by W E Johns
The question was not really necessary.
From somewhere out on the moor, distant but clear in the silence, came the sound of a dog barking furiously. Biggles sprang to his feet. ‘We can guess what that means,’ he said crisply. ‘We’d better get out there if he isn’t back here in the next few minutes. Let’s get the car off the road for a start.’ Moving quickly he joined Bertie, who was already at the car.
Before they could get in they were dazzled by the headlights of an oncoming car travelling in the direction of Bodmin. There was a scraping of brakes. It stopped. A man got out and came over.
‘Having trouble? Can I help?’ he offered, in a quiet, cultured voice.
Looking at the speaker Biggles saw a tall, well-dressed, clean-shaven man regarding them with a sympathetic smile.
‘No, we’re all right now, thanks all the same,’ he answered. ‘We were just moving off.’
‘I’m going on to Bodmin and thought if you were in serious trouble you might like me to call at a garage and ask them to send someone out to you.’
‘That’s most kind of you, but we’re all right now so that won’t be necessary.’
‘As you wish.’ The man got back into his car and drove on.
Biggles stepped into the road and watched it go.
‘Nice feller,’ remarked Bertie. ‘Not everyone would have bothered to stop.’
Biggles did not answer. Frowning, he returned to the car.
Bertie looked at him curiously. ‘I said he was a nice feller. Wouldn’t you say so?’
‘I wouldn’t say anything.’
Bertie looked surprised. ‘Why not? Dash it all, he couldn’t have done more than he did.’
‘I agree with you there. All I know is, he had a damn good look at us.’
‘What about it? Why shouldn’t he? He was talking to us. People don’t usually stand with their backs to you.’
‘Yes. You might have thought he was smiling at us, too; but in case you didn’t notice it I can tell you the smile didn’t get farther than his lips. There was a look in his eyes that told a different story — to me, at any rate.’
‘Oh, I say old boy, come off it,’ protested Bertie. ‘You must have reached the stage of imagining things. You couldn’t say there was anything suspicious about him.’
‘You could be right; but at the moment I’m suspicious of anyone on this road, day or night. I have an increasing feeling that there’s more going on here than meets the eye.’
‘Just what are you thinking?’
‘First, why did he stop? Drivers don’t usually stop at a stationary car beside the road unless signalled to do so. If they pulled up at every car they wouldn’t get anywhere. As things are today everyone is in a hurry to get to where he’s going. It struck me that that car might be the one that collected our wandering shepherd. I say collected because I feel sure it was no casual pick-up. The shepherd must have known the car would be there. Remember, it didn’t come from the direction of Bodmin or we’d have seen it go past us here. It came from the opposite direction, picked up the man, turned and went back.’
‘So what?’
‘It’s my guess the shepherd reported seeing us on the moor — at the old mine, in fact — whereupon someone came along to have a look at us. Don’t forget we’ve been on and off this road most of the day. I suspect someone is wondering why.’
‘Any reason for thinking that?’
‘Yes. I noticed the gent who offered to help us had a long hard look at our number plate. Why should he be interested in our registration? I returned the compliment by making a note of his. That’s why I stepped into the road when he went on towards Bodmin. Another thing. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that man’s face before; but was a long time ago and his name eludes me. I remember it presently, and in what connection.’
‘Do you mean he was a crook?’ asked Bertie.
‘I don’t know; but if he was, well, you see what I’m getting at. But never mind about that now. Ginger isn’t back, so it’s time we were doing something about it. He may be in trouble. I only hope that dog hasn’t savaged him. We needn’t move the car. We’ll leave the sidelights on. That should be okay. When it gets really dark we may need them ourselves to mark the position of the car.’
They set off at a brisk pace across the moor, heading for the spot where they judged the old mine to be. In the failing light it could no longer be seen.
They had covered some distance when Bertie laid a hand on Biggles’ arm and brought him to a halt. ‘Did you see that?’ he ejaculated.
‘See what?’
‘I thought I saw a light flash ahead of us. In fact I’m sure I did. It seemed to reflect on something.’
Biggles stared into the gloom. ‘Ginger hadn’t got a torch.’
‘That’s what I was thinking.’
‘There’s no light there now.’
‘No. But unless it was a will-o’-the-wisp there was one.’
‘Listen.’
From somewhere in front the sound of voices came eerily through the clammy mist.
‘Come on,’ snapped Biggles.
They went on as fast as the rough ground and thick heather would allow.
CHAPTER 7
TREED
GINGER set off on his solo assignment with the greatest confidence. Nothing could have appeared more simple, and whatever happened he could not see himself in any physical danger. He did not forget the dog, should it still be there; but he regarded this more as a possible nuisance than a threat.
He should have learned that over-confidence can be as disastrous as under-confidence, and it is likely that he took his mission too casually. His only anxiety was, should he be delayed until after dark, with the mist thickening he might have difficulty in finding his way back to the car, even though the lights were on.
He came to the burnt area, and without loitering, knowing that Biggles had already examined it, turned towards his real objective — the old mine workings. There did not seem any particular need for caution, for, after all, this was England and, as far as he knew, common ground, so the question of trespass did not arise.
Reaching the broken-down walls he did pause for a moment or two to listen; but he heard nothing. A strong unmistakable smell of sheep told him the animals were still there; or had been until very recently. Satisfied that all was well, moving quietly he made his way along to the hurdles that barred the entrance, or the exit, as the case might be. They were closed. He stopped. He looked. The only sign of life was a huddle of sheep staring at him. The light was now dim, so what with this and the weed-covered heaps of rubble he found it difficult to see the far side of the enclosure as clearly as he would have wished. He waited for a minute, peering and listening, but there was neither sight nor sound of a human being. Evidently the shepherd was not there. That was really all he wanted to know. Thinking it important that there should be no mistake about this, with a hand resting on the hurdles he whistled softly. When this did not produce any result he said, in a voice loud enough to be heard by anybody present: ‘Anyone there?’ There was no reply.
This really answered his question. Nothing more was necessary. The shepherd had gone. This did not surprise him. If, as Biggles had thought, the man had left the place, his absence was to be expected. Still, he was not entirely satisfied. It would be as well to make sure. There was just a possibility that the man, should he still be there, had gone to sleep in the only building, or part of a building, left standing. This of course was the shed where Biggles and Bertie had sheltered from the rain. He could see the silhouette against the sky but he could not see inside it.
Deciding that it would only take a minute to confirm definitely that there was no one there, he pulled the hurdles apart and with every confidence stepped inside.
He had not taken more than three paces when, with a vicious snarl, a dog rushed at him. Where it so suddenly came from he did not know. He did not stop to look. Feeling sure the animal would follow him, and catch him, should he retire
the way he had come — for the hurdles would obviously be no obstacle to the dog — he sped to the only place of safety in sight. This was the skeleton wooden structure that had once supported the winding gear over the pit. He scrambled up to the first crossbar, one that braced the whole thing, beyond the reach of the dog, and sitting astride it looked down at the creature below. It had squatted on its haunches and was glaring up at him with an expression of calculated hatred.
Ginger could have kicked himself, as the saying is, for putting himself in such a ridiculous position. He had not forgotten Biggles’ warning about the dog, but not seeing it had naturally assumed it was not there. Safe for the moment, from his perch he considered the situation. At first he could not see how he could do anything about it. He had no weapon of any sort, not even a stick, and he was not so stupid as to suppose he could take on a big dog with his bare hands without injury. To be bitten, in such a remote place, could be a serious matter. It was hard to see how he could escape this if he tried to get away. The dog was no mere terrier. It was more the size and weight of a hound.
He tried talking to it in a coaxing voice, hoping to soothe it; but he soon gave that up, perceiving it was, futile. The animal bristled in a frenzy of rage.
Looking hard at it Ginger saw, for the first time, that it wore a collar. To this was attached a rope, a tethering line. Following this with his eyes he made it out to be tied to a short post driven into the ground not far away. This explained what up to now had been something of a mystery. Why the dog had not caught him. It had been given enough rope only to cover the entrance; that is, the hurdles. This, he supposed, would be all that was necessary to prevent the sheep from leaving their pen should anyone open the hurdles and leave them open. Just as effectively it would, of course, prevent him from leaving the place by the way he had entered.
He would soon have to do something, he told himself desperately, for deep twilight had closed in and Biggles would be wondering what he was doing. He had already been away longer than had been anticipated.
Thinking the matter over he decided that if he could get down out of reach of the dog it should be possible to find a place where he could get over the surrounding wall and so make his escape. This he resolved to attempt. To be on the safe side it meant moving along the crossbar and descending to the ground by means of the leg at the far corner to which it was joined.
Straddling the crossbar he worked his way across it foot by foot to the far side of the structure, or rig, or derrick, or whatever it might have been called. He took it slowly and carefully, for a fall could have serious consequences. However, all went according to plan and he reached his first objective, the far leg, without any great difficulty. Well satisfied, for the way of escape now seemed open, he took a short rest. Then, clutching the heavy square timber post like a monkey on a stick he started down. This, too, had to be taken carefully, for there was a risk of getting splinters in his hands.
He had nearly reached the ground when something he had not foreseen occurred. The dog, apparently having more than ordinary intelligence, must have realized what was happening. Straining on the rope at its fullest extent, barking furiously, it gave a tremendous lunge. The rope broke and it was free.
Ginger went up his post faster than he had come down; and he did not stop until he reached the crossbar. There, still breathing heavily from shock and consternation, he rested, the dog below, and the sheep in a tightly packed mob watching the performance with their customary foolish expressions — or lack of expression.
It was now a case of as-you-were.
Ginger resigned himself to wait for rescue. Sooner or later, when he did not return. Biggles or Bertie, or probably both, would come to look for him. He might have to wait a long time. He was worried about what would happen when, with the dog loose, they arrived on the scene. There seemed a good chance of one of them being bitten before they realized the danger. To make matters more difficult it was now almost dark; and it looked like being a dark night.
It would not do to print the names he was calling himself for having, with the best intentions, brought about such an infuriating situation. In some circumstances it might have had a humorous aspect; but, it need hardly be said, he saw nothing funny in it. There was no excuse. He had made a blunder.
The cause of the trouble had stopped its frenzied barking and now sat staring up at him. He stared back. There was nothing else he could do. The dog was not likely to move: and he couldn’t move.
He nearly fell off his perch when a voice spoke; and it was not the voice of either Biggles or Bertie. It was deep and harsh. It said: ‘Where are you? Come out.’
Ginger could just discern a shadowy figure advancing in the dim light. It appeared to limp and moved with the aid of a stick. As Ginger had been looking at the dog he had no idea of the actual spot from which the man had so suddenly appeared.
‘I’m up here!’ he said.
‘What are you doing?’ came back in a peremptory voice.
Ginger bridled at the question. ‘What the devil do you think I’m doing, looking for birds’ nests?’ he answered curtly. ‘I’d have thought you could see what I’m doing.’
‘Come down!’
‘Not on your life,’ returned Ginger grimly. ‘If that dog belongs to you, get it under control. It flew at me. It’s a dangerous brute.’
‘You had no right to be here.’
‘No right!’ Ginger nearly choked. ‘This is a National Park’ (actually he was not sure of this) ‘and I have as much right to be here as you have. You’ve no right to bring that beast to a public place.’
The man had come closer. He must have had a torch for suddenly Ginger was half blinded by a bright light turned on him. He shielded his eyes with his hands, but with the light on his face he could not see the man behind it.
‘Come down,’ the voice ordered again.
‘Not me. Tie up that dog. It broke its rope to get at me. If I’d been bitten you’d have heard about it.’
The light was switched off and in the gloom Ginger could see the man joining the broken ends of the rope. It was evident the animal knew him, for it made no protest. Indeed, at a word of command it slunk away and sat down.
Ginger returned to earth.
The man came right up to him. ‘Now, young man, what are you doing here?’
Ginger liked the tone of voice still less. ‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’ he rapped out. ‘You talk as if you owned the place. If it comes to that, what are you doing here, anyway?’
‘Answer me!’
‘You can go to the devil,’ snapped Ginger. ‘Instead of giving me orders you owe me an apology for bringing a mad dog here and causing me a lot of inconvenience. Get out of my way.’
‘Where do you think you’re going?’
‘If you must know, back to the road.’
The man did not move.
‘What’s the big idea?’ demanded Ginger indignantly, although, as a matter of fact, he was aware of a mounting feeling of alarm. ‘My friends are waiting for me,’ he added, to let the man know he was not alone.
‘Unless you answer my questions I’ll let my dog loose.’
Ginger stared. ‘You’ll do what?’
‘You heard me.’
Ginger could feel a loose brick under his feet. He snatched it up. ‘You take one step towards that hound and I’ll knock your block off,’ he threatened viciously.
What the outcome of the affair would have been had there not been an interruption, is a matter for speculation; but at this juncture a voice spoke. To Ginger’s great relief it was Biggles. He said: ‘What’s going on here?’ To Ginger he added: ‘What are you playing at? We can’t wait all night.’ Bertie was with him. They moved in through the hurdle entrance. The dog growled but did not move.
Ginger answered. ‘I was cornered by a hound that must have had a wolf for its mother. Apparently this fellow owns it. Instead of apologizing he’s talking as if it was my own fault for coming here.’
&nb
sp; ‘Well, come on,’ Biggles said shortly. ‘If you must fiddle about looking for a sprig of white heather you’d better choose some other time. White heather wouldn’t have been much use had a dog got its teeth into your leg. Let’s go.’ He turned away.
Leaving the man standing there they left the enclosure and strode on in the direction of the road. Not until they had gone some way did Biggles speak. ‘What happened?’ he asked quietly.
Ginger told him. ‘Phew! Was I glad to hear your voice! That fellow was getting nasty. Was he the shepherd?’
‘No. This chap had a beard.’
‘I noticed that. I could swear there was nobody there when I arrived. I looked for the dog but couldn’t see it. Goodness knows where it came from. It hadn’t made a sound. It was tied up, but when it flew at me the rope broke and all I could do was shin up that derrick affair like a blinking squirrel. Then the man appeared.’
‘I told you to be careful of that dog.’
‘I was careful. But how was I to know the brute would come at me like a lunatic tiger?’
‘That’s no sheep dog,’ put in Bertie.
Nothing more was said till they reached the road and were in the car. Ginger asked where they were going.
‘Back to Bodmin,’ answered Biggles.
‘Are we coming back here?’
‘l don’t know, I haven’t made up my mind yet. It needs thinking about. We’re up against something. We’re looking for an intruding aircraft that comes only at night. I doubt if we shall ever find it in the air. If we did, what could we do about it? Shoot it down? No, that wouldn’t do. Our only chance is to catch it on the ground. That means finding its landing strip. It may be here, within a mile of us. On the other hand we may be on the wrong track altogether, although there’s certainly something fishy going on here. One thing we can’t do is keep dashing to and fro between London and Bodmin. It takes too long and we should wear ourselves to a frazzle. I shan’t go back to London tonight. When we get to the hotel we’ll ring Algy and tell him we’re spending the night here. He’ll have to stand by the phone. If he gets a report of an unidentified machine coming over he can call us. That means we shall have to stand by the phone, too. Or one of us, We’ll arrange that. I don’t expect anything to happen tonight, but there seems to be a certain amount of activity at the mine, so it could happen. But I rather think that if a landing had been arranged it would be cancelled.’
