Biggles Presses On

by W E Johns

  ‘You can expect that to be around the night of the next full moon,’ said Mr. Sinclair. ‘Thanks for coming up.’

  “Thank you for letting us know about this,’ returned Biggles. ‘Something’s going on. We’ll find out what it is. By the way, I take it the poachers know about the measures you take to keep tabs on them?’

  ‘Of course, they have observers watching every move we make. This year we tightened our precautions considerably. We had every road covered. They soon knew about that. It may or may not have been coincidence that this night flying started about the same time.’

  ‘You think it was their answer to your extra precautions?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  ‘One last question. What is the procedure if you catch them?’

  ‘They’d be taken before the sheriff and charged. Until recently a poacher could only be fined, but under a new Scottish law poachers can be sent to prison. Furthermore, we can confiscate their gear, and that costs money. The new nylon nets they use to haul in the fish cost a hundred pounds or more apiece. We can seize the vehicle used for transport provided they are caught with salmon in their possession.’

  ‘I’m glad you told me that,’ said Biggles. ‘It could be important, because it seems that poachers caught in Scotland can be dealt with more severely than in England. When you say vehicle would that include an aeroplane?’

  ‘Presumably. Such a case has never arisen.’

  ‘It might. You see, Mr Sinclair,’ went on Biggles, ‘if a man owns an aeroplane, as long as he observes regulations there is nothing to prevent him from using it. He can fly where he likes when he likes. There would be nothing to prevent him from flying salmon, or anything else, from Scotland to England. How could we, in London, prove that the fish had been poached? Assuming your suspicions are correct, the only charge that I could bring against the pilot of the aircraft would be the technical one of night flying without lights—and how could I prove that? Even if I could, the pilot could say it was due to a failure of the ignition system, and as such things do happen he would probably get away with it.’

  ‘What you’re really saying is, it would be better to catch the rogue in Scotland than in England.’

  ‘Exactly—provided he had fish on board, and his association with poachers could be proved.’

  ‘Aye. I see that,’ said Sinclair.

  ‘One final question,’ concluded Biggles. ‘How do salmon, properly caught, arrive in the wholesale market?’

  ‘In wooden boxes, the number of fish in a box depending on the size of the fish.’

  Biggles got up. ‘Thank you, Mr Sinclair. I think we know enough to go on with. I shall look forward to hearing from you the next time this plane is in your district.’

  With that they left the office.

  Said Ginger, smiling, as they returned to the aerodrome: ‘Life is full of surprises. Who’d have thought we’d get mixed up in the fish business.’

  ‘Tomorrow morning we’ll have a look at Billingsgate to get our bearings and check the price of fish; then we shall really be in it,’ replied Biggles. ‘We live and learn,’ he added, tritely. ‘I’ve learned quite a lot today.’

  For nearly three weeks no word came from Scotland, and Ginger was beginning to think the case had fizzled out when, one night, just as he was going to bed, the long-expected call came through from Mr Sinclair. Actually, he phoned the Yard, but in accordance with Biggles’ instructions the message was passed on to him. It was brief. The gist of it was, the plane had been, and was last heard heading south.

  ‘There’s no hurry,’ Biggles told Ginger. ‘If the machine has only just left Scotland it’ll be some time before its load reaches London. We shall soon know if it was fish. Make a cup of tea.’

  In due course, travelling in an apparently standard model police car, they reached the famous fish market near London Bridge. It was not their first visit. Already they had watched how business was conducted and noted those dealers who dealt largely in salmon.

  It was just after 6 a.m. when the expected happened. They were standing in a position from which they could watch a number of stalls when a rough-looking man arrived at one of them, with a sack marked Bikstein Brothers on his back. As he tipped it, a pile of salmon slithered on to a slab. Some men who had been waiting, presumably fishmongers, moved in to examine them.

  ‘Watch where he goes,’ Biggles ordered, indicating the man who had carried the sack, now striding away.

  Ginger, following, saw him go to a station wagon and collect another load. There was no one in the driving seat. He noted the number of the car and returned to Biggles. ‘The fish are loose in a Ford station wagon,’ he reported. ‘I’ve got its number.’

  ‘Good,’ said Biggles. ‘That’s what we wanted to know. The price of salmon has already dropped a shilling a pound, which suggests that Bikstein’s are anxious to clear their stock.’

  The carrier shot another load. ‘That’s the lot,’ he called. ‘I’ll be in with another load in the morning.’

  ‘That fellow doesn’t look like a pilot,’ observed Ginger.

  ‘He isn’t,’ returned Biggles. ‘The pilot is probably asleep in his bed, as I should be if I’d just flown down from Morayshire.’

  ‘Are you going to follow the car?’

  ‘No. We’ll check on it at the Yard. It’ll be interesting to see who it belongs to. Let’s get out of this stink of fish.’

  They went straight to the Yard, where it was ascertained that the car was in the name of Hugo Bikstein, of Bardswell House, Essex.

  ‘All in the family,’ murmured Biggles, dryly. ‘Let’s see if one of them is a pilot.’

  Ginger went to the register and ran a finger down the letter B. ‘Here we are,’ he exclaimed. ‘Bikstein, Hugo, ex F/O R.A.F. Bardswell House, Essex. Holds a B Licence. Bought an Auster B.4 just over twelve months ago. Member of several flying clubs, English and Scottish.’

  ‘What reason did he give for wanting an aircraft like the B.4, classified as Light Transport?’

  ‘He’s an antique dealer. Makes frequent visits to the continent. Flies home the antiques he buys as a matter of economy.’

  ‘Well—well,’ murmured Biggles. ‘That could be true. But there was nothing antique about those fish. This time yesterday they were swimming. Where does he keep the Auster?’

  ‘At home. He has a private landing ground. Why all the clubs, I wonder?’

  ‘To enable him to top up his tanks at any time without question. He couldn’t do the double journey without refuelling. I’d say he flies to Scotland in daylight, refuels, collects the fish and then flies them straight home. It looks as if Sinclair was right. This is his bird.’

  ‘How are we going to catch him?’

  Biggles grimaced. ‘Now you’re asking me something. We’ve no charge against him at this end. There’s no law against transporting fish by air. But the first thing to do is confirm that’s what he’s doing. One sniff in the machine should be enough.’

  ‘We might do that tomorrow night.’

  ‘The machine won’t be there. You haerd what the car driver said. He’s bringing another load in tomorrow. We’ve got to catch this fellow in Scotland, with the fish on board, and to do that we’ve got to know where he lands.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Difficult, but not impossible. I can think of two or three ways to do that. We’ll try the easy one first. There should be a route map in that aircraft, and I have yet to see a map used regularly by a pilot that doesn’t show marks indicating the objective.’ Biggles looked at his watch. ‘It won’t be light for another hour and a half. We might just do it. Put a torch and the skeleton keys in your pocket and let’s get cracking.’

  It was grey dawn when the car reached Bardswell House and having overshot the entrance a little way pulled in on the grass verge. They jumped out. There was not a soul about. From the top of a gate Biggles surveyed the scene. ‘I can see the hangar to the right of the house,’ he announced. ‘It’s som
e distance from it.’ He jumped down. ‘Come on. If anyone stops us we’re looking for mushrooms.’

  Nobody did stop them, and within ten minutes they had reached the objective. The keys were not needed, for the door was open. Inside stood the plane. There was nobody there. ‘Keep watch,’ said Biggles, and went in.

  Ginger watched the footpath leading towards the house with some anxiety, for he realized they were taking a chance. He could hear Biggles moving about inside the hangar. Nobody came near.

  When, a few minutes later, Biggles joined him, he was smiling. ‘Okay,’ he said softly. ‘I’ve got the gen. The engine’s still warm. Tanks nearly empty. The hold stinks like a fishmonger’s shop. Antiques, eh! Let’s get away.’

  ‘What’s the drill now?’ asked Ginger, when they were back at the car.

  ‘I’m going to Elgin to see Sinclair. I shall send Algy down here to watch this place and phone me at Sinclair’s office when the plane takes off. Once we know it’s on its way we can make the necessary arrangements.’

  ‘Do you know the landing ground?’

  ‘I think so. I found the map I expected to find and a compass course is still pinned to the instrument panel. Amazing how careless people get when they think they’re so smart that there’s no danger.’ Biggles started the car and drove off.

  It was just after lunch when they walked into the Scottish Fisheries office at Elgin to find Mr Sinclair at his desk talking to a man whom he introduced as Captain Mackenzie, factor of a big estate through which flowed the River Findhorn.

  ‘Well, did you catch them?’ asked Sinclair, a trifle cynically.

  ‘Not yet,’ answered Biggles. ‘But we will. That’s what I’ve come to see you about.’

  ‘The devils must have made a big haul last night,’ said Sinclair bitterly. ‘Captain Mackenzie tells me that when anglers arrived on their beats this morning there were dead and dying fish all over the place.’

  ‘So they raided the Findhorn?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘I saw the fish arrive in the market. You were right about the plane. I’ve seen it. Apparently there were more fish than could be carried in one load so it’s coming back tonight for the rest. The gang must have got them hidden somewhere.’

  ‘We saw no car on the road,’ said Sinclair. ‘We were watching the Spey. We can’t be everywhere. There was a rumour the gang was going to work the Spey.’

  ‘I told you to ignore these rumours,’ said Mackenzie. ‘They’re started by the poachers to put you off the track.’ He turned to Biggles. ‘If you saw the plane why didn’t you seize it?’

  ‘Because there was nothing I could do about it in England. In any case, I’d rather you dealt with the whole bunch under Scottish law. It seems to be more effective than in England, where I’m afraid poaching is still regarded as a trivial offence. The ideal thing would be to catch the plane with the fish on board and confiscate it. Aircraft being the price they are that would hit the ringleader where it hurts most.’

  ‘Who’s the ringleader?’

  ‘The man who owns the plane, I imagine. He’s also the pilot. He has relations who are wholesalers at Billingsgate.’

  ‘Are you sure the plane is coming back tonight?’

  ‘I have reason to think it is. I shall know for certain before the day is out. I have a man watching it, and if it leaves the ground he’ll ring me here. Can you lay on enough men to grab the whole gang?’

  ‘I could if I knew where the plane was going to land to collect the fish.’

  ‘Do you know of a place called the Culbin Sands?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Of course. Everyone here knows them. We’ve good reason to know them.’

  Biggles looked mildly surprised. ‘Why?’

  ‘That sand, millions of tons of it, was thrown up by a storm, years ago, to cover some of the finest wheat-growing ground in the United Kingdom. The land has never been reclaimed.’

  ‘Then there’s plenty of it?’

  ‘Miles of it.’

  ‘Does it happen to be near the Findhorn?’

  ‘That’s where the Findhorn flows into the sea.’

  ‘Ah! Is this an open expanse of sand?’

  ‘More or less. Couch-grass has been planted to hold down the sand to prevent it from encroaching inland. Back from the foreshore the Forestry Commission have planted trees for the same purpose.’

  ‘Could a plane land there?’

  ‘I’m not a pilot, but I’d say without difficulty,’ answered Sinclair. ‘Is that where the plane lands?’

  ‘That’s where it landed last night, and where, I think, it will land again tonight, to pick up the remainder of the fish killed last night. How many men are there likely to be in the gang?’

  ‘Five or six at least. Probably more.’

  ‘Can you lay on enough men to deal with them? I mean, I can’t do anything although I hope to be there. You’ll have to handle the arrests, and the subsequent procedure, yourself.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ said Sinclair, grimly. ‘Some of my bailiffs who have been beaten up have been waiting for this moment for a long time.’

  ‘So have some of my gamekeepers and ghillies,’ put in Mackenzie.

  ‘All right,’ said Biggles, smiling. ‘I’ll leave it to you. Give the gang a chance to get the fish in the plane. Then I’ll have a look at it and so be available for evidence should you need it.’

  The telephone rang. Sinclair picked up the receiver, listened, and handed it to Biggles. ‘For you,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Biggles here,’ announced Biggles. ‘Okay, Algy. Good work. See you sometime tomorrow.’ He hung up. ‘The plane has just left the ground,’ he told the others.

  ‘Why so early?’ asked Sinclair.

  ‘Because it can’t do the two-way journey without refuelling. I imagine the pilot will get within easy distance and then, having filled his tanks, sit down on some club airfield until it’s time to move in. Well, there we are, gentlemen. All you have to do now is get your men in position and bide your time until the plane lands and the gang rolls up with the fish. Don’t be in a hurry. Remember, you want that plane and I want you to keep it, so give it a chance to get some fish on board before you make your grab. What time do you reckon to leave here?’

  ‘About six. That should give us time to get everything lined up before the plane arrives. We haven’t far to go.’

  ‘Can you find room for me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Fine. Meantime we’ll go and have something to eat. See you later.’

  ‘If this comes off,’ said Ginger, as they went out into the street, ‘these fish poisoners are going to have an awful shock.’

  ‘Don’t fool yourself that it’s going to be easy,’ replied Biggles, seriously. ‘Have you ever seen Highlanders fighting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You will,’ promised Biggles. ‘And when you have you won’t forget it.’

  Ginger squatted on a tuft of rough grass in a slight hollow and gazed across a cold expanse of sombre sand to a lonely sea beyond. Nearby sat Biggles, Mr Sinclair, and a police sergeant and a constable with the uniform Scottish check bands round their caps. They had all been sitting there for some time, since seven o’clock, in fact, when they had put the car that had brought them to the Sands out of sight in a firebreak in the Forestry plantation. Somewhere near at hand, waiting in the dunes, were other groups— gamekeepers, ghillies, water bailiffs and the like.

  Ginger was beginning to get anxious. He hoped that there had been no mistake, for after laying such a trap they would look silly if it failed to work. A slight breeze had sprung up and it was getting chilly, too. The long stretch of sand, without a soul in sight, without a light, looked a picture of utter desolation. The only sounds were the murmur of an ebbing tide and the occasional cry of a seabird.

  In spite of the discomfort he must have dozed, for he came to with a start when Biggles said quietly, ‘I hear a car.’ Then, ‘Here they come.’
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br />   At first Ginger could see nothing, the reason being, as he presently discovered, because he was looking in the wrong direction. Then he made out a vehicle, which he presently recognized as a Land Rover, creeping cautiously along the inner fringe of the hard sand straight towards them. For a minute this had him worried, for if the car held to its course they would be seen whether they moved or not.

  ‘Now you know why you didn’t catch the car on the road,’ Biggles told Mr Sinclair softly. ‘That Rover doesn’t need a road.’

  Then above the slight noise made by the progress of the car came the purr of a light aero engine on half throttle. The car stopped at once. Men got out of it. There was a mutter of conversation. A torch, with the beam upturned, was waved. The aircraft engine died to an occasional splutter. For a few minutes this was the only sound. Then came the soft whine of a gliding plane. Its bulk loomed like a great bird over the pallid sand. Its four wheels touched gently and it came to a stop. Again the torch flashed and a touch of the Auster’s throttle took it alongside the car. The ignition was cut and the airscrew came to rest. The pilot jumped out. Dark figures moved between the car and the plane. The big rear loading door of the aircraft was opened.

  For a minute Biggles did not move. Then he got up. ‘Okay,’ he said quietly. ‘That’s long enough. Let’s see what they’re doing. Don’t blow your whistle until they spot us.’

  They walked briskly towards the two vehicles, and, oddly enough, they were not seen until the last moment. There was a sudden cry of alarm, and an instant afterwards Sinclair’s whistle split the silence. Men rose up from the dunes and closed in at a run.

  ‘Make for the plane,’ Biggles told Ginger, crisply. ‘We mustn’t let it get away.’ He dashed forward to the near side of the cockpit.

  Ginger was making for the other side with the object of getting in front of the machine, but hearing the engine start he jumped in through the rear loading door, which was open, to skid and fall flat on a mass of fish. As he slithered about on the slippery mess trying to get on his feet a fist struck him squarely in the face and knocked him backwards out of the machine on to the sand. Before he could pick himself up somebody tripped over him, and falling on him crushed most of the breath out of his body.