The Auster landed, and with the engine running in short bursts ran on towards the farm. But before reaching it the airscrew stopped and the machine came to a standstill. Almost at once a man dressed in overalls left the building and came hurrying towards it.
"Be very careful," said Biggles as they got out. "I fancy this is the man I expected to see, but what sort of fellow he is I haven't the remotest idea. He may be dangerous or he may not."
The man turned out to be quite young—about twenty-five Ginger judged him to be. As soon as he was within speaking distance he called: "Pretty landing. I heard you having a spot of trouble." Which, as Biggles later remarked, at once betrayed an association with aircraft.
"Nothing serious, I think," returned Biggles casually.
"Bring her over to my sheds and I'll soon put her right," offered the man. Biggles looked at him. "You talk as though you'd got a workshop there."
"I have," was the reply.
"Let's have a look at it," suggested Biggles.
"Come on." Without the slightest hesitation the man led the way towards the sheds, with Biggles and Ginger following close behind.
Ginger was prepared for almost anything, but he certainly was not prepared for the sight that met his eyes when the man pushed open some double doors and entered what was nothing less than a small aircraft factory. Most of the floor space was occupied by an aircraft, a light machine built on such unorthodox lines that Ginger could only stare at it in astonishment.
"What do you call this?" Biggles asked the man, inclining his head towards the machine.
"This," answered the man, with obvious pride, "is my own idea. The Lutton Flivverplane, the machine that everyone will soon be flying. Only finished it a day or two ago. All I need now is someone to finance it and put it on the market. Are you interested?"
"Have you tested her yet?" asked Biggles.
"Up to a point. Taxi-ing tests were okay. I gave her a short run this morning. There are one or two teething troubles, but that was only to be expected. I'll soon put them right."
"If you ask me," said Biggles slowly, "I'd say that thing's a death-trap." The man's expression changed. "Why?" he challenged.
"From what I can. see standing here your aspect
ratio is cockeye; your centre of gravity is too far back and the view forward is poor."
"Rot!" cried the man indignantly. "I'm not asking you to fly it," he added rather rudely.
"I wouldn't, at a gift," Biggles assured him frankly. He looked around. "You've got a nice lot of equipment here. Must have cost quite a lot of money."
"It did."
"Some of it looks like service stuff."
"I got it from the Disposals people."
Biggles nodded. "I thought that pneumatic drill you've got over there was still in short supply in the R.A.F."
"They let me have one, anyhow," muttered the man in a surly voice.
"What do you use for petrol, if it isn't a difficult question to answer?" asked Biggles evenly.
"I know how to get what I want," retorted the man. "I can get all the petrol I need."
"From where?" asked Biggles smoothly.
For the first time the man hesitated. Suspicion flashed in his eyes. "What do you want to know for?" he demanded in a queer voice.
"I have an interest, that's all," answered Biggles. "In what way?"
"Because, Lutton," replied Biggles slowly, "we happen to be police officers. I'm trying to locate the petrol that was taken from two service aircraft
stolen a little while ago. I think I've found it. Am I right?" The face of the man addressed had turned as white as paper. His tongue flicked over his lips. Then he moved suddenly. His hand went to a bench behind him and came forward holding a revolver. He covered Biggles with it.
Biggles didn't move. "Don't be a fool, Lutton," he said calmly. "Threatening a police officer in this country is a serious matter. You'll only make your case worse. I'll forget it happened if you'll put that thing away."
For a moment Lutton remained undecided, his eyes on Biggles's face. Then he drew a deep breath. "I suppose you're right," he said bitterly, and tossed the revolver back on the bench. "Well, what are you going to do about it?" he asked harshly.
"For the moment, nothing," replied Biggles. "I shall of course report the matter but after that the thing will pass out of my hands. If you take my advice you'll just stay here quietly and take what's coming to you. That's all." With that he turned away, and, followed by Ginger, walked back to the Auster without a word. He climbed into his seat and took off.
An hour later he was back in his office. He went straight to the telephone and put a call through to the Air Commodore.
"You can tell the Air Ministry that the man who
lifted the two aircraft is Merville Lucas Lutton, of Wimbold Farm, near Methwold, Norfolk," he reported. "You'll find most of the petrol there, I think." Half an hour later, after some breakfast, Biggles sat at his desk with the others demanding to be told how he had so quickly picked up a scent that had led straight to the heart of what looked like a first-class mystery.
Biggles reached for a cigarette. "Take it easy and I'll tell you. Really, it was all very simple.
"I may be wrong," he went on, "but it has often struck me that the more extraordinary a case at first appears the easier it is to button it up. The very peculiarity of it gives one something to work on. In simple affairs these don't occur, so it's harder to know where to start. Take this last business as a case in point. Certain factors stuck out a mile—call them clues if you like. To start with, both machines were stolen from training units. That might have been coincidence. On the other hand, the thief might have chosen them deliberately, knowing that training units usually have a variety of aircraft, and a large number of pupils and instructors who are always coming and going without having got to know each other very well. Thus, it would be possible for a stranger, provided he wore uniform or flying kit, to walk about without the slightest notice being taken of him. The public might not realise that, but an airman would, for which reason the thing looked to me from the start like the work of either a serving airman or someone who had been in the service and knew the routine. Such a man would know where everything was kept—tools, parachutes, and so on. He would know about meal-times, and know where to look for standing orders. Next, the two stations involved were close to each other, so the chances were that the thief lived in the same vicinity. Next, he himself could fly. He was, moreover, a pilot of some experience, since he could fly different types of service aircraft.
"All this boiled down to the probability of the thief being a serving officer or airman, or one recently discharged. The next point was the motive. Why did this fellow pinch the planes? He didn't want them. No man steals what he doesn't want. What did he want?
The only thing missing was petrol. Not ordinary petrol, mark you. That could have been bought from any pump. Obviously that wouldn't do. It had to be high-octane aviation spirit, which is not available to the public. Very well. -For what purpose could a man want aviation spirit? Obviously, for aviation. What sort of aviation?"
"Just a minute, old boy," put in Bertie. "He might have wanted the petrol to sell it. Petrol'
s worth money in the black market, don't forget."
"I don't forget it," answered Biggles. "Neither do I forget that if a man started selling aviation spirit to motorists he'd soon be caught. Someone would be bound to spot it and ask questions. An airman would certainly know the .difference. Very well. Let's get on. A man doesn't steal a thing if he can get it by fair means. At any rate, he usually tries fair means first. The chances were, therefore, that our thief had tried to get aviation spirit through the proper channels, and had failed. To whom would he apply for a quota? Either to the Air Ministry or to the Ministry of Fuel and Power. An ex-airman would almost certainly apply to the Air Ministry, because he would have to explain the purpose for which it was required, and the Ministry would understand that. So, working on these lines
of reasoning we arrive at the probability that the thief was an ex-R.A.F. officer, or a sergeant pilot, who for some purpose wanted a fairly big supply of aviation petrol.
"The next step was automatic. I rang up the Ministry of Civil Aviation and asked them to go through their records and let me have a list of people who, during the past twelve months, had applied for a quota of aviation spirit. There were four. Three, from newlyformed flying clubs, were granted. As they had got what they wanted they could be ruled out. The fourth applicant was an ex-sergeant pilot named Lutton who had been discharged on medical
grounds. The application was declined, since the purpose for which the petrol was required did not, in the Air Ministry's view, justify it being granted. This, according to Lutton in his application form, was for the purpose of testing a new, ultra-light plane which he had designed and built. It was to be an air flivver—the cheap plane for the man in the street. As you know, the Air Ministry does not look kindly on private inventors, who are usually a danger, not only to themselves but to the general public. Moreover, there was another reason why the application was turned down. Lutton's service confidential reports revealed that he had been in trouble more than once. On one occasion he had tried to smuggle some watches into this country from Gibraltar. On another occasion he was put on a charge for the misuse of government tools and materials, which he had used for a private purpose. When I ascertained from his application form that this man lived in Norfolk, no great distance from the two airfields from which the planes had been stolen, I felt pretty sure that I was on the right track.
"The pattern of the thing now looked like this. Lutton's application for petrol had been turned down, but he was determined to get some. Putting on the uniform he still possessed he walked onto the tarmac of an R.A.F. station, took off in a Lysander and landed on his own field. Having withdrawn
most of the petrol from the tanks, his problem was to dispose of the aircraft—not an easy matter in the ordinary way. What he did was put on a parachute, fly the machine to a lonely place on the Yorkshire moors, and step out. The plane crashed and he went home. It was all very easy. This petrol lasted him for a time, but when it was used up he simply repeated the performance. This time he was more careful and took a machine that would give him all the petrol he was ever likely to need—the Mosquito. Why he didn't use the parachute again I don't know. He may have damaged it in his last jump. Or he may not have felt like jumping again, particularly as it wasn't absolutely necessary. Anyway, to dispose of the aircraft he flew it to a big field some distance away, probably in the early hours of the morning, and left it there. That's how Lutton got his petrol.
"The rest you know. It was straightforward. I had the man's address. It was a farm, and, like most farms in that part of the country, had big flat fields. The outbuildings were fitted up as a workshop. He had got his petrol and was all set to carry on with his tests. Obviously his machine was ready to fly or he wouldn't have been in such a hurry to get the petrol. When I flew up this morning I was quite prepared for what I found. I went early because I reckoned that to be the time when he would do his testing. No one would be about and at
dawn the air is usually still. What was more important to me, the dew is still on the grass, and any disturbance on it can be spotted at once from the air. When I saw wheel-tracks that faded out in the middle of a big field I knew that they could have been made only by one vehicle—an aircraft. I faked a forced landing so as not to alarm the man and went down to have a look round. That's all there was to it." The telephone at Biggles's elbow rang. He picked up the receiver. "Yes, Bigglesworth here," he announced; and then, after listening for a minute, shook his head sadly. "Thank you, sir," he said, and hung up.
He looked at the others. "It seems that Lutton won't go to gaol after all," he murmured.
"Why not?" asked Ginger.
"Because when the police went to arrest him he tried to make a get-away in that homemade birdcage which he called an aeroplane. At five hundred feet a wing came adrift and he went into the ground like a brick. He hadn't a hope. I told him the thing was a deathtrap. Poor, silly fellow. Why will some chaps make such a mess of their lives?"
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Biggles Air Detective (43) Page 10
