Biggles Sets a Trap

by W E Johns

  Leo got up. “I’m ready. This way.” He walked a short distance and stopped by a straggling rhododendron bush. From near it a wistaria, gnarled and knotted with age, groped its way up to, and around, some of the first floor windows. He pointed. “Those are the ones of the room we were in.”

  Biggles made a grimace. “It wouldn’t need the tricks of a burglar to get inside. It’s too easy. By climbing up the wistaria and standing on that cornice it would only be necessary to prise up the lead holding one of the panes, remove the glass, put a hand in and lift the fastener. The glass could be replaced when leaving, showing no sign of having been tampered with unless you were looking for it.”

  “One could get in any window by the same method,” Leo pointed out.

  Biggles agreed. “Strange that your burglar should choose the room with the chest in it. Or was it? It could be that he knew the chest was there. At all events, he tried to open it. He failed, but he might do better next time, unless we do something about it. Which is your bedroom, Leo?”

  “The one at the end, on the same floor. It has two windows, one facing the front and the other the side. The one Falkner fixed up for you, in case you decided to stay, is this side.” Again Leo pointed. “What are you going to do—put some bars across the windows?”

  “That’s no use. Your night prowler would merely get through another window. We can’t bar them all. Bars across the chest room windows would tell him his game had been rumbled. What is needed is a trap, something which will tell us when he’s on the job without him being aware of it. That might give us a chance to see him. I think I can fix that.”

  “Do you think he could be the man who shot Charles?”

  “I wouldn’t go as far as that—yet. But whoever he is I have a feeling that he has an interest in that chest. I may be wrong. We may be dealing with an ordinary burglar. That’s what we’ve got to find out. Let’s see about organizing the trap. I shan’t need much—a reel of thread and a few small hooks, nails, or something of that sort.”

  “Is this going to work from the inside or the outside?”

  “Inside. Let’s go in and see what we can find.”

  For the next hour the others watched Biggles arrange the trap. There was nothing original about it but it had the merit of serving its purpose. It was simply this. Fastened to two screws, about a foot apart, in the frame on one side of the window, were two threads. These were carried right across the windows, close to and along the wall to the door. From there they continued on along the corridor to the double bedroom that had been prepared for Biggles and Bertie. The two threads were now brought together and from them suspended some books, tested by trial and error to take a strain without breaking the threads.

  As Biggles demonstrated at the finish it was impossible for anyone to come in through the window without breaking the threads—of which, of course, the burglar would be unaware. When this happened the books would fall to the floor, making enough noise to awaken those in the room should they be asleep.

  “We’ve no guarantee that the visitor, should he come again, will use the same window; but if he does we shall know about it,” declared Biggles. “Before going to bed I must remember to fetch the torch from our car so that we shall be able to see what we’re doing if the trap is sprung. In fact, I’ll put the car round the back. There’s no sense in advertising there are guests in the house. That’s all for the time being. Let’s leave it at that.”

  “If nothing happens what will you do tomorrow?” asked Leo, as they made their way back to the chairs outside the front door.

  “I shall probably do a cruise round the district.”

  “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “No. I may have a look at the churchyard, perhaps inside the church if it’s open.”

  “What could you hope to find there?”

  “There’s just a chance I might see something that could provide a clue to the origin of The Curse.”

  “But I thought you didn’t believe in The Curse.”

  “Put it this way. There’s no danger in The Curse itself. Threats never killed anyone. But there’s an old saying there’s no smoke without fire, and like a lot of other old sayings it was based on human experience.”

  “But if The Curse can’t hurt what would be the object of it?”

  “When I said it couldn’t hurt I meant physically. But it might keep the person cursed, aware of its association with sudden death, in a state of anxiety. What you have to fear is not The Curse but the enemy behind it. You pretend you don’t care two hoots about The Curse but I’d wager you’d feel more comfortable in your mind if it didn’t exist. How often do you think about it?”

  “Frequently, I’ll admit.”

  “Exactly. You may not acknowledge it but it’s always at your elbow. In view of what’s happened anyone would feel the same.”

  By this time they were sitting relaxed in the chairs, Biggles smoking the inevitable cigarette.

  It was a beautiful evening, the air soft and warm, the autumn sun setting over the trees of the ancient forest. The only sound, apart from the chirping and the occasional song of a bird, was the noise of a motor vehicle passing along the main road. So they lingered for some time, the conversation giving way to a contented silence.

  This ended abruptly when from somewhere in the direction of the road there came a sound which, after a split second of shock, shot Biggles out of his chair as if he had been impelled by a spring. It was a harsh, grating croak, unmistakably the cry of a raven.

  “Leo, stay where you are! Bertie, take the left flank to the road and try to spot the thing that’s making that noise!” Biggles rapped out the words and in a flash was racing towards the road, heading diagonally towards the right. He ran with his eyes as busy as the state of the ground allowed, looking above and around, jumping minor obstacles and swerving round clumps of gorse and briars. When he reached the road he had seen no one, no person, or bird except an odd wood pigeon which jinked when it saw him. Breathing deeply from the sudden exertion he climbed on an old stump, which enabled him to see over the hedge and so survey the road.

  Two motor bikes ridden by youths roared past. Then came a car, full to capacity with a family of children. Then, after a brief interval, came a truck, overtaking a woman riding leisurely on horseback along the grass verge. More cars followed, but no pedestrian.

  Biggles waited for about twenty minutes, and then, still looking about him and keeping an eye on the air, made his way slowly back to the house. The croak of the raven had not been repeated. Reaching the house he found that Bertie had already returned and was talking to Leo, who looked not in the least perturbed.

  “Did you see anything?” Biggles asked Bertie.

  “Only cars, motor bikes and a woman on a horse. How about you?”

  “That was all I saw,” muttered Biggles in a disappointed voice as he resumed his chair.

  Said Leo: “This woman you saw. Was she good-looking, dark and about twenty-five—or maybe a little more?”

  “That would describe her. She was riding a light chestnut mare. Do you know her?”

  “Only by sight. I’ve seen her about occasionally. She lives in the village with her brother. He runs the pub.”

  “Really? You surprise me.”

  “Why?”

  “Somehow she didn’t look the type to be serving drinks behind a bar. She had something about her ...”

  “I didn’t say she serves in the bar. I wouldn’t know. I don’t use the place. All I know is she lives with her brother. At least, that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “I see.”

  Leo smiled curiously. “Well, now you’ve heard our mysterious croaker what do you make of it?”

  “Not much, except it’s a damn queer business.”

  “I thought you’d think that.”

  “I’m going to do more than think,” asserted Biggles. “I’m going to put a handful of salt on the tail of that precious bird of yours if it takes me the rest of my days
.”

  “It may catch me before you catch it.”

  “We’ll see about that,” growled Biggles.

  Falkner came out. “Dinner is served, sir,” he said quietly.

  CHAPTER VII

  A LADY ASKS SOME QUESTIONS

  IF Biggles had hopes of catching the burglar that night he was to be disappointed. The night passed without disturbance, and an examination of the trap, the first thing Biggles did when he got up, showed that the threads were still intact.

  “No matter,” he said over breakfast. “We’re ready for him should he decide to have another go.”

  “What are you thinking of doing today?” asked Leo.

  “If you’ll promise to stay close to the house, and go indoors if you hear any ravens croaking, I’d like to have a look round the district to see who’s about; probably give the village the once over. I have a feeling that the raven we heard last night doesn’t live far away.”

  “I shall stay near the house,” promised Leo. “If anyone should know what the croak of a raven means it’s me. I’m not likely to forget what happened to Charles. Are you going to look for anything in particular?”

  “No. I intend to have a look round the churchyard. Old churches can be interesting, anyway.”

  “That reminds me; we have one in the house here. Actually, of course, it’s a small private chapel. Most big houses had one years ago, often with their own chaplain. In the days of the religious wars they had a hole to hide him in, too.”

  Biggles looked up. “Have you got a priest’s hole here?”

  “Probably, but I don’t know where it is. There are a lot of rooms I’ve never seen. I can’t remember the last time anyone went up to the attics, where the servants used to live. There’s nothing to go up for.”

  Biggles looked at Bertie. “Imagine living in a house with so many rooms that you’ve never seen half of them.” Turning back to Leo he went on: “Where’s this chapel you mentioned?”

  “At the east end of the house on the ground floor.”

  “How long since you were in it?”

  “I’ve never been in it in my life. Once, when I was a small boy, I looked in from the door. My father was showing it to Charles.”

  “See anything of interest?”

  “No. It’s a dark, gloomy sort of hole. It must be as old as the house. There’s nothing in it. As I remember it the only furniture was what I imagine must have been a little altar, under a small stained glass window.”

  “Can we have a look at it?”

  “If I can find the key. I’m not even sure where that is. Falkner may know. I’ll look for it while you’re out.”

  “What was the subject of the stained glass window?”

  Leo smiled tolerantly. “What a man you are for asking questions.”

  “That’s how I do my job. If I didn’t ask, nobody would tell me, so I wouldn’t get anywhere.”

  “Actually, you couldn’t see much of the window for dust and cobwebs, but I have a vague recollection of a knight in armour with a halo over his head. Probably a memorial to some noble warrior.”

  “See if you can find the key.” Biggles got up. “Come on, Bertie. We might as well get weaving.”

  In a few minutes they were on their way, cruising along quietly and looking at anything there was to be seen. The country was typical rural English scenery of the southern counties, stands of old timber alternating with land under cultivation and an occasional farmhouse with its adjacent pastures and grazing cattle. The famous New Forest ponies which sometimes wandered across or stood on the road hoping to be fed by passers-by were a menace; and it was in fact a party of these that led to an incident that turned out to be somewhat embarrassing.

  The ponies were walking up the middle of the road taking not the slightest notice of a car honking close behind them as it tried to get past. Biggles, to avoid collision with the animals had to pull up; whereupon the ponies, caught between the two cars so to speak, strolled away into the forest leaving the cars face to face. Biggles recognized the driver of the other. It was Diana Mortimore; and apparently she recognized them, for with a wave of greeting she pulled into the side of the road, stopped and got out.

  “Good morning,” she called cheerfully. “Lovely day again.”

  Biggles of course as a matter of courtesy also had to get out, and they all foregathered on the verge.

  “You’re the friends I saw with Leo Landaville, aren’t you?” said the girl.

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you staying with him?”

  “For a day or two.”

  “How is he this morning?”

  “He’s all right. Is there any reason why he shouldn’t be?”

  Diana hesitated. “That’s what I’d like to know. Would you mind if I asked you a rather pointed question?”

  “I’ll answer it if I can,” offered Biggles, cautiously.

  “What’s the matter with him lately?”

  For a moment Biggles looked taken aback, as if unprepared for such a question; as in fact he was. “What do you mean?”

  “What’s he worried about?”

  “Is he worried?” parried Biggles.

  “That’s the only reason I can find for his behaviour.”

  “What sort of behaviour?”

  “He’s becoming more and more of a hermit. He never wants to go anywhere. I have a feeling he’s preoccupied with something but he won’t tell me what it is. Do you know?” Diana was disarmingly frank.

  Biggles took time to think.

  “Is it money?” challenged Diana.

  “Well, I think he’s pretty hard up. But you must always have known that.”

  “Yes. But I’m sure there’s something else and he won’t tell me what it is. I wondered if he had told you.”

  Biggles was finding this interrogation disconcerting, but faced with a direct question he had to find an answer. “I think he may be finding it a bit lonely at the Hall since Charles died.”

  “Then why does he stay there?”

  “There are reasons why he doesn’t want to leave.”

  “You needn’t tell me that. I’ve realized it for some time. But he seems lately to have really stuck his toes in and nothing will get him out. Why? That’s what I want to know.”

  Biggles resorted to the old trick of questioning the questioner. “You’re fond of Leo, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would it be impertinent of me to go a step further and suggest you’re in love with him?”

  “I’d marry him if he asked me. He knows that. I wouldn’t say it were it not that I have reason to believe he’s fond of me, too.”

  “I can assure you that he is.”

  “Then what’s the matter? If something has come between us why doesn’t he say what it is? It’s a shame to let that lovely old place go to rack and ruin. Nothing would please me more than to have it restored. I have more money than I know how to spend, so why not?”

  “Leo’s worry is not entirely a matter of money, although, naturally, he doesn’t like the idea of spending yours.”

  “That’s nonsense, and I’ve told him so. If it isn’t money, what is troubling him? Do you know?”

  Biggles could only tell the truth. “I have an idea, but you mustn’t ask me to repeat what he told me in confidence.”

  “You men,” said Diana coldly. “How you stick together. At least tell me this. Is it another woman?”

  Biggles’ surprise was genuine. “What other woman?”

  “Julia Warren.”

  Biggles shook his head. “This is the first time I’ve heard that name. Leo has never mentioned it to me. Who is this lady?”

  “Her brother keeps the public house just as you come to the village.”

  “I can’t imagine what put such an idea in your head,” said Biggles, looking a little uncomfortable. He regarded Diana shrewdly. “Had you any reason for bringing up her name?”

  “She keeps a horse, and I’ve noticed she does
most of her riding in the direction of the Hall. It’s said she’s interested in photography, but although she carries what looks like a camera case over her shoulder I’ve never seen her taking a picture. I was beginning to wonder why she so often took the road to the Hall.”

  “Then you needn’t wonder any longer,” asserted Biggles. “You can take it from me that Leo hasn’t the slightest interest in this lady. He has never spoken to her.”

  “How do you know?”

  “He told me so.”

  “Then you have discussed her?”

  “We most certainly have not.”

  “Then how did her name come up?”

  “Her name has never been mentioned. If you’re talking about a dark, striking-looking woman who rides a light chestnut mare, I happened to see her on the road yesterday. It was near the Hall. As a matter of curiosity I asked Leo who she was, and he rather surprised me by saying her brother kept the village pub. He didn’t mention her name. It was obvious he wasn’t interested. When I asked him if he knew her he said only by sight. I’m quite sure he meant that.”

  Diana took a deep breath that may have been relief. “Thanks,” she said. “I’m glad to hear it. I wouldn’t trust that woman a yard.”

  “Why not?”

  Diana’s lips curled cynically. “A woman always knows,” she replied, enigmatically. “But I must get on. You can tell Leo you’ve seen me but I’d rather you didn’t tell him what we’ve been talking about. I have some pride, too. Good-bye.”

  “Good-bye.”

  Diana got back into her car and drove off.

  Biggles took out his cigarette case. “Stiffen the crows! Heaven preserve me from jealous women.”

  “You think she’s jealous?” asked Bertie.

  “That’s how it struck me. That was why she stopped. She was fishing for information—and how!”

  “I thought you were finding the conversation a bit difficult.”

  “It was more than that. I wasn’t expecting anything like the questions she fired at me. They took some dodging. She’s in love with Leo. She senses there’s something wrong and naturally wants to know what it is. Well, it isn’t for me to tell her. That’s up to Leo. I wonder what gave her the idea that he might be making a pass at this woman from the pub. Or put it the other way round; that she might have her eye on him. Just female instinct, I suppose. But let’s get along.”