by W E Johns
“Thank you, Inspector. Now I know how I stand. I knew there was something holding Leo back. Rest assured that I shan’t breath a word of this to anyone.” Diana held out her hand. “Good-bye for now. You go back and take care of Leo.”
“I shall do my best. Good-bye, and be careful.”
Biggles saw Diana into the drive; then turning the Bentley he set off back down the road over which they had travelled.
He pulled into the side and stopped when he came to the place where the bullet had struck Diana’s car. He had a good look around before he got out, for he was well aware of the risk he was taking by driving the Bentley. But there was not a soul in sight so he went about the business for which he had stopped. He did not seriously expect to find anything, but while there was a remote chance he was prepared to go to trouble to take it. He knew from which side of the road the bullet had come from the fact that it had gone through the window next to the driving seat.
In the event the task proved easier than he had expected, and for this the rough state of the ground, which at this point was mostly dead bracken, was responsible. There was only one place where it had been trampled down by somebody walking through it, and this was so plain to see that it didn’t take him long to find it. There was a little traffic on the road, mostly private cars, and these he ignored. A step at a time with his eyes searching the ground he followed the track, and when it ended behind a shrubby Christmas tree not more than six paces from the side of the road he saw from a small trampled area that someone had stood there for a while. The short end of a cigarette, which a heel had pressed into the soft ground, marked the spot. A cork tip was still intact.
With this in his note case he continued the search on hands and knees, now knowing what he was looking for. It took him some time to find it, and it was with a little smile of satisfaction that he picked up an empty copper case of a calibre twenty-two rifle. He looked at the base. The firing pin had struck the cap dead centre. This was what he had hoped to find when he had asked Diana to mark the spot. He had a good look round to make sure there was nothing more, and then, returning to the car, drove on.
Leo was waiting at the front door. “You’ve been a long time,” he remarked.
“I had a little job to do.” returned Biggles.
“What was it?”
“I wanted to make sure that the shot fired at Diana was not an accident. I didn’t think for a moment that it was.”
“Wasn’t it?”
Biggles shook his head. “No, although had she been killed it would have looked like one. She admits she was travelling fast. In the state she would have been in, and the car when it crashed, it’s unlikely a small thing like a bullet wound would have been noticed. Who would have looked for one? Who would have suspected anything like that? The man who fired that shot would have been safe enough, and he knew it.”
“You’re quite certain about this?” Leo looked shaken.
“It’s no use trying to fool ourselves, Leo. That shot was deliberate. On the way home I studied the ground carefully. Could there be any possible reason why a poacher, or anyone else in pursuit of game, should fire low across a road which, in broad daylight with traffic about, would prohibit the presence of any wild creature in its right mind? Anyhow, to settle the matter I managed to find this.” Biggles took the spent cartridge from his pocket and handed it over. “If you’ll look at the cap you’ll see it was fired by the same rifle that killed Charles; or one of identical pattern. With our equipment at the Yard I’d wager it could be proved that this cartridge, and the one that killed Charles, were both fired by the same weapon.”
Leo stared at the cap for some seconds as if it fascinated him. “My God!” he burst out. “So they’re after her, too.”
“It looks that way to me.”
“But why? Why Diana?”
“One can only guess. Maybe to rattle your nerves. Maybe to hit you where it would hurt most. Can you think of any other reason?”
“The swine! The devil!” grated Leo. He looked up suddenly as if a thought had struck him. “You didn’t tell Diana that her life was in danger?”
“As a matter of fact I did.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“That isn’t for you to decide,” returned Biggles curtly. “Knowing what I know the least I could do was warn her, so that she’ll watch her step. How would you feel if you learned that her body had been found on the road, killed in a car accident, and you, knowing her danger, had done nothing about it?”
Leo bit his lip. “You’re so right. Dammit, you always are.”
“Not always. But I hoped you’d see it that way. Don’t worry. Diana has her head screwed on right. What you have to do is keep yours, and not dive off at the deep end before it’s time. Now you can get me a drink.”
Biggles dropped into the nearest chair and lit a cigarette.
CHAPTER XI
A NEAR MISS
AFTER lunch Biggles and Leo sat outside as usual, Biggles aware of an atmosphere of tension. He could sense Leo’s mounting irritation and impatience, and in view of the attack on Diana he could sympathize with him. He was prepared for awkward questions and it wasn’t long before they came.
After pacing up and down with his hands in his pockets Leo stopped in front of Biggles, and looking down at him, asked in no uncertain tone of voice: “What do you make of this shooting at Diana?”
Biggles answered: “I’ve told you my opinion, and since the person responsible hasn’t taken me into his confidence it is only an opinion. It may be to prevent you from marrying her; it might be to bring you out into the open so that lie can get a shot at you; or it could simply be to get your nerves frayed. If that’s the idea it seems to be succeeding. Sit down and relax.”
“It’s all very well for you to sit there and talk about relaxing,” came back Leo, bluntly. “It’s my girl who was shot at. Isn’t it time you were doing something about it?”
“I haven’t been here long and I haven’t been idle. Sit down.”
Leo sat down. “Tell me this. Have you any idea at all who’s behind this plot?”
“I think I know the nature of the conspiracy. I could possibly name the people.”
“People! Do you mean there’s more than one?”
“Yes. Almost certainly there are two in it. There could be more.”
Leo looked amazed. “Won’t you tell me the name of the man who shot at Diana. Or the man you think may have done it?”
“What would you do if I did?”
“I’d shoot the swine.”
“That’s what I thought. In that case you’d be in the dock, not him.”
“If you know the damned villain why don’t you arrest him?”
“On what charge?”
“Murder.”
“Murder of whom?”
“Charles.”
Biggles shook his head. “It’s time you knew that to prove a man guilty of murder requires incontestable evidence, and that’s something I haven’t got—yet. It isn’t a question of what you believe, or I believe. One has to convince a jury, and that’s never easy. If there’s a shadow of doubt the prisoner gets away with it. A verdict of not guilty means he goes free. If that happened in this case it would only do harm, because we would have exposed our hand to no purpose. No, Leo, it’s no use rushing our fences. Surmise isn’t enough, particularly when it rests on something too fantastic for general belief. I’d rather hold my hand until I have something more concrete.”
“How long is that likely to take?”
“Not long, I hope.”
“And while you’re waiting Diana might be murdered.”
“Short of asking her to run away and go into hiding I’ve done all I can to prevent that. I’ve warned her to be careful.”
“So all we can do is sit here and wait until the enemy decides to have another go,” rasped Leo bitterly.
“I’m afraid so,” rejoined Biggles calmly.
“That’s charming,” sneered
Leo.
“Just have a little patience. Bertie may bring back some information. I can’t do more.”
“Can’t you arrest a man on suspicion?”
“Of murder? Unfortunately, whatever you know and whatever you may think, you can’t prove what a man intends to do until he’s done it.”
“If he was determined to shoot me he could do it as I sit here.”
“He won’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“With me sitting here with you? I’d know it was murder. The technique so far has been to make murder look like an accident. A criminal seldom changes his methods.”
“Is he a criminal?”
“Not in the ordinary sense of the word. On the contrary, if he’s the man I suspect, at heart he should be a man of culture and integrity.”
“Yet he’s prepared to kill me.”
“In certain circumstances, yes.”
“What circumstances?”
“He won’t be content simply with shooting you. He’ll want you to see him do it so that you’ll understand the reason. That’s how he killed Charles. Charles saw him. Or at all events he saw something, which he tried to explain as three stars. He understood—too late.”
“You’re making this sound like a mystery story,” accused Leo.
“It is.”
“But what you’ve just said doesn’t link up with the way Diana was shot at. She didn’t see anybody.”
“That was different. It wouldn’t have meant anything to her if she had.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Maybe it’s just as well. There’s no point in arguing about it, Leo. We’ve just got to bide our time. When I’ve got the evidence I want you’ll be told all about it. Then you’ll understand.” Biggles glanced up at the sky. “I think we’d better be getting inside. It looks as if we’re going to have a storm.”
This was confirmed by a rumble of distant thunder. A canopy of mist had formed over the landscape blotting out the sun, and a long mass of heavy cloud was rolling up from the west.
They went in. Soon afterwards the storm broke. For a time the rain was heavy; then it settled down to a persistent drizzle. The atmosphere inside the big house, never gay at the best of times, became depressing; and so the day wore on. After tea Leo wandered away, leaving Biggles alone, which suited him as he had plenty to think about without having to work out evasive answers to Leo’s questions. He could understand his frame of mind, and was tempted to tell him what he knew, or at any rate, suspected; but aware of the young man’s highly strung temperament he was afraid of what he might do. That he was right in this was demonstrated later that night.
By supper time Bertie hadn’t returned, and soon after ten o’clock, more to avoid argument than because he was tired, Biggles decided to go to bed. So taking a candlestick from the hall table to his room he went. But he did not undress at once. He sat on the side of the bed, deep in thought, smoking as he wrestled with his problem. The storm had passed, leaving in its wake scudding clouds, intermittent rain and half a gale of wind which moaned dismally down the wide chimney and round the building, snatching at the ancient leaded panes of Biggles’ window which had been left open. Deciding there would be less noise with it shut he walked over intending to close it. Automatically as he reached for the fastener he looked up at the sky where the moon and occasional stars were throwing down a fair amount of light through breaks in the clouds. Then he looked down, quickly to step aside as he saw a shadowy figure glide furtively into the rhododendrons a few yards to the left. It did not emerge.
Thinking he had better warn Leo that they were about to have a visitor he backed away, and opening his handbag slipped the little automatic which he kept for emergency into his pocket. Then, picking up the car torch from the bedside table, and taking the candle, he walked quickly along the corridor to Leo’s room. The door was shut. He knocked. There was no answer. Turning the handle he pushed the door open. A lighted candle stood on the dressing-table but Leo was not there.
Startled by this discovery he hurried downstairs and looked quickly into the rooms that were in normal use. Of Leo there was no sign. Deciding not to waste any more time looking for him, leaving the candle on the chest he went on to the front door. It was shut but not locked, which surprised him, for he thought he had convinced Leo of the necessity of locking up at night. Slipping out, leaving the door ajar, he strode on to the bushes. Holding the torch well away from him he switched it on, at the same time saying sharply: “Come out of that, whoever you are.”
He took a pace back when out of the bushes stepped Leo, rifle in hand.
Said Leo, tersely: “That was a daft thing to do. I might have shot you.”
Biggles drew a deep breath. “If anyone’s daft it’s you,” he said trenchantly. “What lunatic game do you think you’re playing?”
“I thought if that damned murderer paid us a visit I’d catch him.”
“So you decided to wait here for him.”
“Yes.”
“And if he’d have come?”
“I’d have shot the swine. I believe in an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—”
“Oh, cut that nonsense,” broke in Biggles sternly. “It’s you who ought to be under arrest. But let’s not stand here arguing. I’m getting wet.” He stalked back into the house, where Leo, apparently unrepentant, joined him.
With the door closed Biggles looked at him reproachfully. “You realize I’m doing my best to help you. You’re doing your best to make things as difficult as possible. If you’re not going to take my advice I’m wasting my time and I might as well go home. It’s no use calling in a doctor if you’re not going to follow his instructions. Is that rifle loaded?”
“Yes.”
“Then unload it.”
Leo obeyed, afterwards laying the rifle and the cartridge on the chest. “I’m sorry,” he said contritely. “I realize now it was dangerous; but how was I to know you’d seen me? I might have shot you.”
“It doesn’t seem to have struck you that I might have shot you. Two people walking about in the dark with loaded weapons is asking for trouble. Let’s say no more about it. You won’t go out again tonight?”
“No.”
“All right. Then I’ll go back to my bed and get some sleep. You lock your door. I shall hear if anyone tries to get in to the chest. Good night again.” Biggles returned to his room and this time went to bed, before getting between the sheets taking care that everything was ready to hand, which included the torch and the dressing-gown Leo had lent him, in case there should be an alarm.
It was some time later, and he was still not properly asleep when a heavy bump near his bed brought him up with a jerk, groping for the torch. Startled as he was from a state near to sleep, it took him a second to realize that the suspended books had fallen to the floor. The trap had been sprung. Thrusting his feet in bedroom slippers and throwing on the dressing-gown, gun in pocket, torch in hand with the beam cast down he made for the chest room. It did occur to him to call Leo, but he quickly decided against it, one reason being that it would lose time, and another that two people make more noise than one.
Actually, it was he who made the noise, and plenty of it. Without making a sound, and not hearing one, he had nearly reached the door of the chest room when his dressing-gown, which he had not bothered to fasten, brushed against one of the pieces of armour—a gauntlet as it transpired later—and it came down with a crash and a rattle on the stone floor. Knowing that the noise must have been heard by anyone in the room he flung caution to the winds and dashing forward flung the door wide open.
A man dressed in black was running across the room to the window. He had nearly reached it. The window was wide open, as a blast of cold air made evident. Biggles did not waste words which he knew would have no effect. He went in pursuit. In a bound the man had one leg across the window sill. To follow with the rest of his body meant that he had to half turn. In doing this Biggles caught a glimpse of a masked fac
e. He also saw an arm go up to point at him, and guessing what this meant he jumped sideways. This may have saved his life, for as he jumped a gun cracked, sending a stream of sparks across the room.
A split second later the body, silhouetted against the faint light of the moonlit window, disappeared. There was a loud crash outside as if the man had fallen into the bushes. Biggles dashed to the window. He just had time to see the man running across the park before a cloud sailed across the moon throwing everything into utter darkness. The running footsteps receded.
Turning away from the window Biggles raced to the door intending to leave the house by the front entrance. In so doing he came into collision with Leo, who cried: “What the devil’s going on?”
Biggles did not stop. “I’ve lost him,” he snapped. “He’s away through the window.”
Running on he reached the front door and dragged the massive oak portal open to be faced with a wall of darkness, driving rain and a gale of wind. Thunder muttered in the distance. He stopped, impotent, knowing it would be useless to go on in such conditions. And as he stood there staring into the darkness, fuming with frustration, Leo joined him, demanding to be told what had happened. “I heard a shot,” he said.
“The trap worked all right but I made a mucker of it going to the room,” explained Biggles lugubriously. “My sleeve must have touched one of those pieces of ancient ironmongery with which you chose to decorate your walls. It came down with a crash loud enough to awaken the dead. That did it, of course. By the time I got the door of the chest room open the man was on his way out through the window. I think he fell into the bushes.”
“Aren’t you going after him?”
“On a night like this? What’s the use. There wouldn’t be a hope of finding him. Pity, but there it is. Listen!”
Through the inky darkness came the sound of a car being started, and presently a fast moving strip of reflected light showed above the road.
“That settles it,” said Biggles. “By the time we could get your car out and on to the road he’ll be miles away.”
