by W E Johns
‘Yes. They came some time ago and must be nearly finished.’
‘Anything doing, old boy?’ Bertie joined Biggles on his hump.
‘Not a thing, as far as I can see.’
‘What do you make of it?’
‘Not much. If we’re right in thinking it’s somewhere in this locality that our unknown night bird is laying its eggs, the pilot’s taking a chance every time he comes over; that’s if he actually lands and supposing the ground coverage of the moor is the same everywhere as it is here. Look at it. This old tough heather is long enough to trip up a light plane and put it on its nose. I wouldn’t care to try putting an Auster down on it.’
‘It may not all be like this.’
‘True enough. How do we find out? We’d have to walk a good many miles to check the entire moor and that would take time. Algy’s photos should show any obstructions, rocks and that sort of thing, but I doubt if they’ll have a clear enough definition to reveal the height of the herbage.’
‘Pity there aren’t any grouse here.’
‘What have grouse got to do with it?’
‘Well, if this was a grouse moor it would be worth while burning the heather off in strips, as they do in Scotland, to produce new young shoots for the birdies to eat. This old stuff is all right for them to nest in, but no grouse-bird, unless it was dying of hunger, would try to make a meal of it.’
‘Talking of burning, it looks as if there has been a fire over there.’ Biggles pointed. ‘That’s what the constable thought. He put it down to careless hikers.’
‘Probably right. Maybe not. In dry weather a moor can set itself on fire by spontaneous combustion. The sun shining through a piece of glass, a broken bottle for instance, can do it.’
‘So I believe.’
‘If a fire did start here I doubt if anyone would bother to put it out. It couldn’t do much harm.’
‘In that case what does put it out?’
‘Rain, sooner or later. Have you been across to look at that burnt patch?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘What could it tell us? There’s been a fire. We know that already. It would mean a fair walk and we haven’t time to mess about for no serious reason,’ At this point of the conversation, Algy, or whoever flying the Auster, apparently having spotted the stationary car on the road and two men sitting near it, came over low. Biggles waved. The plane rocked its wings as a signal of recognition and went on its way, heading east.
‘So they’ve finished and are going home,’ observed Biggles. ‘I think we might do the same. We’ve a fair run in front of us. It might be as well to have a look at their pictures before we start tramping the moor. They should be ready by the time we get back.’ Biggles got to his feet. ‘The trouble with this sort of thing is there’s always a feeling that you could be wasting your time — looking for something that isn’t there. However, we’ve got to look somewhere and it might as well be here. At least we can tell the Air Commodore that we’re trying. I’d like something a bit more substantial to work on before I spend too much time here. At present we’re working on not much more than a hunch. If necessary we can always come back.’
‘But you still think this may be the objective of the bloke we’re looking for?’
‘I wouldn’t go as far as that. I think it might be, because from all the sightings that have been made the plane was heading in this direction. We may be barking up the wrong tree. How are we going to find the right one?’
‘I can only see one way to check if we’re on the wrong track.’
‘How would you do that?’
‘We could sit here and wait for the plane to come over.’
‘That would mean squatting here all night and every night, in all weathers.’
‘I’m afraid so,’ agreed Bertie.
‘If the plane came over at regular intervals, and at one particular hour, the idea might be worth considering. But it doesn’t. It has sometimes been more than a month between the reports, so one might sit here for a month to no purpose. Do you feel like sitting here for maybe a month on the mere off-chance of the plane coming over?’
‘Frankly, old boy, I can’t say the prospect would set me whooping with rapture,’ admitted Bertie,
‘That goes for me, too. Let’s press on home and have a close look at the photos before we talk about doing night shifts in this dreary place. We shall have to be on call at the Yard, anyway, in case there’s another report.’
‘Then there’s nothing else we can do.’
‘There might be one thing while we’re in Cornwall. The thought has just struck me.’
‘What is it?’
‘When we came here we’d decided there might just be a remote possibility that there was a connection between the intruder and the murdered constable. The murder isn’t our business, but there’s one angle, from our point of view, that may have been overlooked by the local police because to them it could have no possible bearing on the case.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘This man who found the body, a traveller from Coventry named Brunner, on his way for a holiday at St Mawes.’
‘What about him?’
‘He said he had a good look round but didn’t see anybody or anything. It was a dark night. But did he hear anything? An aircraft, for instance. He might have done. If he did he wouldn’t pay any attention to it. Why should he? He’d be concerned only with the body he’d found. A plane at that moment would mean so little to him that I doubt if he’d even mention it in his statement to the police. He was travelling alone, remember. We might even wonder what he was doing on the road at two o’clock in the morning.’
Bertie stared. ‘You don’t think he could have had anything to do with the murder.’
‘I’m suspicious of everyone until he can prove he’s in the clear. What I’m really thinking of is this. Did he notice a light anywhere? If a plane intended landing on the moor there should have been a signal light showing somewhere on the ground. That again would have meant nothing to Brunner in the state he must have been in at the time. That’s if his statement is true. Come to think of it, we know nothing whatever about this man Brunner. He was alone on the moor on the night of the murder so the police have only his word for what happened. The police don’t appear to have questioned it. It might be worth while having a word with him. St Mawes is only a small place, so he wouldn’t be hard to find, if he’s still there.’
‘Does that mean you’re thinking of calling on him?’
‘Possibly. But we’ve no time for that now. Let’s press on home.’
They got into the car and set off up the long white road.
CHAPTER 4
A MATTER OF DEDUCTION
THE following morning Biggles was in the office early with the photographic air survey covering the top of his desk. It consisted of a number of photographs taken by a vertical camera from the same altitude. Fitted together like a jigsaw puzzle they made a single picture of an area of ground too large to be contained on a single photographic plate. In this case it was Bodmin Moor, or that part of it with which they were concerned. The road on which the constable had lost his life ran like a ribbon across the middle of it.
With a large magnifying glass in his hand he had been studying the result of Algy’s work for the best part of half an hour without comment. He went over it slowly, inch by inch and section by section.
At last he spoke. ‘I can’t see much that’s likely to be of any help to us,’ he said. He continued. ‘There is just one thing though that puzzles me. Algy, or perhaps you, Ginger, must have noticed this long darkish patch, no great distance from what I take to be the ruins of an abandoned mine. What did you make of it?’
Ginger answered. ‘Yes, I saw it. One could hardly I miss it. It was the only really conspicuous mark on the heather, which for the most part was pretty well all alike.’
‘What do you think it was? What had caused it?’
‘I took it to be a
place where there had been a runaway heath fire at some time. I can’t see what else it could have been.’
Algy agreed.
Biggles nodded. ‘That’s what the policeman thought, the one who showed us the spot where the murdered constable’s body had been found. I didn’t question it. But there’s something else. On the photograph there’s a detail which I couldn’t see from where I stood on the road: or maybe the angle from which I was looking had something to do with it. It’s plain to see on the photo. I mean this strip of heather that runs parallel with the burnt piece. It seems to be lighter in colour than most of the heather. Did either of you notice that?’ Biggles looked up.
Ginger answered. ‘Yes, I had a good look at it.’
‘What do you make it out to be?’
‘Frankly, I didn’t pay any serious attention to it. There was nothing on it. It shows up because the green is lighter, brighter. It was the only place like it as far as I could see; but as I say I didn’t give it any serious thought because working the camera I had to watch what I was doing.’
‘I noticed it, but I was more concerned with keeping a straight line,’ put in Algy. ‘I fancy the ground there dipped a bit so it might have been a brighter green as a result of water draining in from the higher ground.’
‘Yes, I suppose that could account for it,’ murmured Biggles.
Bertie stepped forward. ‘Mind if I have a dekko, old boy?’ He took over the magnifying glass. ‘I’ve never been on this particular moor, but I’ve walked on a good many grouse moors in Scotland so I know a bit about this sort of country, if you see what I mean. I imagine all moors that grow heather are very much alike.’
‘Carry on. See what you can make of it. There must be a reason for the heather being a different colour and we can’t afford to gloss over anything, however trivial it may seem.’
For perhaps a minute Bertie studied the photograph intently. Then he said: ‘Shall I tell you what I think this is, what happened here?’
‘That’s what I’m waiting to hear.’
‘Before fire burnt off that patch of heather where it’s plain enough to see, there was another fire close to it. Must have been some time ago. In case you don’t know, when a fire runs through heather it burns off all the stuff that’s above ground but it doesn’t kill the roots unless the peat underneath it is very dry, when it may go deep and smoulder for months unless there comes a lot of rain. I fancy what we can see here, this light patch, is young heather shooting up from roots where old woody stuff was at some time or other burnt off.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Biggles said. ‘If you’re right, it can only mean there must have been two fires in practically the same place.’
‘That’s what it looks like to me, old lad.’
‘Hm. That strikes me as a bit odd. Say, a coincidence.’
‘I suppose one could say that, considering how far the fires were from the road. Of course, there may be something in that particular area likely to cause a fire. If a railway crossed the moor, for instance, sparks from the engine would cause fires when the heather was dry.’
‘There’s isn’t a railway, so let’s not waste time talking about something that isn’t there. What else could have done it?’
Bertie, polishing his monocle with a handkerchief, shook his head. ‘I haven’t a clue, old boy, not a bally notion — unless some silly blighter chucked cigarette ends about.’
‘In that case one would expect fires all over the place. Two in the same place looks more to me as if it was done deliberately.’
Nobody spoke.
After a pause Biggles continued. ‘It would be reasonable to suppose that what caused the first fire also caused the second. If it wasn’t an accident, and we can’t see anything to suggest it might have been, then the thing must have been deliberate. It follows that if someone set the heather on fire he must have had a reason. You’ll notice that both fires were roughly the same size, long and narrow. That can only mean that both fires started when the wind was in the same direction.’
‘They run south-west to north-east or vice versa,’ put in Algy.
‘Say south-west to north-east. South-west is the direction of the prevailing wind. Both strips are long and narrow. Does that suggest anything to anybody?’
Ginger answered. ‘A long strip would be handy for an aircraft wanting to land.’
‘Good. That’s what I was thinking. If I wanted to make a landing strip on the moor that’s the shape I’d make it, and the direction, to suit the wind one’s most likely to find in this particular part of the country. It might be worth while checking the direction of the wind when the intruder came over. The Met. people would know. I don’t say that would prove anything, but it would support the view that a plane could land there — the pilot, of course, having the advantage of knowing he was landing into the wind as he touched down on the strip. In fact, he wouldn’t be able to land in any other direction without running into long heather which might tangle with his undercarriage and trip him up. Just a minute. Let me think.’ Biggles paused, chin in hands, elbows on the desk. Presently he went on. ‘Here, if Bertie is right, we have two strips. They run parallel. One has been there for some time. The other is apparently new. Bertie, you seem to be an expert on these matters; tell me this. When old heather is burnt off how long does it take for the roots to sprout again?’
‘It would probably show green the following year.’
‘You mean, short stuff.’
‘Yes. Very short. Naturally, after that it would get longer every year. Being young, and fresh, and green, it wouldn’t be as easy to burn as the old stuff.’
‘So in order always to have a clear strip it would be necessary to burn off the old, rank, heather from time to time to keep a safe strip going.’
‘Yes. As I say, it would be easier to burn the old stuff than the new growth. But hold hard, old boy. Aren’t you forgetting something?’
‘What?’
‘This intruder chappie, as far as we know, is a night bird. In the dark he wouldn’t be able to see the strips.’
‘He would if a light was put out at each end of the runway to mark it. That raises a point. Could these lights have been what the murdered constable saw that caused him to get off his bike to investigate?’
Algy answered. ‘That’s possible. But surely if there had been a plane up to some crooked business the lights would be fixed to point directly upwards so that only the pilot could see them?’
‘One would think so,’ conceded Biggles. ‘But don’t forget the constable was on the road, which is on somewhat higher ground. He might have seen the glow, particularly in the absence of any other lights on the moor. He might have heard the plane, even if it was only gliding in.’
‘Hold on a tick,’ broke in Ginger, who had been scrutinizing the photograph through the magnifying glass. ‘I’ll tell you something else that gives weight to the theory that these burnt areas might be landing strips. You’ll notice there are quite a few obstructions on the moor; the remains of old mine workings and what might be outcrops of rock. Admittedly they’re widely scattered, but you’ll notice that there aren’t any on the runways. Why? Is that a coincidence — or is it?’
Biggles grabbed the magnifying glass. ‘By Jingo, laddie, you’re right!’ he exclaimed. ‘Good work. I hadn’t noticed that. Either those strips, if that’s what they are, must have been sited to avoid any obstructions, or any obstructions that may have been there were moved.’ Biggles put down the glass. ‘Unless we’ve run into more than one coincidence, which is always possible, we may have got a line on something here. Well, we’ve covered the ground pretty thoroughly and I don’t think there’s any more we can do with these photographs. I have a feeling it’s time we had another look at Bodmin Moor.’
‘How?’ inquired Algy. ‘How are we going to find out if we’re on the track or merely building up a theory to suit us? Would you like me to slip along in the Auster and try an actual landing on one of these strips?’
‘Why?’
‘Use your head, chum. If it so happened that we’re thinking on the right lines, an aircraft landing on that particular spot could hardly fail to warn the people there that someone is wise to what’s been going on.’
‘You think there is somebody there?’
‘Surely there must be if these are landing strips. At least one man would have to be on the spot to take care of things. I can imagine several things that might upset an aircraft. Sheep wandering about, for instance. Apart from mobile obstructions, bearing in mind we’re dealing with a night-flyer, someone would have to put out at least two landing fights to mark the limit of the runway. The pilot couldn’t do anything about that himself. I can’t imagine him using parachute flares. They might set the heather on fire. Apart from that, there’s always a certain amount of traffic on the road and it wouldn’t be long before someone would want to know what was going on. If this mystery plane we’re after is using the moor, he arrives after dark and leaves before dawn, when no one is about; that is, when there are no car headlights on the road.’
‘So what are we going to do?’ asked Ginger.
‘Go down again by road to Cornwall and have a closer look at these strips by taking a stroll across the moor. That shouldn’t arouse suspicion if we were watched. It must happen sometimes. There’s no need for us all to go. Two should be enough, one to keep his eyes on the ground and the other to take note of anyone else about in the vicinity. Someone will have to be on duty here, anyway, in case the radar boys come through to say the intruder is over.’
‘When are you going to start on this jaunt?’
Biggles looked at the clock. ‘I might as well start today to be ready for work in the morning. It’s a long run and one needs a rest before starting on anything else. I shall take Bertie with me, as he seems to be the expert on moors and what happens on them. We’ll put on some old togs and carry haversacks to look like a couple of stray hikers.’
