by W E Johns
Nothing more was said, and a minute later the wheels of the big machine were trundling over the rough surface of the landing-ground, scored in a hundred places with tyre tracks.
Biggles allowed the machine to run to a standstill, and then, using his brakes, turned towards the smaller of the two sets of buildings. Moving slowly and majestically, the Jupiter roared up to where a little group of men stood staring at them from in front of a rough but stoutly built hangar, roofed with corrugated iron.
‘Funny, I don’t see Wilks,’ murmured Algy.
‘Which means, obviously, that he isn’t here,’ returned Biggles.
‘Maybe he’s in the air.’
‘Maybe. We’ll soon know. This is his shed, for there is the board with the name of his company on it leaning against the wall. It looks as if it had just been taken down. That being so, what is McBain doing here—for that’s who the nasty-looking piece of work in the fur cap is, I’ll bet my boots. I don’t like the look of things; we’d better leave the engines running in case we want to go up again in a hurry. Tell Smyth to come here and take over, and keep an eye on us. Let’s get out.’
As the three airmen stepped down from the saloon door, leaving Smyth in the control cabin with the engines idling, four men walked to meet them. A fifth, obviously an Indian, remained standing near the hangar. One of the four, a little ahead of the others and clearly the leader, was a tall, burly man, whose bristling, square-cut beard was curiously streaked with grey. There was something unnaturally cold about his pale blue eyes, which were set rather far apart, and, as is often the case with pale eyes, looked larger than they really were. Nonetheless, he was a powerful and arresting figure. On his head he wore a fur cap, with flaps hanging loosely over his ears, a check-patterned lumber shirt of blanket-like material, and dark corduroy trousers tucked into half-Wellington boots. A broad belt, with cartridge-pouches thrust through loops, was buckled tightly round his waist.
The man who walked close behind him was an entirely different type, although he was dressed in much the same fashion. Slight in build, undoubtedly good-looking in a rather effeminate way, his delicate features might have passed for those of a woman but for a wisp of black moustache that decorated his upper lip. His eyes, set under finely drawn eyebrows, were dark, but held a quality of restlessness that made it difficult to ascertain what object most occupied his attention—the aerodrome, the aircraft, or the airmen, for he seemed to be watching all three at the same time. The fur jacket he wore was thrown open, revealing a beautifully worked Indian belt, through which he had hooked his thumbs in such a way that the bowie knife which hung on one side could just be seen.
At a distance of two or three paces behind strolled two other men, their hands thrust carelessly into their trousers pockets. One was a fresh-complexioned man of perhaps thirty-five years of age, with a fair moustache; his companion was younger, and as swarthy as the other was fair. Despite the fact that his jaws were working steadily, suggesting the gum-chewing habit acquired by residents in the United States, ‘southern Europe’ was written clearly on his dark skin.
Before a word was spoken, Biggles, remembering the descriptions in Wilks’s letter, could have named them all. The big man was obviously Brindle McBain; the man who walked close behind him, keeping at his heels like a dog, was Jean Chicot. The other two were the pilots, Joe Sarton, the fair man, and Tex Ferroni, the ‘slim, dark little fellow’. Wilks’s description had been brief, but singularly apt, thought Biggles, as he walked slowly to meet them, at the same time drawing off his gauntlets. His eyes wandered along the front of the hangar and the adjacent offices, now not more than twenty yards away, hoping to see Wilks, but there was no sign of him or of any member of his staff, despite the fact that the buildings were without question those of Arctic Airways. An atmosphere of desertion, almost of desolation, hung over them.
McBain was the first to speak. Seeing Biggles and his companions walking towards him, he stopped and waited for them to come up. The man with him did the same.
‘Ten bucks, stranger,’ he demanded curtly.
Biggles raised his eyebrows in genuine surprise. ‘Meaning?’ he queried.
‘Just ten dollars,’ returned McBain harshly.
‘Yes, I had gathered that much,’ nodded Biggles. ‘What I meant was, what for?’
‘Landing fee.’
‘Oh.’ Biggles reached the four men, who had formed a little group, and stopped. ‘Are you the authorized collector for Arctic Airways?’ he asked.
McBain’s big eyes rested broodingly on Biggles’s slight figure. ‘No,’ he said shortly, ‘I’m collecting for myself.’
‘I see. And who might you be?’
‘McBain’s the name.’
‘Mine’s Bigglesworth,’ returned Biggles evenly.
‘Englishman?’
‘Guess again and you’ll be wrong.’
‘Smart guy, eh?’
‘No, just as ordinary as they make them,’ said Biggles, smiling faintly. ‘But aren’t you making a mistake, Mr. McBain?’
‘What gave you that idea?’
‘This field belongs to Arctic Airways.’
‘Yeah? Well, you’re making the mistake. It belongs to me,’ grated McBain.
‘What gave you that idea?’ inquired Biggles easily.
McBain hesitated. He took out a pipe and began to fill it. ‘What are you doing here, anyway?’ he asked in a curious voice.
‘Oh, I just dropped in to take a look at my property,’ replied Biggles casually.
The other started. ‘Your property?’
‘Well, I’ve just put a lot of money into Arctic Airways, so I seem to have some right to take a look at things at close quarters,’ observed Biggles.
There was a moment’s silence in which McBain’s swarthy companion took out a little bag of tobacco and rolled a cigarette with deft fingers.
‘Did you say you’d put money into this concern?’ McBain jerked his thumb towards Arctic Airways’ hangar.
‘That’s what I said, Mr. McBain.’
‘And you’ve come here to see where your money’s gone?’
‘No, I’ve come here to help spend it.’
‘You mean—you’ve come here—to work?’
‘That’s how I figured it out.’
‘Then your figgerin’ ain’t good, Swigglesworth.’
‘Bigglesworth, if you don’t mind. Awkward name, I know, but it’s the best my father could do for me, and as we’re likely to see quite a bit of each other, we might as well get things right at the start. It saves misunderstandings later on—if you get my meaning?’
The other nodded thoughtfully. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I get your meaning. Do you know the guy what ran this Arctic Airways outfit?’
Biggles noted the use of the past tense but he did not reveal his anxiety. ‘Ran?’ he questioned. ‘Isn’t he still running it?’
‘Don’t look like it, does it?’
‘I haven’t had a chance to look round yet, so I can’t say. Still, you seem to know. What’s happened to him?’
‘Say, what do you think I am—a nurse?’
‘I hadn’t thought about it,’ murmured Biggles. ‘If Captain Wilkinson has disappeared it looks as if it’s time somebody tried to find him, doesn’t it?’
‘It may look that way to you.’
‘Any reason why it shouldn’t look that way to you?’
‘Plenty.’
‘Pity about that; maybe you’ll tell me why, sometime.’
‘I sure will, and there ain’t no need to wait. Get this, stranger. This airfield is bad medicine for visitors, and if you’re half as smart as you think you are, wise guy, you’ll pull your freight right now.’
Biggles’s grey eyes found McBain’s and held them. ‘That goes for you too, McBain—if you want it that way,’ he said in a voice that was as hard and brittle as ice. ‘But before you decide how soon you’re going, turn this over in your mind. I’m not greedy. There should be plenty of work here for two op
erators, and if they work together things could go easier for both. I’m willing to go ahead on that arrangement if you are. Naturally, as the field belongs to Arctic Airways you’ll have to pay landing fees for the privilege of using it. If, on the other hand, you’d rather have things the way you’ve been trying to run them—’
‘Yeah?’ broke in the other, the muscles of his face twitching. ‘I guess that’s how I’ll have ‘em; and I’ll start by collecting them ten bucks.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘Not a cent, McBain,’ he said quietly. ‘You can’t get away with that bluff—not with me. My lawyers in Montreal are straightening out the title deeds of this property, and when we hear to whom it does belong I’ll let you know how much you owe Arctic Airways. That’s all—except that I’d rather you kept a bit farther away from my sheds.’
Biggles nodded curtly and moved towards what was obviously Arctic Airways’ reception office. For a moment it looked as though McBain would intercept him, for he took a pace forward, clenching and unclenching his hands; but then his companion said something to him that the others could not catch, and he stopped, scowling.
Algy and Ginger followed Biggles into the office. There was nobody there, although by this time they did not expect to find any one. Everything was in confusion. Files had been pulled out and papers were strewn everywhere.
Algy’s face was grim as he looked around. ‘I don’t like the look of this,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m afraid we’ve come too late.’
Before Biggles could answer there was a whip-like crack, followed instantly by a splintering thud. Several splinters flew across the room, one striking Biggles on the cheek and drawing blood.
‘That was a shot!’ snapped Algy, and then darted after Biggles, who had already flung open the door and was striding towards McBain and his companions, who had not moved. The effeminate-looking man, whom Biggles knew from Wilks’s description must be Jean Chicot, was sitting on a chock, smiling, a small automatic held in his two hands.
McBain and the two pilots were all grinning, but the humour went out of their eyes at the expression on Biggles’s face.
Biggles went straight up to Chicot. ‘Did you fire that shot?’ he snapped.
The half-breed looked up, the affected smile still playing about his thin lips. He shrugged his shoulders and sent a puff of cigarette smoke up into Biggles’s face before he replied, at the same time rising slowly to his feet. ‘Eet vas an accident,’ he smirked. ‘I clean my gun—so; he go off. These accidents come sometime—yes?’
Biggles did not answer. His fist flew out in a vicious uppercut. Every scrap of the pent-up anger that was in him went behind the blow. There was a snap like a breaking twig as his fist caught Chicot on the point of the jaw.
The half-breed did not stagger. The blow lifted him clean off his feet. He went straight over backwards and crashed across the concrete apron, his cap going one way and the pistol another. He twisted for a moment and then lay still.
Biggles’s face was white, and his lips were set in a straight line as he looked down at him.
‘Keep your hands away from your belt, McBain.’ It was Algy who spoke. Seeing what was coming, he had whipped out his automatic the instant Biggles struck the blow.
Biggles looked round and saw McBain hesitating; his hands, with the fingers clawed, were a few inches above his belt. ‘Plug him if he moves, Algy,’ he said grimly. ‘If this gang of crooks want it hot, by thunder, they can have it!’ Then, to McBain, ‘I’ve killed a lot better men than you in my time, McBain,’ he said harshly, ‘so I shouldn’t lose any sleep on your account.’
‘Say, what’s going on?’
Biggles spun round and saw that a newcomer had arrived on the scene. There was no need to ask who it was, for his uniform told him that. It was a constable of the North-West Mounted Police.
‘What’s going on here?’ said the constable again, looking suspiciously from one to the other.
‘Nothing to speak of,’ replied Biggles. ‘My friends and I have just arrived by air. For some reason best known to himself—although I’ve a pretty good idea what it is—McBain objected to our landing and tried to scare us off by getting his half-breed playmate to pull a gun on us, so I had to hit him. That’s all.’
The constable regarded Biggles speculatively. ‘What are you doing in this out-of-the-way place, anyway?’ he inquired.
‘Any reason why I shouldn’t come here?’
‘I don’t know—yet.’
‘Then you’d better get in touch with your headquarters and find out. If they don’t know either, tell them to get into touch with the Department of Aviation—they know. I’m putting money into Arctic Airways, which belongs to a friend of mine, Wilkinson. You probably know him. I want to know where he is.’
‘I don’t know where he is.’
‘Then ask McBain—I reckon he does.’
The constable turned to McBain. ‘Where’s Wilkinson?’
‘Search me, Delaney.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘Four days back.’
‘Where?’
‘Here.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘Taking off—heading north, I guess.’
‘For Moose Creek?’
‘Why should he tell me where he was going?’
‘And he hasn’t come back?’
‘I ain’t looked for him.’
‘You had a good look at the inside of his office, at any rate,’ put in Biggles coldly.
‘Who said it was me?’
‘I do. I saw you come out as we landed.’
‘I figger—’
‘Wait a minute—I haven’t finished figuring myself yet. You knew Wilkinson wasn’t coming back, McBain—or you had good reason to suppose he wasn’t—or you wouldn’t have broken into his office and turned his papers upside-down. Nor would you have started to dismantle his shed.’
‘Who said I was dismantling his shed?’
Biggles pointed. ‘There’s the board—Arctic Airways. I have witnesses who saw you taking it down.’
McBain looked at Biggles evilly. Then he turned to the constable. ‘Well, what are you going to do about it?’ he inquired. ‘I’ve got something else to do besides stand here gassin’.’
‘So have I,’ returned the constable. ‘You ought to have reported Wilkinson missing, McBain. I shall have to ask fellows going north to look out for him.’
‘Don’t worry, constable; I’ll do that,’ said Biggles quickly.
‘You mean you’re going to look for him?’
‘I am.’
‘When?’
‘Right now. If I don’t find him before dark I shall come back here and make another search tomorrow. Meanwhile you might ask McBain to stay in his own sheds; and, while we’re away, you might keep an eye on these.’
The constable looked at McBain. ‘You stay on your own property,’ he said. Then to Biggles, as he moved away, ‘Let me know if you find Wilkinson.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I will,’ he said, and turned towards the Jupiter. ‘Come on, you fellows,’ he went on quietly to the others, taking no further notice of McBain. ‘Wilks must be down somewhere between here and Moose Creek; we’ve got nearly four hours of daylight left, so the sooner we start looking for him, the better.’
* * *
1 Wheel undercarriages give way to skis during winter in all northern countries, where every lake, when frozen, becomes a potential landing ground.
A Satisfactory Trip
‘So THAT’S MISTER MCBAIN,’ observed Ginger, as they got back into the machine.
‘Yes, and now we know just how we stand,’ answered Biggles. ‘We shall have to watch our steps with that gentleman. A man with eyes like that was born to be a crook. I must confess that I’m a bit worried about old Wilks.’
‘Was McBain telling the truth, do you think, when he said Wilks had flown north?’ asked Algy.
‘I believe he was. Neither he nor his machine are here, so he must have g
one off somewhere, and I imagine Moose Creek would be the most likely place for him to go.’
‘He might have gone to Moose Creek and decided to stay there.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘I can’t agree with that. Knowing the state of things here, if he had to go north my own feeling is that he would get back as quickly as he could. It is quite possible that his machine was got at; anyway, McBain had jolly good reason to suppose that Wilks wasn’t coming back, otherwise he wouldn’t have dared to take possession of his hangar—for that is what it amounts to, and he would have done it had we not arrived on the scene. If McBain wanted Wilks out of the way—and we know he did—the most certain way to bring it about was to tamper with his machine. Wilks was quite aware of that danger; he told us as much in his letter. It’s a hundred to one that he is on the ground somewhere between here and Moose Creek. I only hope the trouble was nothing vital, like structural failure; if it was, then I’m afraid we can say good-bye to Wilks. On the other hand, there is just a possibility that he had to make a perfectly natural forced landing, in which case he would get the machine down somehow. With all his experience the chances are that he would be able to do that without hurting himself, even if he damaged the machine. The only thing we can do now is to try to find out. Fortunately, we’ve plenty of petrol left in the tanks, so come on; let’s get away. All right, Smyth; get back aft, will you.’
As he finished speaking, Biggles took out his map and studied it intently. Both Fort Beaver and Moose Creek were shown, so it did not take him long to work out a compass course, and in five minutes the Jupiter was in the air again, heading northwards, with Algy watching the ground on the starboard side and Ginger on the other.
It soon became evident that the task of picking out an aircraft on the ground, particularly a crashed one, was likely to be a good deal more difficult than they had supposed, for the country was rougher than any they had yet seen in Canada.
For a long time they flew over almost continuous forests of fir, with great outcrops of grey rock thrusting upwards like spurs, while here and there a river wound a tortuous course through gorge and valley. Then the country started to rise, and although the altimeter registered a thousand feet, the Jupiter was soon skimming over the tree-tops.
