Biggles Presses On

by W E Johns

  The Auster glided towards it.

  ‘I can see it,’ snapped Biggles suddenly, turning on a wing tip and putting his nose down for speed. ‘It’s gone again,’ he muttered savagely. ‘It seemed to burst out of the cloud and come straight for us; then, as if the pilot had spotted us, it turned away and vanished as if it had dissolved into thin air. Am I going crazy? Did you see anything?’

  ‘Only a light on the ground. A queer blue light, brilliant. I was looking down, as you told me. It caught my eye and I was wondering what it was, when, just as you said “It’s gone” it went out. Could it have been a signal of some sort?’

  ‘Did you mark the spot?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘All right. You watch while I do a long glide, hoping the operator won’t hear me. If the light comes on again pinpoint it.’

  ‘Okay!’

  For some minutes the Auster glided on, making a wide flat circuit. Then Ginger said tersely: ‘There it is! No, it’s gone. But I’ve got the spot.’

  ‘Good,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘I have a feeling that we’re more likely to find the answer to this riddle on the ground than in the sky. I’ve had enough for one night, anyway. I’m going home.’

  The following morning saw a police car cruising along one of the many quiet roads that cross the Weald of Kent.

  Presently Ginger, who was surveying the landscape, said: ‘This is about the spot. I marked the junction of this S bend with the lane that cuts across it from north to south. There’s a pond in the corner.’

  ‘In that case, if the light was being shown from a house, it can only be this one we’re coming to, on the left. There isn’t another.’

  The house to which Biggles had referred was one of those pretty old-fashioned cottages, or perhaps two cottages knocked into one, which, restored and installed with modern conveniences, are no longer occupied by the farm labourers for which they were originally intended. A fairly extensive garden was separated from the road only by a well-trimmed thick-set hedge, beside which Biggles brought the car to a halt. Getting out, with Ginger beside him, he walked back a little way to a wicket gate and looked over. This is what they saw.

  Beside the house was a lawn, badly in need of a mower. Beyond it, the ground fell away to offer a clear view for miles over the peaceful countryside. On the far side of the lawn a young man, untidily dressed, was doing something with a tarpaulin which obviously covered a thing of some size.

  ‘That’s it,’ murmured Ginger. ‘I’d say he’s got a searchlight under that cover.’

  ‘Let’s see,’ said Biggles, opening the gate.

  The young man looked up with a smile as they approached. ‘Good morning,’ he greeted cheerfully. ‘Can I help you? You’ve lost your way, I expect. That’s very easy about here.’

  ‘No,’ answered Biggles smoothly. ‘We haven’t lost our way.’ He pointed to the tarpaulin. ‘What on earth have you got under there—a gun or something?’

  The young man laughed. ‘Nothing so hideous. It’s my latest toy, one which, I hope, will revolutionize the film industry.’

  ‘I see,’ said Biggles slowly. ‘I take it you’re an inventor?’

  ‘Of sorts,’ agreed the young man lightly.

  ‘And what’s the latest device?’

  ‘A long range 3-D projector for open-air cinemas. People will be able to sit in their cars quite a distance away and see the show. Like the modern searchlight my projector throws no beam—just the picture. Of course, it can only work at night,’ the young man went on, with the enthusiasm of one who is pleased with himself.

  A curious expression crept over Biggles’ face. ‘And at the moment you’re experimenting with it?’

  ‘Yes. When the weather is co-operative.’

  ‘Don’t you use a screen?’

  ‘I shall eventually. Just now I’m having to be economical, so I’m using something that costs nothing—the clouds. If you care to run down tonight I’ll show you.’

  ‘And the film you’re using just now shows an aeroplane?’

  ‘Of course. An old piece of newsreel some friends in the industry let me have.’

  ‘Why do you say, of course?’

  The young man looked pained. ‘My dear sir, what else would you expect to see in the sky but aeroplanes? I only work after most people have gone to bed, but even so, someone might happen to glance up. He wouldn’t be surprised to see an aeroplane, but if he saw men on horses charging about on the clouds it might frighten him to death. With all this talk of space flight he’d think the Martians were on the way here.’

  Biggles looked at Ginger, a smile spreading over his face. Turning back to the young man he went on: ‘Has it never occurred to you that you might be frightening people in the clouds to death? I mean air pilots.’

  The young man stared. ‘No. Why should an aeroplane frighten them? They see plenty.’

  ‘But not the one you’re showing. You see, it doesn’t exist in reality. It was destroyed years ago. Its crew perished with it, which gives its reappearance a somewhat sinister aspect.’

  ‘How dreadful. Do you know,’ said the young man seriously, ‘I never thought of that possibility.’ He frowned. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘We’re police officers investigating the phenomenon.’

  Understanding dawned in the young man’s eyes. ‘I am most frightfully sorry. Have I broken the law?’

  ‘No, I don’t think you have,’ admitted Biggles. ‘Laws are not made to stop something that never happens, and as far as I know what you’re doing has never happened before. But to prevent the possibility of an accident, due to a pilot losing control trying to avoid collision with another aircraft which may or may not be there, I think you should either buy yourself a screen or notify aerodromes of the nights you propose to launch your ghost plane in the sky.’

  ‘I’ll certainly do that,’ agreed the young man. ‘Sorry to have caused trouble. Come in and have a cup of coffee.’

  ‘Thanks,’ accepted Biggles. ‘Ghost hunting is dry work.’

  [Back to Contents]

  MISCHIEF BY MOONLIGHT

  ‘Listen to this.’ Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth glanced up from his desk in the Operations Room where he was opening the morning mail. Then, from a sheet of note- paper, he began to read.

  ‘“Five Elms Farm, Shingleton, Suffolk.

  “Dear Sir:

  “You may remember me—Corporal Norden, Driver Petrol, who served in your squadron during the War. I am now back at the family business of farming, at the above address.

  “Seeing in the paper the other day that you are now head of the Air Police, I thought I’d drop you a line to let you know that something queer in the flying line is going on here, on my land. As it’s rather a long story I think you’d better run down and see for yourself. Fly down if you like; there’s plenty of room to land, as someone else has discovered. I’d come to see you, but at the moment I’m single-handed and am busy with the lambs.

  “Yours respectfully,

  “John Norden, ex-R.A.F.

  “P.S. I attach sketch map showing my place and the landing ground.”’

  ‘I remember Norden,’ said Ginger. ‘Nice chap. Intelligent type.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘His flying experience might put him on the track of something an ordinary man might miss. It’s a fine day. Let’s waffle along and see what it’s all about. Get the Auster out.’

  In a little over half an hour the Police Auster, after circling the conspicuous group of tall elms from which the farm obviously derived its name, touched down on the big pasture that had been marked on Norden’s sketch map; and by the time the occupants were out the ex-airman was striding across the short turf to meet them.

  After greetings had been exchanged Biggles inquired: ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Come over here,’ requested Norden, and led the way to the far side of the field. In front, now, looking towards the east, the land lay flat for perhaps three-quarters of a mile. For half that distanc
e the ground was well-cropped pasture; it then gave way to coarse grass, marsh and reeds. Beyond this the North Sea sparkled in the clear spring sunshine. The only building in sight was a derelict windmill, one tattered arm pointing at the sky.

  Said Norden: ‘You see that stick in line with the old mill, near the edge of the rushes. I put it there a couple of days ago to mark the spot where a plane landed during the night. It wasn’t the first time, either. But I’d better start at the beginning. One day in February, about daylight, I took my gun and walked down to the marshes hoping to get a duck for the pot. The ground was white from a sharp frost, so every track, rabbits and so on, showed up plainly. What do I find but the wheel marks of a plane.’

  ‘You’re sure it was a plane?’ put in Biggles.

  ‘It couldn’t have been anything else,’ declared Norden. ‘The tracks began and ended in the field, so whatever it was must have dropped out of the sky. Well, I didn’t think much about it. After all, the air is stiff with planes nowadays. I thought a plane had landed with engine trouble, or maybe an instructor had been giving a pupil forced-landing practice. There are plenty of aerodromes in the county.’

  ‘You’ve never actually seen a plane land on your ground?’ queried Biggles.

  ‘No. They come pretty low at times but, as you see, this is a lonely spot, and the only harm they can do is scare my stock. Well, as I was saying, I thought nothing of it; but a month later the same thing happened. As before, it was the frost on the ground that showed up the marks.’

  ‘Do you mean it was exactly a month?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Yes. I know because the moon was full. But the plane could have landed at other times without me knowing anything about it.’

  ‘You didn’t sit up to watch for it?’

  ‘Not me. I’ve something better to do. But two nights ago, again when the moon was full, I heard the plane land. I got up hoping to get a glimpse of it, but by the time I got here it had gone. As soon as it was light I had a look round, but all I could find was a little patch of oil that must have seeped from the engine. I stuck my stick in it—where you can see it now. I’m getting fed up with people using my ground for an aerodrome without paying landing fees, so I thought I’d drop you a line.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘Quite right. It’s pretty obvious that dirty work is going on. Aircraft still occasionally make forced landings; but for that to happen three times at the same place doesn’t sound like an accident to me.’

  ‘Nor me,’ rejoined Norden. ‘I thought of stretching a wire across the field to trip the blighter up, but then I realized I might kill a chap making a genuine forced landing.’

  ‘I suppose it didn’t occur to you to measure the width of the landing track? That might identify the type of plane.’

  ‘No. I was slow, there,’ admitted Norden ruefully.

  They walked on to where the stick stood erect in the ground. The oil stain could still be seen, but wind and rain had obliterated any other marks there might have been.

  ‘What do you make of it, sir?’ asked Norden, as Biggles surveyed the surrounding landscape thoughtfully.

  ‘Not much. If landings are being made here it means that someone, or something, is being put down, or picked up. It might be anything from enemy agents to contraband. We know it goes on. That’s why there’s an Air Police force.’

  While Biggles spoke Ginger had been circling the spot with his eyes on the grass. Suddenly he stooped and picked up an object so small that Biggles had to ask what it was.

  ‘You’d never guess,’ replied Ginger, with astonishment in his voice. ‘It’s a postage stamp—a used early Australian. Been in an album, too. It’s still got the mount on it. How on earth did that get here?’

  ‘It’s hardly the place to bring an album,’ answered Biggles, a curious expression on his face. ‘Maybe a schoolboy dropped it from an approval sheet.’ He took the stamp, looked at it, and put it carefully in his wallet. Then, turning to Norden, he went on: ‘Do you ever use the old mill over there?’

  ‘No. It’s falling to pieces. I haven’t been in it since I was a kid. I believe the Home Guard used it during the war for a look-out post in bad weather—so my mother told me.’

  ‘Let’s have a look at it,’ suggested Biggles.

  They walked on, to find the old building in an even worse state of dilapidation than was apparent from a distance. A track, much overgrown, gave access to it from the far side. Entering it, Biggles looked askance at the crumbling steps that led to the upper part; then, treading warily, he led the way up to a small octagonal chamber well festooned with cobwebs.

  Ginger looked around. There was not much to see. Anyway, he could see nothing of particular interest. There were two windows. Over one, facing inland, hung a piece of black material which he took to be a war-time blackout curtain. The other overlooked the sea. The glass was filthy. The middle pane was missing. ‘Nothing much here,’ he observed.

  ‘I didn’t expect to find anything very exciting,’ returned Biggles. ‘A modern smuggler would have more sense than to leave his visiting card,’ he murmured whimsically. ‘As there’s nothing more we can do here we might as well be getting back to headquarters. Should there be any more landings before you hear from me again, Norden, you might ring me up at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I will,’ promised the farmer, as they descended.

  ‘By the way,’ concluded Biggles, pointing to the track, ‘do you ever use this?’

  ‘No. It hasn’t been used since the mill was closed, as far as I know,’ replied Norden, as they walked on towards the Auster.

  ‘What’s the next move?’ asked Ginger, when, shortly after lunch, they returned to Biggles’ office.

  ‘The next move, I think, is to find out how much this stamp you found is worth.’ Biggles laid the stamp on his blotter.

  ‘That shouldn’t take long,’ averred Ginger, reaching for a well-known catalogue and quickly thumbing the pages. He whistled softly. ‘Well—well—well ... I did find something,’ he announced, wide-eyed. ‘The book value is seven hundred pounds. Only a few examples are known to exist.’

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ acknowledged Biggles, dryly. ‘Now you might call Inspector Gaskin and ask him if he would be so good as to step up here for a minute.’

  Presently the burly Inspector strode in. ‘What’s on your mind?’ he demanded.

  ‘Have you any record of valuable postage stamps going astray recently?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Too true I have. Nice little lot worth five thousand quid disappeared with the family silver and jewels from Nutsford Grange a week or two ago. Neat job. Not a trace. Can’t get a line on the stuff at all. Colonel Rushby, who owns the Grange, is kicking up about it, too.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘I’ve been down there on the job.’

  ‘You might ring him up and ask him if his collection included an early olive green Australian catalogued at seven hundred pounds and, if so, would he describe the mounts he uses for his albums?’

  The Inspector threw Biggles a queer look, but knowing him he put through the call.

  The others waited. Biggles lit a cigarette, watching the Inspector’s face while he spoke.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said the Inspector at last, and hung up. He looked round. ‘Yes, he had one of those stamps,’ he announced, ‘and he uses a thin oval mount that he cuts himself.’

  Biggles pointed to the stamp on his desk. ‘Then that must belong to him.’

  Gaskin sprang to his feet. ‘Where the deuce did you get that?’

  Biggles grinned. ‘Believe it or not, Ginger picked it up this morning in a field in Suffolk.’

  ‘Where’s the rest of the collection?’

  Biggles shook his head sadly. ‘Ah! There you have me. But I have reason to suppose that it’s somewhere in Europe, probably broken up.’

  ‘But how came that stamp in the field?’

  ‘Sit down and I’ll tell you,’ answered Biggles, and related the events of th
e morning. ‘What I suspect is this,’ he concluded. ‘You’ve got a new kind of “fence” to deal with; one who has realized the possibilities of an aeroplane for moving stuff abroad without irritating Customs formalities. In a word, there’s a shuttle service working across the North Sea. The end of it over this side is on Norden’s farm in Suffolk. It’s perfect for the job. As far as this particular stamp is concerned, I can only imagine that it came unstuck and somehow worked its way out of the bag, or whatever the swag was being carried in.’

  ‘How are you going to get this racket buttoned up?’ inquired the Inspector.

  ‘Obviously we shall have to be on the spot next time the plane lands.’

  ‘And when will that be?’

  Biggles walked over to the calendar. ‘May the seventh, I fancy. Would you like to come along with us, bringing one or two of your strong men? I don’t know how many we shall have to deal with. Probably not more than one or two, but maybe more. We could all go to the farm together.’

  ‘You lay it on, I’ll provide the men,’ promised the Inspector, as he left the room.

  After he had gone Ginger looked at Biggles in amazement. ‘How did you work all that out?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘You saw what I saw, and heard what I heard.’

  ‘And what was that?’

  ‘According to Norden the first time the plane came was the night of a full moon. The second time it happened was exactly a month later. You may remember I confirmed that. Obviously the moon was again full. The last time, two nights ago, the moon was also full. From that it seemed that the plane came once a month, always on the night of the full moon. Such a fixed arrangement would be understandable. It would save letters, telegrams or telephoning, which might be dangerous.’

  Ginger nodded. ‘I get it. And the next full moon will be May the seventh.’

  Biggles grinned. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘And what about the mill?’ asked Ginger, suspiciously.