Biggles and the Noble Lord

by W E Johns

‘Have you ever thought of working for a living?’ snapped back Ginger.

  Clarence went out and slammed the door behind him. The key grated in the lock.

  Bertie turned serious eyes on Ginger. ‘You know, laddie, that little display of temper recalls to my mind something Biggles said about these fellows being no ordinary crooks. It was to the effect that they were smarting under a grievance, some sense of injustice. This is how they’re getting their own back — or imagine they are. Clarence has a chip on his shoulder as big as a log, and it’s not likely to fall off.’

  ‘Oh, don’t start to feel sorry for them,’ returned Ginger. ‘It doesn’t make any difference that I can see. They’re a pair of crooks, and nasty ones at that. They don’t carry guns for fun. Having a grievance is no excuse for what they’re doing. If everyone who felt frustrated went off the rails, what a mess the world would be in. It’s bad enough as it is.’ He crossed over to the window and looked out through the bars. Below, rolling away to the horizon was the pleasant French countryside. Clarence had not lied. Directly under them was the moat, black and evil-looking with slime. ‘We shan’t get out this way,’ he said morosely, turning back to Bertie. ‘What can we do about it?’

  ‘I hate to say it, but if you want my frank opinion I can give it you in one word. Nothing.’

  ‘Now Clarence knows who we are he isn’t likely to throw open the front door and wish us godspeed,’ observed Ginger with biting sarcasm.

  ‘I couldn’t agree with you more, dear boy,’ returned Bertie. ‘But I still can’t see how we can do anything about it. We shall just have to bide our time. Clarence may change his mind about keeping us here.’

  ‘I wouldn’t reckon on that,’ growled Ginger. ‘He’d find it hard to get a place to hold us. Let’s face it. He’s got us where he wants us, and if it suits him he could keep us here till we rot.’

  ‘You’re forgetting something,’ Bertie said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You realize where we are?’

  ‘I imagine this is the Chateau de Malboise.’

  ‘Right first time.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with it?’

  ‘It’s only a question of time before Biggles rolls up here,’ declared Bertie.

  ‘Why should he?’

  ‘When we fail to return home, he’ll pull out all the stops to find us.’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘He’ll know we went out looking for the chopper. He’ll work it out that we must have found it. Then what will he do?’

  ‘Go to Brindon Hall to see if we’re there,’ surmised Ginger.

  ‘And when he finds we’re not there he’ll remember that the family have a place here. If I know Biggles he’ll tootle across to give the old chateau the once over — if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I can only hope you’re right,’ Ginger answered lugubriously. ‘Otherwise we’re likely to be cooped up here for a long time. Don’t make any mistake about that. Clarence can’t let us go, knowing what we know. He and his brother are playing a deep game that’s likely to go on until they’ve got all the money they need. I still don’t know what to make of them. So far we’ve only seen the velvet glove, not the iron fist which I fancy is inside it. Clarence can talk like a gentleman, but that doesn’t fool me. Behind that smooth tongue there are fangs, with poison in ‘em, as we’re likely to find out when he chooses to bite. And the men he employs here must be of the same kidney. The casual way he talked about that spy who went down into the moat made my blood run cold. When it comes to the punch he’s a killer. Listen!’ Ginger raised a hand.

  From somewhere in the park below came the cough and clatter of an aero engine being started. ‘That’s the chopper,’ continued Ginger. ‘It’s my guess that Clarence is going back to England to talk things over with his brother. That’s what he said. No doubt the swag that was nicked today is now nicely tucked away somewhere in the chateau.’

  They heard the helicopter take off, but were unable to see it. When the unmistakable noise of its departure had faded Bertie said: ‘So we’re now at the mercy of his precious pals. I hope they won’t forget we’re here and leave us to starve to death.’

  As the sun went down and twilight began to creep in through the iron-barred window, it was made evident that this was not the intention. The door was opened and one of the guards, covered by the other, came in carrying a tray which he placed on the table. On it was what turned out to be an excellent cold meal; chicken, a salad, bread, butter and cheese, and a bottle of wine. There was also a candle. Without a word the men withdrew.

  ‘So far so good,’ remarked Bertie cheerfully, lighting the candle. ‘At least they’ve brought us some tuck, and they haven’t left us in the dark, as I thought they might. So things might be worse.’

  ‘Don’t fool yourself,’ returned Ginger grimly. ‘If I know anything, things’ll be worse before they’re better. It seems that what they decide to do with us will depend on Lord Malboise. Clarence as good as said so. That means his lordship is the boss of the gang.’

  ‘Don’t be so depressing,’ protested Bertie. ‘We’ve been in worse spots than this, and got out of ‘em.’

  The meal finished, he went to the window and tested the bars. Using all his strength he couldn’t move them an inch. ‘No use,’ he said. ‘No bally use at all.’

  ‘What were you thinking of doing, taking a header into the moat?’ inquired Ginger, with a touch of sarcasm.

  ‘Not exactly, old boy; not exactly,’ replied Bertie. ‘I’m not that crazy. But I thought if we could clear the bars we might make some sort of rope out of our clobber.’

  ‘Forget it.’ Ginger snuffed out the candle. ‘We might as well save it in case we don’t get another,’ he explained.

  With darkness now taking over from daylight they sat on their beds to pass the night.

  CHAPTER 12

  BIGGLES LEARNS THE FACTS

  Biggles was not long learning what had become of Bertie and Ginger, but the information was not arrived at in the manner that had been predicted. In fact, it came from a source which no stretch of imagination could have foreseen. This was the way of it.

  At eight o’clock on the morning following the disappearance of the Auster the telephone rang. This of course was in the flat, the call having been relayed by the switchboard at Scotland Yard, which indicated that it was personal. Biggles came out of the bathroom to answer it, just beating Algy to the instrument. He picked up the receiver and said: ‘Yes, this is Biggles,’ which at least told Algy, who stood watching, that the caller was someone familiar. After that Biggles stood listening for some time without speaking. Then he broke in with: ‘Have you got its registration?’ Apparently the answer was in the affirmative, for he went on: ‘Yes, that’s one of ours. Thanks.’ Another pause. ‘Be seeing you. Eleven o’clock.’

  With that he hung up, and turning to Algy said tersely: ‘Well, at least we know where they went. That was Marcel Brissac on the line. He rang up to find out if I knew anything about an Auster with British registration landing in northern France yesterday. As you must have guessed it’s our lost lamb.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Near a village in Normandy called Malboise.’

  Algy pursed his lips in a silent whistle. ‘So that’s it. How did Marcel hear about it?’

  ‘Through a French farm labourer, who must be a fellow of unusual intelligence. He was working in a field when he saw a plane circling as if it was looking for somewhere to land. It came down in a field near him and nearly turned upside down. It wasn’t a serious crash as he discovered when he went to it. There were no casualties. In fact, by the time he got to it there was no one with it. He, being an astute fellow, went to the village where he lived and reported the matter to the local copper, who went and had a look. Then, not knowing what to make of it, but observing British registration letters, he had the good sense to report to a higher authority. In due course the story reached Marcel in his office at Air Security Headquarters in Paris
. He, naturally, dashed along to have a look at it. Now, before doing anything else he’s rung up to find out if we know anything about it. As you heard, I was able to tell him the machine was one of ours.’

  ‘What’s he doing about it?’

  ‘For the moment, nothing. He’s waiting for me to tell him what one of our machines was doing in France. There was too much to say on the phone, so I’ve arranged to fly over and explain. I’m meeting him at eleven o’clock at Berck aerodrome. He’ll have a car there to meet me and take me to the crash, which means we shall have to get cracking. Meanwhile he’s doing nothing about it. I fancy we shall be able to tell him more than he can tell us. It’s easy to guess what happened.’

  ‘Bertie and Ginger spotted the chopper and followed it to France.’

  ‘That’s the answer. They saw it land and tried to get down themselves, but made a mess of it,’ Biggles said. ‘How that happened I can’t imagine.’

  Algy looked puzzled. ‘If they didn’t stay with the machine, where could they have gone?’

  ‘Probably to look for a telephone to let us know what had happened.’

  ‘But surely they wouldn’t both go? One of them should have stayed with the machine.’

  ‘One would have thought so,’ agreed Biggles. ‘But there must have been a reason for what they did. One would have expected them to make for the nearest house of any size, which, as the village is called Malboise, could be the chateau of that name. That, if my memory is right, is the name of the Malboises’ property in France, so we can guess why the chopper went there. Presumably it’s all part of the organization.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Algy said, seriously. ‘If they went to the chateau, which would certainly be on the phone, why didn’t they get in touch with us from there?’

  ‘Use your head. If we’re working on the right lines, can you see them ringing up Scotland Yard under the eyes of the people there? They’d have more sense than that, even if they were allowed to use the telephone. They may have found themselves in the middle of a hornet’s nest, and having stirred it up got well and truly stung. That’s how it looks to me.’

  ‘So you think they could still be at the chateau?’

  ‘Where else could they be? Had they gone to the village, Marcel would have found them there, in which case they would have told him what they were doing and there would have been no need for him to ring me.’

  ‘I’m surprised Marcel didn’t go to the chateau to make inquiries, as it was the nearest big house.’

  ‘Why should he? He’d have no reason to suspect that anything crooked was going on there. He may have gone to the chateau for all we know. For obvious reasons anyone there would deny all knowledge of the crash.’

  ‘If the Auster followed the chopper to the chateau, if Clarence was flying it he should still be there.’

  ‘I imagine he is.’

  ‘Then we’d better have a look at it.’

  ‘You’re dead right. And lose no time about it. Anything could happen there if Clarence, or anyone else, realized who Bertie and Ginger were, and what they were doing. That’s why I arranged to meet Marcel as soon as we can get to him. We can’t do anything in France without him, and we should be asking for trouble if we tried.’

  ‘You’ll tell him the whole story?’

  ‘Of course. We shall have to.’

  ‘Does that mean I’m going with you?’

  ‘Naturally. I may need help. But get your clothes on and let’s get weaving. We haven’t too much time.’

  ‘How about going first to Brindon Hall and having it out with Lord Malboise?’

  ‘No. It’s too soon for that. Anyway, we’d get nothing out of him. We’d do better to make straight for France to see if Bertie and Ginger are all right. We could cast an eye over Brindon Park on the way to see if the chopper is about, although I imagine it’s still in France. That’s enough talking. Let’s get a move on.’

  A little more than an hour later, in the old ‘Proctor’ still used for short trips, they were in the air, over Sussex.

  Biggles made a small detour to fly across Brindon Hall Park. He flew straight over without lingering. He thought there was a chance they might see the helicopter; but he was not disappointed when he did not see it, or anything else of interest. As he remarked to Algy, the chopper might still be in France, where it could be presumed to have gone with the Auster following it. Or, of course, if it had returned it would be put out of sight in its usual hiding-place, the apparently purposeless building in the Park.

  Another hour and they were over France, circling the old aerodrome at Berck, well-known to Biggles as a wartime refuelling station for ferry pilots delivering new machines to squadrons nearer the battle front. Having landed, he taxied in to find Marcel Brissac, his opposite number in the French Air Security Police, waiting as had been arranged.

  After the usual friendly greetings, as they walked to his car Marcel said: ‘Now, old warrior, what is all this about, hein?’

  ‘It’s a long story,’ Biggles answered. ‘I’ll tell you on the way to Malboise. I’m anxious to get there as quickly as possible.’

  ‘You can tell me this,’ requested Marcel. ‘Who was flying the Auster?’

  ‘Bertie and Ginger.’ Marcel, of course, knew them both.

  ‘And you think they may be in trouble?’

  ‘I’m sure of it, otherwise they would have let me know where they were.’

  ‘What brought them here?’

  ‘I think they were shadowing a helicopter which we suspect is being used to fly stolen property out of England. They must have tried to land near Malboise, but did not make a very good job of it. It was lucky that farm worker saw what happened, or we might have been a long time finding our missing machine.’

  ‘So now you are worried.’

  ‘Naturally. The helicopter belongs to a clever gang, and if Bertie and Ginger fell into their hands it could be serious.’

  ‘Where could they be?’

  ‘They can’t be far from Malboise, so press on, old friend, without wasting any more time.’

  It was a fairly long run to the scene of the crash, or rather, to the village of Malboise, which gave Biggles ample time to relate the circumstances that had led to the present situation.

  There was not much Marcel could tell him. On hearing the report of a British aircraft on the ground, he had gone at once to inspect it, collecting the local policeman on the way to guide him to the crash. The Auster was not damaged. The metal airscrew was not even bent, which was proof that the machine must have been travelling slowly when it had tipped up on its nose. The farm worker had said he had often seen a helicopter come down near the spot.

  ‘Was there an obstruction of some sort in the field to cause the accident?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Perhaps. Wait, I will show you something,’ was Marcel’s rather mysterious answer. With the help of the local gendarme, he said, he had righted the plane, putting it on even keel. He had not tested the engine, but as far as he could judge it had not been damaged.

  ‘You say there is a big house not far away,’ prompted Biggles.

  ‘Mais oui. Le chateau de Malboise.’

  ‘Did you go to it to make inquiries?’

  ‘Non. I think better to wait for you, to learn what this is about. I think there must be some crook business.’

  ‘That was sensible. I’m glad you did.’

  ‘Now I understand. We go to the chateau now, hein?’

  ‘I feel that is the obvious thing to do.’

  Presently Marcel said, ‘Voila! Here is the village. Do you want to talk to the man who saw your plane come down? I can stop at his house.’

  ‘I’d like a word with him, although I imagine he can’t tell me more than he has told you.’

  Marcel agreed: but in the event Biggles did not see the man. His wife said he was at work somewhere in the fields. They didn’t trouble to look for him. Marcel, who had already seen the plane, knowing exactly where it w
as drove on. A rough farm track took them part of the way. Then the going became so bad that they had to leave the car and do the last 200 yards on foot. So they came to the scene of Bertie and Ginger’s mishap.

  Even before reaching the spot Marcel faltered with a sharp exclamation of surprise. ‘Someone has been here,’ he declared.

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The plane has been moved. When I came it was here.’ Marcel pointed. ‘Now it is over there, by the wood, under a tree. Why is this? I do not understand.’

  ‘If you are asking me I’d say it was put under the tree so that it could not be seen from the air, should someone fly over looking for it,’ answered Biggles.

  ‘Ah! Always you have the answer, you wise old dog,’ confirmed Marcel, as they walked on to the Auster. It stood on even keel and had obviously been wheeled to the spot where it now stood. Biggles examined it, then turned a puzzled face to the field. ‘I can’t understand why this should have happened; why the machine should have had any trouble getting down. There is plenty of room, and I see nothing to cause trouble, not even a rabbit-hole.’

  ‘Come. I show you something.’ Marcel took them a little way along the edge of the wood and pointed to something that lay on the ground. It was a bundle of looped wire and some rough wooden stakes, the sharpened ends of which had recently been in the ground. ‘What is this?’ he asked.

  A deep frown lined Biggles’ forehead. ‘You know as well as I do,’ he answered.

  ‘A fence for sheep, perhaps. But no sheep. So!’

  ‘This field was trapped for planes. Now we know why the Auster went up on its nose.’

  Marcel nodded. ‘This is what I think, but I wait to hear you say it. Now tell me, old cabbage. Who does this and why?’

  ‘Does this land belong to the chateau?’

  ‘But certainly.’

  ‘Then we know who set the trap. Let’s have a look at the place. I saw a track going through the wood. There were wheel marks in the ground. Now I begin to understand.’

  They walked on through the wood. Reaching the far side, the chateau came into view. Biggles stopped to consider it, a little disconcerted because seen from ground level it was a larger building than he had supposed. It was older, too, than he had imagined. And for the first time he saw the moat. It was now evident that with its battlements and turrets the place had been built originally, probably in the era known as the Dark Ages, the historical period of wars and unrest, as a fortified residence. He made a remark to Marcel to that effect. ‘This looks to me more like a castle than a chateau.’