France that might have named it. He could make out only one conspicuous landmark anywhere near, and that was a large mansion house which two turrets, one at each end, might put it into the category of a chateau. It was half hidden by ancient trees.
Once the helicopter had landed Bertie swung away from the spot, a wide turn that headed it back towards the coast.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Ginger.
‘Home, me boy. Home. That bally chopper may stay here for hours and I don’t feel like fiddling about waiting for it, with a risk of running out of juice.’
‘Have you any idea where we are?’
‘Not a clue.’
‘Don’t you think we should find out? Biggles will want to know. Where is this place, will be the first question he’ll ask. Could you find it again?’
‘I wouldn’t swear to it.’
‘That’s a fat lot of use. We must know the name of that village, or the house.’
‘How do we find out?’
‘There’s only one way. Go down and ask. I can see a man ploughing that big field on our right. He’ll tell us what we want to know. If there’s a report of us landing, we could say we drifted in over the clouds. That has happened before today.’
‘Okay, chum, if that’s how you feel. Where would you like me to land?’
‘Anywhere as long as it’s fairly close to the big house, otherwise that farm hand may not know the name of it.’
‘Right you are.’ Bertie looked over the side. The field where the man was ploughing had been more than half turned, leaving only a narrow strip of unbroken ground, so that was out of the question. He chose a large meadow on the near side of the wood already noted, and without any difficulty made a perfect landing. He touched the throttle to run on a little way, the reason being, as he afterwards explained, because he could see a man moving just inside the wood. Being nearer, this would save them a rather longer walk to the man who was ploughing.
It was then that it happened. The Auster stopped with a jerk. Its nose dipped until it nearly touched the ground, sending its tail cocked high. Bertie leapt out. Ginger followed. No explanation was necessary. Across the Auster’s undercarriage was a strand of wire. A short distance away, torn out of the ground, was the stake to which it had been attached.
‘Sheep wire,’ growled Ginger. ‘What stinking luck.’
‘What sheep? I can’t see any sheep,’ Bertie said. ‘This looks to me more like a trap. An aeroplane trap. It must have been laid by someone with wartime experience.’
‘Biggles will have something to say about this.’ grumbled Ginger. ‘No matter. We will at least be able to find out where we are. I can see someone coming up that ride through the wood.’
During both wars it was a common practice of both sides to stretch strands of wire across fields that might be used by planes putting down or picking up spies.
It was now that Bertie explained why he had run on after landing.
From the wood, travelling faster than seemed necessary, appeared a cove
red jeep, or similar vehicle. It ran straight on to where the stranded pilots could only stand surveying the disabled aircraft and the extent of the damage. On arrival at the spot three men jumped out with alacrity, and Ginger was startled to see each of them carried an automatic pistol. This was only the first shock. The second, more severe, was when he recognized one of the men. He had last seen him when, with Biggles, he had made the apparently forced landing on Brindon Park. Clarence, whom Lord Malboise had said was his ‘young brother’. The three men advanced together, Clarence with a curious though not unpleasant smile on his face.
‘So it’s you,’ he said, in a soft, cultured voice. ‘I thought it might be.’
‘And why did you think it might be?’ inquired Ginger.
‘My dear fellow, do you suppose I’m so blind that I couldn’t see an Auster dodging about on my tail all the way from Sussex?’ replied Clarence.
‘So you were flying the chopper?’
‘Of course. But no doubt you guessed that.’
‘What’s the idea of these guns?’
‘Merely a precautionary measure. I hope we shan’t have to use them.’
‘Was it you who wired this field?’ demanded Ginger.
‘Not me, personally, but I arranged for it to be done.’
‘Why?’
‘We don’t like unexpected visitors dropping in on us, and I was afraid that this field looked like an open invitation for passing strangers to land. But why are we standing here? Come along to the house, where I can offer you some refreshment after your rather long flight.’
All this was said in such a free and easy, almost cordial manner, that Ginger didn’t know what to make of it. He was soon to learn.
‘If you don’t mind we’ll press on to the village we saw from the air and see about getting some help,’ he said.
‘Ah! but I do mind,’ returned Clarence. ‘I’m afraid you and your friend will have to accept my hospitality whether you like it or not. We’re going to have a little chat, and it will be in your interest to be co-operative. I trust I make myself clear.’
Up to now Bertie had not spoken, although he must have grasped the situation. The guns spoke for themselves. Now he came in with: ‘Are you telling us what we can do and where we can go?’
‘Exactly that. I thought you would have realized it by now,’ answered Clarence, now with a slight edge on his voice. ‘You’re trespassing on my property. Let’s not argue about it. Don’t force me to take extreme measures. Anyone who starts a private war against me must accept the consequences. That’s fair, as I’m sure you will agree. So be reasonable. Come along. We’ve stood here long enough.’ Clarence made a gesture with his pistol. His companions stepped forward and ran their hands over the prisoners’ pockets, presumably feeling for weapons.
Ginger looked at Bertie, Bertie shrugged. There was no proof that Clarence was serious in his threats, but at this juncture prudence dictated it was better not to put them to test. So under the guns of their captors they got into the jeep, which at once set off up the track through the wood. It had not far to go. A mere five minutes’ drive. When they emerged from the wood, where they saw the helicopter parked under cover of the trees, they saw the mansion house facing them. It was an imposing grey stone building obviously of some age. And, as if to confirm this, as they crossed a bridge, it was protected by a moat.
‘Welcome to my family home,’ said Clarence as he got out. ‘It’s a bit old-fashioned, but for me it has certain advantages, as presently no doubt you will perceive. Remember that, and don’t, I implore you, for your own sakes try anything foolish. Come along. This way.’
CHAPTER 11
THE CHATEAU DE MALBOISE
The high stone walls of the main hall in which Bertie and Ginger presently found themselves, having crossed the moat by a crumbling bridge just wide enough for a small vehicle, struck cold and damp, like those of a vault. The windows were narrow, unglazed and set high, and the dim light that filtered through them did nothing to offset the dismal cheerlessness of the place. There was little in the way of furniture, so footsteps echoed eerily. Clarence went in front, with his two men, still carrying guns, bringing up the rear of the little party.
He turned off this depressing chamber to a flight of narrow stone steps of the type generally known as a spiral staircase. Up and up they wound until Ginger began to wonder if they were going to finish on the roof. He counted four floors with a small landing on each one, and a slit of a window to provide a little light on the stairs. These ended in a heavy oak door with a ponderous iron lock. The key hung from a hook just outside.
Clarence unlocked the door and showed his guests — or perhaps we should say prisoners — into a small room which, being circular in shape, was evidently in one of the turrets. It was furnished with a plain wooden table and two beds. There was a window, without glass, and barred with vertical iron bars.
‘Sorry I can’t offer you better accommodation at the moment, but I thought you would prefer it to the dungeons,’ Clarence said casually. ‘However, as you see, this might have been made for such an occasion as this. Just the job, in fact, as we used to say in the Service. As a matter of interest an ancestor of mine occupied this room for some years. The poor fellow was out of his mind so he had to be kept confined. By the way, don’t try to remove the bars from the window. It would serve no useful purpose even if you succeeded. It’s a sheer drop of fifty feet into the moat, which actually is more mud than water. The last man who tried to leave the house that way dived into the mud and was never seen again. We couldn’t even find his body, so he must still be down there somewhere. I hope you won’t join him. It was a pity. I hate to see a brave man come to such a sticky end.’
‘Who was he?’ asked Ginger, more for something to say than because he wanted to know.
‘A German spy. That was during the war, of course. He was a courageous man, if somewhat truculent. I should know, having done that sort of work. As a matter of detail it was I who caught him and brought him here for safe custody until I could make contact with friends in the French Resistance. No doubt he would have been shot anyway, so he merely anticipated his death by a few hours. But alas, war is war. It hardens one’s finer feelings, don’t you think?’
‘It seems to have turned you into a particularly coldblooded specimen of humanity,’ observed Bertie. ‘How long do you intend to persist in this nonsense?’
‘That will depend.’
‘On what?’
‘My brother. I shall have to inform him of this unfortunate situation and take his advice on what should be done with you. His decision will probably depend on your behaviour. Now I must leave you pro tem. I’ll see you have some food sent up. I’ll come back later and we’ll have another chat. Do be careful while I’m away. My men are inclined to show their resentment of any sort of insubordination.’
‘What sort of behaviour do you expect from us?’ inquired Bertie, frostily.
‘One never knows, does one? You might decide it would be worth your while to be, shall we say, co-operative.’
‘Co-operative? In what way?’ asked Ginger, who realized that behind all this apparently harmless talk they were in grave danger, the more so because Biggles would not have the remotest idea of what had become of them. If he looked anywhere for them it would be at Brindon Hall, in Sussex. He certainly wouldn’t cross the Channel. So on the face of it, it seemed a forlorn hope to rely on him for help.
Standing in the doorway with the two gunmen behind him Clarence went on: ‘You might, for instance, tell me exactly who you are. That would merely save me a certain amount of time and trouble because I shall find out, anyway. When I know who or what you represent, I shall be able to judge your purpose in following me here.’
‘Let’s do a swop,’ suggested Bertie, light-heartedly. ‘You tell us what you brought here in your chopper and I’ll answer your question.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ agreed Clarence. ‘I brought a quantity of gold.’
&nb
sp; ‘For what purpose?’
‘To sell, of course. I need the money.’
‘Why?’
‘Look at this place! It’s falling to pieces. I don’t like to see it like this. Yet to put it as it should be would cost a mint of money. That’s my answer. Now, who are you?’
‘I’d have thought you’d have guessed that already,’ Ginger said bluntly. ‘We’ve no reason to hide anything. You’ll have to know eventually. We’re officers of the Special Air Police and our job is to crack down on criminal air activities such as those you’re engaged in.’
Clarence nodded. ‘I thought it might be something like that.’
‘Up to this moment we only suspected you, but now we’re convinced,’ Ginger said.
‘Naturally — naturally,’ replied Clarence, blandly. ‘Do you feel like telling me how you got on my track, so to speak? It would be of interest to me to know where we made a blunder, as I think must have happened, since neither of you strike me, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, as the Sherlock Holmes type.’
‘We have our own methods of spotting crooks,’ Ginger said.
Clarence’s expression changed. He scowled. ‘Are you calling me a crook?’
‘What else are you but a crook?’
Clarence flared up at that. ‘You have the brass face to call me a crook. It’s the government you work for who are the crooks. During the war I risked my life a hundred times. What did I get for it? My brother and I were taxed until we hadn’t a penny to put our property in order. Look at the state this place is in. Now you know why. Well, we’ve thought of a way to get over that difficulty, and you’re not going to stop us. Don’t you call me a crook.’
