Biggles Presses On

by W E Johns

  Said Bertie looking at the picture: ‘What would a bloke do with a tiddler that size? It’s a bit on the big side for breakfast—if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I imagine the catches of these ardent anglers go to the fishmongers,’ answered Biggles. ‘We’ll go into that presently. Looking at the man in his town suit I’d never have guessed that his hobby was messing about in a little boat with big fish. The North Sea can be rough, and sailing, as far as my experience goes, a dirty, tiring game.’

  ‘You think he has another purpose besides fishing when he goes to sea?’ suggested Ginger, shrewdly.

  ‘I wouldn’t like to say that of a man with a clean record.’

  ‘He’s a liar on his own showing,’ reminded Algy.

  ‘If lying made a man a crook there wouldn’t be enough gaols to hold ‘em,’ replied Biggles sadly. ‘But let’s get on. One of you might step round to the head office of Customs and Excise and find out what happens when a small craft like the Scandik returns to port. Is it checked for contraband or do the people just tie up and go home? I’ll get the gen on this tunny business.’

  Ginger went off and was away for some time. ‘All craft landing are checked,’ he reported, when he returned. ‘At least a Customs officer is there. How far he searches depends on how well he knows the owner of the craft, and its crew. He may satisfy himself by simply asking questions. The Scandik has a crew of two. If we want to speak to the local officer his name is Mr. Bright. He wears uniform and probably knows the Scandik quite well.’

  ‘I see,’ said Biggles thoughtfully. ‘Just as a matter of curiosity the next time the Scandik puts to sea we’ll watch what happens. If Mr Bright knows Kindus well, and knows him to be a genuine fisherman, he, naturally, might gloss over anything like a serious search. If Lutenski’s tale is true, and I see no reason to doubt it, Kindus is importing furs under the canvas; and as he has a boat, that may be the way the racket is being worked.’

  ‘Even with a Customs officer watching?’

  Biggles smiled faindy. ‘Even with a Customs officer watching.’

  A fortnight elapsed before, on a Friday evening, Biggles was informed by Inspector Gaskin that Kindus had gone to Wivenhoe for the week-end. The next morning he received a message to say that the Scandik had put to sea on a fishing cruise and was expected back on Sunday evening.

  ‘This is what we’ve been waiting for,’ said Biggles. ‘Algy, take Bertie with you in the Auster, and without looking as if you were spying, see if you can pick up the Scandik. You know from the picture what it looks like. The tunny fishing game, as I understand it, is played like this. The regular fishing boats, boats of all nationalities as well as our own, follow the herring shoals. So do the tunny, which live mostly on herring. The result is, the tunny and the herring boats are found in the same area. The tunny fishers know that, so they, naturally, make for the place where the smacks are shooting their nets. I’m told that some of these netsmen are helpful to the rod fishermen, telling them if they’ve seen any tunny. But some are not, because they, too, want to catch the tunny, which are worth quite a lot of money.’ Biggles smiled. ‘There are rod fishermen who are not above buying a tunny from a fishing boat rather than return home without one. What I want you to do, Algy, is see if the Scandik makes contact with a larger vessel. And if that vessel is flying a flag try to make out its nationality. Report the position on the high frequency. We’ll stand by for signals. As soon as the Scandik starts for home you can pack up. Until then carry on, refuelling as it becomes necessary.’

  ‘Okay.’ Algy and Bertie went off.

  The first message came through during the evening. Bertie reported sighting the Scandik fifty miles off shore, fishing, about half a mile from a drifter flying the Latvian flag.

  ‘Ah-ha,’ murmured Ginger. ‘And Kindus a Latvian by birth. That’s no coincidence.’

  Biggles conceded that the proximity of the two vessels had a fishy aroma.

  At dusk Bertie reported that they were still in the same position, and as he would be unable to see much longer he was returning to base.

  ‘If contact is made between the two craft it will be after dark,’ asserted Biggles. ‘There’s no need for them to take chances in daylight.’

  Dawn found the Auster in the air again. Almost at once, Bertie, still acting as radio operator while Algy did the flying, reported the Scandik on a course for home. The drifter had disappeared.

  ‘Okay,’ said Biggles. ‘That’s all. You can pack up.’ To Ginger he went on. ‘Get the car out. We’ll run down to Wivenhoe and see what sort of luck Kindus has had at his fishing.’

  ‘I’d bet a week’s pay that he’s got a tunny on board,’ said Ginger pointedly.

  ‘I shall be surprised if he hasn’t got a fish of some sort,’ returned Biggles.

  It was late on the quiet Sunday afternoon when they saw the Scandik come chugging in to its mooring. Several idlers gathered to watch. A man in dark blue uniform arrived on a bicycle.

  ‘That must be Mr Bright,’ surmised Biggles.

  Even before the Scandik made fast interest quickened when it could be seen that on its deck lay a magnificent tunny of about six-hundred pounds. A tackle was necessary to hoist it ashore, Kindus superintending the operation. Unshaven and tousle-headed, in his fisherman’s get-up he bore little resemblance to the immaculate business man of Mayfair. The Customs officer spoke to him. One of Kindus’ men fetched a motor truck, obviously for the transportation of the fish.

  Biggles moved nearer. To Ginger he said in a low voice, ‘Take a look at its eyes. I’d wager that fish has been dead for a week. Kindus didn’t catch it. It was caught by the Latvians whom I’d say he met by appointment.’ He went to the head of the fish and pulled open the jaws.

  ‘What are you doing?’ demanded Kindus curtly.

  ‘I was wondering what sort of hook would be needed to hold a fish that size,’ answered Biggles evenly. ‘I don’t see a hook mark,’ he added casually.

  Kindus gave him a queer look. ‘Leave my fish alone,’ he snapped, and hastened the proceedings.

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Biggles. ‘I want to examine this fish.’ He showed his police badge. ‘Mr Bright, I’d like you to come here. I may need a witness.’

  A hush fell. Bright, staring, stepped forward. Kindus, his face suddenly pale, stood irresolute. ‘What—what’s the idea?’ he stammered. ‘What do you expect to find?’

  ‘You should know,’ answered Biggles, quietly, taking a heavy knife from his pocket.

  Kindus, his face ashen now, hesitated. ‘All right,’ he said in a shaky voice. ‘I give in. But don’t let’s have a scene here.’

  ‘As you wish,’ agreed Biggles. ‘Where would you have it?’

  ‘At my house.’

  ‘Very well.’

  The fish, now in charge of the Customs officer—who was looking more than somewhat shaken—was taken to the house. There, in an outbuilding, it was opened, and a collection of expensive furs, each one tightly rolled in oiled silk, removed.

  ‘Well, there you are, Mr Bright,’ said Biggles. ‘I’ll leave the rest to you.’

  ‘What beats me,’ said Kindus miserably, ‘is how you got on to this.’

  ‘If your Latvian friends who sold you the fish had stuck to common mink, bought in the open market, you might have got away with it for a long time,’ answered Biggles. ‘It was the eight cream skins you sold to Lady Branding that gave you away. They were stolen, and the rightful owner, Mr Lutenski, quite naturally, complained.’

  ‘I didn’t know they were stolen,’ protested Kindus.

  ‘You’d better save your explanations for the Court,’ Biggles told him.

  [Back to Contents]

  BIGGLES LAYS A GHOST

  Biggles walked into his office at Scotland Yard, tossed a sheaf of papers on his desk, dropped into his chair and stared moodily at the spiral of smoke rising from his cigarette.

  ‘Now what’s the trouble?’ asked Ginger, who knew the signs.

&
nbsp; ‘The chief wants to know when we’re going to do something about this ghost plane that’s giving pilots on the Paris run the heebie-jeebies.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him I didn’t believe in ghosts.’

  ‘What did he say to that?’

  ‘He said in that case quite a number of perfectly good air line pilots were all liars.’

  ‘It is a queer business,’ put in Algy. ‘The thing’s been seen five or six times.’

  ‘Tommy Thomson of B.E.A. saw it again last night, just after midnight, from the cockpit of a Viscount. I must admit that with ten thousand hours logged he’s not the sort of chap to invent such a yarn.’

  ‘What did he do?’

  ‘He radioed control and told them that a machine showing no lights was crossing his course at the same altitude; which, as you can imagine, didn’t please him at all. They told him not to be silly. He was on the radar screen and there wasn’t another machine for miles. Had there been they must have seen it.’

  ‘Of course they must have seen it. If it didn’t register then obviously it wasn’t there. Radar can’t lie.’

  ‘Tommy swears it was there. He saw it. He says he doesn’t imagine things and there’s nothing wrong with his eyes.’

  ‘What was the machine he saw?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘A Boeing B-17. The Flying Fortress. It carried American war-time markings.’

  ‘But that’s fantastic!’

  ‘He even took its name and number.’

  ‘Has that been checked?’

  ‘Yes,’ Biggles spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘American records show that that particular machine crashed in 1945, taking off with a load of bombs, killing its crew.’

  Ginger stared. ‘That’s pretty grim.’

  ‘Now you can understand how this talk about a ghost plane started. We’ve tackled some funny jobs, but this is the first time we’ve been asked to look for an aircraft which doesn’t exist.’

  ‘But if Tommy saw it, it must exist—unless there’s a mistake somewhere; in the American records, for instance.’

  Bertie stepped in. ‘This, I must say, is a bit of a corker.’

  ‘Such a corker that Tommy refuses to talk about it, taking the view that he’s made a fool of himself. The same with Marston, his co-pilot, who also saw the apparition.’

  ‘Did any of the passengers see it?’

  ‘Yes, but naturally they took it to be merely another aircraft. They wouldn’t suspect anything queer, and needless to say the company didn’t enlighten them.’ Biggles shrugged. ‘Well, there’s been a ghost ship—the famous Flying Dutchman—and a ghost train, so I suppose it was only a question of time before we had a ghost plane beetling about the sky.’

  ‘Has anything been said about this in the newspapers?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Not a word. You know how superstitious some people are. None of the operating companies wants to start a scare that might empty their machines, so they’ve clamped the lid on the story.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Algy thoughtfully, ‘there were rumours about ghost planes in the first World War. There was the R.E.8. that landed itself on the airfield at Cambrai.’

  ‘It had two dead men in it. They’d been shot. It was merely a fluke that the machine sat itself down.’

  ‘What about the machine Boelcke saw—one of ours. He could see no one in it. He followed it for miles, shooting until he had no ammo left. Finally, still flying straight, it disappeared in some clouds.’

  ‘That is, I believe, authentic,’ stated Biggles. ‘But I’d say the answer was the same. The crew had already been killed when Boelcke saw it. It happened that the machine was trimmed for level flight, so the chances are it would fly on until it ran out of juice. But let’s stick to the present.’

  ‘What about this?’ interposed Ginger, who had been glancing through the papers Biggles had brought in. ‘This French pilot, Varlac, says the machine turned suddenly and came straight at him. He put his hands over his face and waited for the crash; it never came; when he looked up there was nothing in sight. When he landed he had to be treated for shock.’

  ‘So would I.’

  ‘But that doesn’t sound as if the ghost is solid.’

  ‘No self-respecting ghost is solid,’ sneered Biggles.

  ‘Could this be some sort of reflection, old boy? Mirage, if you see what I mean,’ suggested Bertie.

  Biggles’ lips parted in a mirthless smile. ‘When machines that don’t exist start reflecting themselves in the sky I quit flying.’

  ‘But have you no theory at all about this?’ queried Algy.

  ‘Not a clue. Apparently the conditions have always been the same when the ghost showed up. It must be a very particular ghost. It requires a dark night, a low ceiling and a sky about half covered. Then, if it’s in the mood, it appears in the same area at the same time—just after midnight.’ Biggles’ tone of voice was still slightly cynical.

  ‘The right time for all ghosts that have been well brought up to appear,’ said Ginger, smiling.

  ‘If you can fly through this ghost without breaking anything I can’t see what all the flap’s about,’ observed Algy.

  ‘Maybe if you saw it bearing down on you, you would,’ returned Biggles. ‘Pilots don’t like this sort of fun and games so we shall have to do something about it—or pretend to. It’s going to be an awful bind drifting round the sky looking for something that isn’t there.’

  ‘What I want to know is this,’ resumed Bertie. ‘Do the engines of this winged spook make a noise or are they silent—if you see what I mean?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know, but the answer is probably yes, they make a noise,’ replied Biggles. ‘I say that because when someone produces a silent aero engine I shall know either I’m deaf or off my rocker. But the Air Commodore doesn’t see anything funny in this, so let’s press on. For a start I suggest you all sweat through these reports, combing out anything that strikes you as being worth following up. Muster the facts. Then we’ll look at them, and maybe someone will get an inspiration.’

  Nightly for a week the Air Police Auster had hunted the haunted area above the Weald of Kent without catching sight of the ghost, although, to be sure, the conditions had not been identical with those prevailing on the occasions of the manifestations. It was disappointing but, as Biggles remarked dryly, not surprising, for it was a fact well known that spooks never appeared when people were waiting to greet them. It was some consolation that the regular air line pilots hadn’t seen it either, which implied that the conditions had not been ideal.

  The vigil was becoming tiresome, even though Biggles had divided his force so that they could fly turn and turn about, for it was necessary to maintain constant radio contact with the control tower in order to prevent any risk of collision with air liners working over the route. The Control officers, knowing what the Auster was doing, had promised to warn its pilots the moment another aircraft appeared on their radar screen.

  On this, the seventh night, with Biggles and Ginger on the watch, weather conditions were the most perfect yet, judging from those reported by pilots who had seen the uncanny visitor. The air was clear, and almost still, with an occasional big cumulus cloud floating in from the west.

  Time passed, and at half past midnight it seemed that the Auster would again draw blank. Tired of the whole business, Biggles had in fact announced his intention of returning to base, and had cut his engine to glide away, losing height, when Ginger let out a yell.

  ‘There it is! Behind you!’

  Biggles slammed on the throttle and in the same movement spun the machine round almost in its own length. In a flash his nose was down and he was racing towards a big aircraft climbing across the face of a cloud a quarter of a mile away. In a matter of seconds he was on the spot, only to let out a startled cry as the machine, reaching the extremity of the cloud, disappeared as utterly as a pebble dropped in a bowl of ink. In vain he flew round and round the cloud, causing Ginger to say, wi
th marked anxiety, ‘Watch out you don’t collide with it.’

  For some time Biggles did not answer. Then he said, in a strange tone of voice: ‘Well, at least we’ve seen the thing. What did you make of it?’

  ‘It was an American Fortress.’

  ‘So I saw. Anything else?’

  ‘There was something queer about it, something unreal. It didn’t look—solid.’

  ‘You’re not trying to fool yourself it was a ghost?’

  ‘Er—no. But it did look ghastly. I’ll tell you something else. It sounds ridiculous I know, but I thought I caught a fleeting glimpse of a ground scene below the machine, the tops of hangars or some other buildings, as if it had just taken off. And as it left the cloud it seemed to bend, or crack, across the fuselage.’

  ‘Bend!’ Biggles’ voice nearly cracked with incredulity. ‘How could it bend? Did you ever see an aircraft bend?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nor I. And the ground. How could there be ground at this height? It doesn’t make sense to me.’

  ‘Nor me. But there’s nothing about this that does make sense.’

  ‘Ask the airport if they’ve had a blip other than ours.’

  Ginger complied. ‘Nothing,’ he announced presently. ‘We’re on our own. There isn’t another machine in the air at the moment this side of the coast.’

  ‘Now I know I’m nuts,’ muttered Biggles, bitterly.

  He began to circle. ‘You keep watch below in case it passes underneath us,’ he ordered.

  ‘Here comes another cloud. Maybe it’s hiding in that.’ Ginger indicated another cloud-mass that was drifting sluggishly across the sky at their own altitude, a newly risen moon outlining its edges in soft silver.