by W E Johns
‘Why do you think that?’ asked Bertie.
‘Well, look what’s happened today. First, two strangers are seen on the suspected airstrip. They also go to the old mine. Later, when it’s practically dark, someone else goes to the mine. For what reason would anyone go there at that hour? On the spur of the moment, to provide an excuse, I hinted that Ginger was looking for some lucky white heather; but I doubt if the man there would be taken in by that. Whatever these people may be, they can’t be fools. Don’t forget our car has spent some time on the road today, and someone may have wondered what it was doing. This, I suspect, is why that considerate gentleman stopped to ask if we needed help.’ Biggles told Ginger about the incident as he was not present when it happened. He went on: ‘We’ll find out who that car belongs to. I’ve got its number. It was an old Bentley. Registration letters CV, which I believe is Cornwall. The police should know the owner. There can’t be many old Bentleys about here.’
‘What do we do tonight?’ inquired Ginger.
‘I had intended walking out to the mine again to have a closer look at it, but after what’s happened today it would be risky. We can’t go in daylight. If we are seen the people there would wonder what we were up to. That wouldn’t make things easier for us. I’ll think about it. Let’s get back to the hotel. If we got a call that the intruder had been spotted we could always dash out here. That means having the car ready. Bertie, you might see that we’re okay for petrol and oil.’
‘If you go to the mine don’t forget that brute of a dog,’ reminded Ginger.
‘I’m not likely to forget it. I shall also remember the man who owns it.’
‘He’s a nasty piece of work, too,’ stated Ginger. ‘He gave me the impression of being a foreigner.’
‘I thought that, too, from what little I heard. But let’s press on to the hotel. We can talk there.’ They had gone about two miles when they found themselves at the tail end of a queue of cars. Fortunately it was not a long one. ‘Must have been an accident,’ Bertie said, getting out to see what was happening. He was soon back. ‘I guessed wrong. It’s a police road block. They’re checking all cars.’
Their turn soon came. A police sergeant held up a hand. Two constables, holding torches, closed in. One of them smiled recognition. It was the officer, Redruth, who had shown them where the body of Constable Harley had been found. ‘So you’re still here,’ he remarked.
‘Looks like it,’ Biggles answered. ‘Carry on. It’s all yours.’ He handed over the key of the boot.
After a perfunctory search the sergeant waved them on. ‘All right, sir. That’s all.’
‘What’s the trouble?’ inquired Biggles. ‘Not another murder?’
‘No, thank God. A prisoner got away from Dartmoor this morning in the fog. He may have helped himself to a car. We’re making sure he doesn’t come this way.’
‘Who was it?’
‘Lewis.’
‘Cracker Lewis?’
‘That’s him. You know him?’
‘Only very slightly.’ Biggles drove on.
Bertie spoke. ‘Cracker Lewis! Isn’t he one of the two safe-busters the Yard picked up after that bank raid in Hampstead? Shot at and wounded a constable. Got ten years if I remember.’
‘That’s right,’ confirmed Biggles. ‘I can understand the anxiety not to let him get away. He had a nice haul of about thirty thousand nicker and managed to tuck it away before he was caught. The money’s never been found.’
‘No wonder Lewis made a break, with that little lot waiting to be collected,’ put in Ginger.
Biggles did not answer.
CHAPTER 8
BERTIE BRINGS NEWS
BIGGLES sat alone in the residents’ lounge of their hotel in Bodmin trying to put together, and make them fit like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, the items they had gathered since their arrival in Cornwall. These he examined one by one in the hope of making a complete picture. He had not succeeded when Ginger came in. He glanced around. ‘Bertie not back yet?’ he queried.
‘Not yet.’
‘It’s taking him a long time to top up with petrol.’
‘He’ll be back. Did you speak to Algy?’
‘Yes.’ Ginger dropped into the seat next to Biggles. ‘We had a long natter. I told him we were staying on and put him wise as to what’s happened so far.’
‘Had he anything to say about it?’
‘Not much. He’ll mark time on the phone. I gather the Air Commodore is breaking out in a rash over this intruder business, wondering what we’re doing and how long it’s going to be before we let him have some definite news. The Minister wants to know what country this plane is coming from and who’s operating it.’
‘Is that all?’ said Biggles with biting sarcasm. ‘I’m afraid he’ll have to sweat it out. I can’t make head nor tail of it. I’m beginning to wonder if we’re chasing a wild goose. I’m pretty certain something’s going on at that old mine, but what it is I haven’t a clue. It may have no connection with what we’re looking for. In fact, it may be something perfectly legitimate. It’s hard to know what to do next. Even if we’re on the right track, to go on wandering about the moor near the mine is likely to do more harm than good. If once we’re suspected of being what we are, our birds — if they really are the people we’re looking for — will take fright and we shan’t see them for dust.’
‘What beats me is where that fellow came from who started to cut up rough because I wouldn’t answer his questions. I don’t see how he could have been there when I arrived or he’d have shown himself when I whistled. It must have been the dog barking that brought him along. But from where? He didn’t come through the hurdles or I’d have seen him. He suddenly appeared from nowhere. Could he have come up from the mine? The oil you found on the windlass suggests its being used.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘It’s possible. How are we going to confirm that there’s something going on underground without knowing the depth of the shaft or what’s at the bottom? Would you like to go down?’
‘I wouldn’t mind if you were up top.’
‘Stout fella! I’ll bear it in mind,’ chaffed Biggles. ‘I may take you up on that.’
‘What’s wrong with calling in the police and making a thorough search of the place?’
‘And a nice pack of fools we’d look if there was nothing there. We’d be the laughing stock of the county. For some reason, I don’t know why, people love to take the mickey out of Scotland Yard. All I can say is this, we’ve soon got to get some definite information or we shall have to pack up and go home. I can’t see the Air Commodore letting us fiddle about here indefinitely running up an expense account. He’ll suspect we’re scrounging a holiday at the Government’s expense.’
‘Rot,’ rejoined Ginger tartly. ‘Not after what you’ve done in the past.’
‘It’s time you realized the past has nothing to do with it. It’s the present that counts. While things go well, you’re the blue-eyed boy. When they go wrong, there’s mud in your eye. What have we found out since we came here? Some burnt heather that might be used as an air strip. A shepherd who minds his sheep with a dog that isn’t an ordinary sheep dog. That doesn’t amount to much. You go along after dark and a man asks you questions. So what? He may be the owner of the property or he may hold the grazing rights.’
‘What about the man on the road who stopped his car to ask if you needed help?’
‘That may be unusual but it isn’t particularly remarkable. There are such men, although with everyone in a hurry to get somewhere they’re getting few and far between. The only thing about that is, as I said earlier, I have a feeling that I’ve seen that face before. Perhaps not in the flesh. It may have been a photograph. I may be wrong. It was a long time ago, anyway. Well, that about sums up the position as it is at the moment. What else can we do? We shall have to do something or pack it in. Of course, we could sit on that miserable moor and wait for a plane to land on the strip. We might wait for weeks. If we’re w
rong it would never come. That’s no use. Frankly, I don’t know what to do. We can’t go near the mine again without a plausible excuse; and it would be daft to cruise up and down the road in the car and expect no one to notice it.’
Bertie came in and joined them.
‘You’ve been a devil of a long time,’ accused Biggles. ‘Is something wrong with the car?’
‘No. The car’s all right. Don’t get steamed up, old boy. It happens I’ve been busy, all on my own. I struck lucky and picked up some news, although you may not think too much of it.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it knocks on the head your idea that the chappie who stopped his car to ask if we needed help might have something to do with what’s going on on the moor.’
‘Come on. Let’s have it,’ requested Biggles.
‘When I went to the garage to fill up, there in front of me was that old Bentley.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Positive, old boy. CV registration, and all that. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was the man himself paying the pump attendant. He didn’t see me. I hung back till he’d gone and watched which way he went.’
‘Which way did he go?’
‘He took the road that crosses the moor. But hold your horses. I haven’t finished yet. When I went back to the pump to top up I asked the chap in charge if he knew the gent in the Bentley. He did. He knew all about him. Known him for years. Regular customer. His people used to be some of the biggest landowners in Cornwall — tin mines and what have you. His name’s Sir Humphrey Trethallan. He lives at Hallstone Towers, the old baronial mansion near Hallstone, which I gather is a district rather than a village, a little beyond the northern extremity of the moor.’ Bertie broke off, looking hard at the expression on Biggles’ face. ‘What is it? Have I done something wrong?’ he asked anxiously.
Biggles recovered himself. ‘No. Oh no,’ he said quickly. ‘Far from it. You’ve given my memory the jolt it needed to make the penny drop. It was the name that did it. I thought I vaguely knew the face. It must have been a picture in a newspaper. There was a time, some years ago, when Sir Humphrey’s face looked at you from the front pages of the national papers.’
‘Matter of fact, the name rang a bell with me,’ said Bertie.
‘What did he get up to, to get his name in the papers?’ inquired Ginger.
‘It comes back to me now,’ resumed Biggles. ‘As I remember it, the case, which raised a first-class stink, was this. Sir Humphrey Trethallan was a well-known playboy in high society. He could afford to be. His father left him a fortune, and he set about going through it faster than his old man had made it. He gambled in a big way, owning a string of racehorses among other things. The parties he threw in London, Paris and Monte Carlo were the talk of the town. All this blew up with a loud bang when he was accused of cheating at cards in one of the swish London clubs. He brought an action against his accuser — Lord somebody or other. He had to, or admit guilt. He hadn’t a hope. Other people had seen what was going on. He lost the case and was ruined. There was no criminal charge, but as far as society was concerned he was finished. He had to resign from his clubs and the public appointments he held. All he could do after that was fade away. There was a report that he’d gone to Australia. I was doing charter work at the time, that was before I went to the Yard, so my memory is a bit hazy. Well — well. So he’s still alive, rusticating in the ancestral home. In what sort of conditions, I wonder?’
‘The pump attendant seemed to think he was the tops,’ Bertie said. ‘A good tipper, and so on.’
‘He would be. That sort of man usually is. Of course, it’s easy if you’re using somebody else’s money,’ Biggles ended cynically.
‘So that’s another clue that’s fizzled out,’ sighed Ginger.
For some seconds Biggles did not answer. Then he said: ‘It would be interesting to know why he came to Bodmin tonight. Was it simply to fill up with petrol?’
‘Why not?’
‘It meant he had to come across the moor. According to Bertie he went straight back the same way. I can’t believe Bodmin is the nearest place where he could get petrol.’
Bertie frowned. ‘Have a heart, old boy. I mean to say, dash it all, he’s a gent. You can’t suspect him of anything crooked.’
‘His social position makes what he did in the past worse than rotten. He cheated his own friends at cards. If that isn’t crooked I don’t know what is. A man who will do a thing like that must have a streak in him that’s as crooked as a ruddy corkscrew. Some men have an excuse for going off the rails, but he hadn’t. Anyway, I’ve already said I’m prepared to have a second look at anyone, tourists apart, who crosses that moor at night without a reason. Merely to fill up with petrol doesn’t strike me as a very convincing reason. If only to satisfy my curiosity I shall make it my business to check that Bodmin is the nearest place where Sir Humphrey can get petrol.’
‘You’re wasting your time,’ declared Bertie. ‘Once a gent always a gent.’
‘And once a crook always a crook,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘I had an idea of having another look at that moor later tonight, after we’ve had something to eat. We can still do that. At the same time we can go a bit farther and cast an eye over — what’s the name of Sir Humphrey’s place?’
‘Hallstone Towers.’
Ginger stepped in. ‘With what object? What’s the house likely to tell us?’
‘Well, it occurs to me that if the Trethallans made money out of mining, Sir Humphrey may still own land here. He may even be the owner of these abandoned mines, including the one in which we have an interest. It may be a remote chance, but it’s possible he still holds the title deeds. He may have let the land to someone, in which case he should be able to help us.’
‘But if these mines have been worked out they can be of no value to anyone,’ Ginger pointed out.
‘Not as mines, admittedly.’
‘What, then?’
‘It’s no use asking me. That’s what I want to find out. I know of one mine that’s being used for something, otherwise only a lunatic would have oiled the wheels of the winding gear.’
‘Are we all going on this jaunt tonight?’ Ginger asked. ‘I was thinking, shouldn’t one of us stay here to keep an ear to the phone in case Algy comes through to say an unidentified aircraft is in the offing?’
Biggles hesitated for a moment. ‘We can take a chance on that,’ he decided. ‘It shouldn’t take us long to do what we have to do. If a plane should come this way we should hear it. I’ll speak to the night porter and ask him to take a message should one come through for us while we’re out. My plan was for all of us to go, drop you off at the usual place on the moor to watch the mine and go on with Bertie to Hallstone Towers. When we’ve had a look at it we’ll pick you up on the way back. Remind me to have a look at the map to see exactly where this place Hallstone is. But that’s enough for now. I’m getting hoarse with so much talking. I’m going to oil my tonsils with some steak and kidney pudding. I see it’s on the menu.’
‘That,’ said Bertie, ‘is music to my ears. The best suggestion you’ve made tonight, old boy. Absolutely. I’m flat out for a plate of pud, anywhere, any time.’
They got up and walked through to the dining room.
CHAPTER 9
A SHOCK FOR BIGGLES
IT was ten o’clock when the party left the hotel, Biggles having made no changes in his plan.
Where the weather was concerned the night could be described as fair; moonless but clear; the sky half covered with high cirrus cloud which, as there was no wind to move it, seemed likely to persist. As Biggles observed, it was a good night for flying, although while visibility might have been better, it could have been a lot worse.
‘There’s plenty of cover behind that cloud layer for an intruder to slink in,’ he said, as he took the road to the moor. ‘The alternative would be to come in low to get under the radar. That means five hundred feet, or lower. If the pilot tried that
we should certainly hear the machine. Not that we have any reason to suppose it will come over tonight. That, with us on the moor, would be too much to hope for. The trouble is, we haven’t a clue as to what this raider is doing. If we had we’d be in a better position to judge when he’s likely to come.’
‘That, surely, would be governed by weather conditions,’ put in Bertie.
‘No doubt. But even so, his goings and comings would almost certainly depend on something that has happened on the ground, not necessarily here, but somewhere in the country. Obviously these raids are being made with a definite purpose, otherwise they wouldn’t happen. It’s no use trying to guess what that purpose is. We’ve got to find out — don’t ask me how — or we could spend the rest of our lives here without getting anywhere. We’re still groping in the dark, literally, but if we stick around, with any luck we should spot something that will make sense of the whole business.’
The car, running on sidelights only, made its first stop, as arranged, at its usual place on the moor. The police road block had been lifted, so the road was clear. Ginger got out.
‘I reckon we should be back in about half-an-hour,’ Biggles told him. ‘Stay here. Watch for lights. If any appear at the mine, or anywhere else on the moor, you’re bound to see them. Don’t try any more exploring on your own.’
‘I shan’t, don’t worry,’ returned Ginger warmly. ‘I’m not likely to forget that brute of a dog.’
‘Okay. This is where we’ll pick you up.’ Biggles drove on.
Although the map had been studied it took longer to find the house they were looking for than had been anticipated. They found the district without much trouble, but it consisted only of a few widely scattered cottages dotted about a tangle of lanes with banks and hedges on either side. Moreover, there were trees to restrict the view. There was no actual village, practically no traffic on this lonely fringe of the moor, not even a pedestrian to ask the way. Apparently the men who worked in this truly rural countryside went to bed early.
