50 Biggles and the Pirate Treasure

by Captain W E Johns

  Biggles lit a cigarette and settled down to listen.

  The Air Commodore began: 'The case opened with an accident, a fortunate one for us. It seems that the sector of Germany over which Major Booth has control is heavily wooded, and some of the local lads are rather given to poaching game. Being near the zonal demarcation line it must be a dangerous pastime, but apparently it goes on. One night recently a low-flying aircraft must have mistaken the poachers' torches for signal lights on the other side of the frontier, for it dropped a small packet which was picked up by two German youths, who, with commendable common sense, and perhaps hoping for a reward, took it to Major Booth's headquarters.'

  'Sure, and it was some reward they got,' muttered the American grimly.

  The Air Commodore continued: 'The package contained a micro-film of what seemed to be scientific plans and formulae, prefixed by a cypher written in ink on the film. Major Booth, perceiving the significance of this, took a statement from the Germans and phoned his Zonal Headquarters for instructions.'

  The American again interrupted. 'You must understand that they were slow on the long distance line; very slow. Maybe I was slow, too, not to realize that there was something phoney about such a long delay.'

  Raymond resumed. 'Major Booth was ordered to hand over the message on the film to his own decoding department and then wait for a special scientific investigator from Bonn. This man arrived so soon afterwards that Major Booth became suspicious. When the special investigator demanded the micro-film Major Booth said he would fetch it himself from the decoding department. He went off, leaving the investigator alone with the two Germans. Actually, what the Major did was phone back to his headquarters. He was told that their man couldn't possibly have arrived.

  From this it became clear that the telephone had been tapped — or at any rate, the Major's report had been overheard — and an enemy agent was now at work.'

  The American stepped in again. 'We were in the thick of an epidemic of

  'flu at the time, and down to half our normal office staff.'

  'When, with an armed guard, Major Booth returned to his office,'

  continued the Air Commodore slowly, 'the bogus investigator had disappeared. The two Germans were still there. They were dead, having been shot by some sort of gas pistol.'

  'And the film?' interposed Biggles.

  'We still have it. Had Major Booth returned alone to his office with it, no doubt he would have been shot too, and the enemy agent would have got what he really came for. But it didn't work out that way. The plans have now been identified with the atomic sub-station at Heatherstone Moor, in Scotland. The written message simply said that more messages would follow. I will now ask Professor Frail and Colonel Barclay to give you their angle.'

  'No plans or documents of any sort are missing from Heatherstone Moor,'

  said Professor Frail, shortly.

  'Hard as it is to believe, we are forced to the conclusion that the plans were copied by someone who had access to them,' said Colonel Barclay.

  Biggles put a question. 'I take it there's no possibility of an outsider breaking in and copying the plans without taking them away ? '

  The Professor shrugged. 'It's hard to imagine how anyone could get in.

  While the thing is in doubt my department remains under a shadow.'

  'Of course, Heatherstone Moor isn't Harwell,' explained Colonel Barclay.

  'I don't suppose a dozen people outside those employed there know of its existence. We satisfied local curiosity by labelling the place a salmon breeding research station — suggested by the fact that a stream passes close to the buildings.' He handed Biggles a photograph which he took from his briefcase.

  Looking at it Biggles asked: 'What actually goes on at Heatherstone Moor

  ? '

  'Purely theoretical calculations in connection with the synthetic production of certain radio-active elements. Figures that cannot be discussed even in this office,' declared Professor Frail.

  'I see you have the latest type of man-proof wire fence,' observed Biggles, his eyes still on the photograph.

  'Naturally. And we have, of course, the usual security precautions, including an X-ray plant for examining all staff before they leave the building. It's an embarrassing business but there it is. No one objects.'

  'How far is the stream from the buildings?' Biggles asked.

  Professor Frail made a gesture of impatience. 'Really, I can't see that this is getting us anywhere. I have urgent work waiting for me. I suggest we go to Heatherstone immediately, where Doctor Mills, my assistant, can deal with these routine questions.'

  'Have you a landing ground at Heatherstone ? ' asked Biggles.

  'Yes. It was one of the reasons why the site was chosen.

  To get there any other way would be a slow business. The place is in the remote Highlands.'

  'I'll fly you up if you like.'

  'Very well.'

  'Just one other question,' persisted Biggles. 'Is there anyone - other than people like gamekeepers and forestry workers - living in the vicinity ? '

  'Only the man who owns the fishing rights of the river on the lower part of the moor,'

  volunteered Colonel Barclay. He went on: 'As a matter of fact we've checked up on him pretty exhaustively because he's of foreign extraction and owns an aircraft - although of course, he never comes near our establishment.'

  'What's he doing with an aircraft ? '

  'He uses it to deliver salmon, and game in season, to the big London hotels. Several people are doing that, cashing in on areas which by ordinary transport would be too far from the London markets. His name was Felceman. Since becoming naturalized he's changed it to Felce. He had a very good war record with the Free Czech Air Force.

  Anyway, he never comes near us so we have nothing against him.'

  'Still, an aircraft so near you must necessarily be an object of some suspicion,' remarked Biggles.

  'We thought it seemed a bit too obvious,' opined Barclay. 'I mean, if the man was up to any funny business he'd hardly invite suspicion by parking a plane so close to us.'

  Biggles nodded and turned to the Air Commodore. 'I take it that it's all right for me to fly these gentlemen back to Heatherstone Moor, sir ? '

  'Certainly.'

  The American stood up. 'Well, I wish you luck. There's a transport leaving for Berlin at noon so I guess I'll take it. I hope, Inspector Bigglesworth, that you catch your fish.'

  'I'll take a net,' answered Biggles, smiling, as he shook hands.

  Before touching down inside the formidable man-proof fences of the Heatherstone Establishment Biggles added some mental pictures to the photograph Professor Frail had shown him. He noted a little footbridge over the stream below the entrance gates.

  Beyond it the moor stretched away to distant skylines, lonely and utterly deserted except for a group of isolated buildings which he assumed to be those of the commercial sportsman Felce, or Felceman. A large shed was obviously his hangar.

  Circling low before coming in to land he noted, too, that a concrete gatehouse, the only entrance to the establishment, screened the footbridge from the view of anyone in the main building.

  A little group of people came out to meet the aircraft, among them a dapper little man whom Professor Frail introduced as Doctor Mills, the Deputy Director.

  Smiling, and obviously anxious to be agreeable, Dr. Mills turned out to be a pleasant contrast to his rather taciturn superior. Indeed, the whole atmosphere relaxed when the professor, after explaining the purpose of Biggles's visit, went off to attend to some urgent business. After a short talk with Mills Biggles said he'd like to take a stroll round the whole place, on his own; which he did, walking down the stream as far as the footbridge where he spent a little while. He then returned to the main building, where he rejoined Doctor Mills, who conducted him on a tour of the Establishment.

  This inspection, which occupied some time, yielded nothing beyond a rather uncomfortable atmosphere of suspic
ion, which, in the circumstances, was perhaps to be expected. In so-called 'laboratories,'

  which looked more like futuristic counting houses than anything else, the scientists and mathematicians to whom Biggles spoke seemed to regard each other with cold disfavour. He realized the reason for this, of course.

  The responsibility for safeguarding the secrets of the Establishment rested on the shoulders of everyone who worked in it, and one of them, obviously, had broken faith.

  As Doctor Mills put it, after they had rejoined Professor Frail in his private office: '

  Everybody is so much under everybody else's eye that it seems impossible to suspect anybody. Wherefore we must either suspect everybody or nobody.' He pointed to a miniature camera mounted on a stand, and added:

  'The copies could have been made in this room. At least six people have keys, apart from the Chief.'

  Colonel Barclay, who was present, explained: 'You see, Bigglesworth, in an establishment of this kind, where it is impossible to keep secrets in watertight compartments, we rely mainly on sealing off the whole building from the outside world.

  The grounds are patrolled day and night. No one can pass the gatehouse, either in or out, without being checked, and everyone, including myself and Doctor Mills, must be prepared for search and X-ray screening when, going out.'

  'Have you any theory about this matter, Inspector Bigglesworth ? ' asked Professor Frail curtly.

  'Yes — but it is only a theory,' answered Biggles. 'Well? What are you going to do ? '

  Biggles spoke apologetically. 'I'd like to see every member of your staff who had access to this office during the period when the plans must have been copied. I'll see them together. You might call them in now.'

  Professor Frail opened his mouth as if to argue, but thought better of it. Instead, he picked up his inter-com telephone and gave the necessary order.

  Biggles leaned back against the window while, with a subdued murmur along the corridor, the room filled with people. The black-coated figures had the air of gathering storm clouds.

  The professor tapped his desk with a pencil, and through an uneasy, almost hostile silence, announced: 'Gentlemen, this is Inspector Bigglesworth from Scotland Yard. I need not waste time explaining his errand. We are all aware, painfully aware, of it.

  Inspector Bigglesworth will speak to you.'

  Unlike most of those present Biggles presented an untroubled face, but when he spoke there was a hard edge on his voice. 'As Professor Frail has already remarked, gentlemen, this is a painful situation. It could hardly be otherwise, for outside personal considerations the country is faced with a grave threat. In plain English, what has happened is, someone in this room has copied certain plans for transmission to a potential enemy.'

  A murmur of protest broke out among the scientists, but Biggles stopped it with a movement of his hand. 'Until the culprit is found, as he will be, you are all under suspicion, and that, for those of you who are innocent, is a horrible state of affairs. But how can it be otherwise?

  Now before

  I do anything else I am going to ask the guilty party to end this lamentable episode by coming forward. Meanwhile, no one will leave the station. It is now six o'clock. The man responsible for this has four hours to think it over. At ten o'clock we shall meet here again - unless, of course, my appeal is answered before then. Work can now proceed as usual. That's all. Thank you, gentlemen.' Biggles went out of the room followed by a buzz of indignation.

  As he walked through the bleak corridors towards the exit he was wondering if the trap he had set would work, for it was one of the oldest in the history of detection. What he had actually done, of course, was put up a bluff in the hope that the guilty person would either strike at him or make a move that would give him a lead. Not for a moment did he suppose seriously that the traitor would confess.

  He had nearly reached the guardhouse when Colonel Barclay overtook him.

  'Just a minute, Bigglesworth,' he said. 'It may or may not mean anything but I have just learned from one of my scouts that Felceman has been working all day on his Moth. It struck me that he might have been fitting long-distance tanks - or something. He might even be getting ready to move off for good.'

  'I was just going over to have a word with him,' replied Biggles.

  'And I thought you might like to see this,' Colonel Barclay handed him a photograph. '

  Taken just after the war. When I was checking up on him I got a copy from the portrait he submitted with his application for his pilot's licence.'

  Biggles looked hard at the photograph and handed it back. 'Thanks,' he said, and after showing his pass at the gate, walked on.

  Darkness was closing in as he made his way along the bank of the stream to the footbridge. Reaching it, he sat down and smoked several cigarettes thoughtfully, by which time it was quite dark. Then, getting up, he manipulated cords attached to either side of the handrail and pulled in a fine nylon net which he had set on his visit to the spot three hours earlier. He was not thinking of salmon as he drew it in. In fact, he was by no means confident that he would catch anything. But on his first sight of the photograph of the Heatherstone Moor sub-station, when Professor Frail had shown it to him at Scotland Yard, the thought had struck him that the stream was a ready-made line of communication from the Establishment to the outside.

  As he searched through the rubbish that his net had caught - indeed, all the while he had been waiting - he was preoccupied with something else.

  The photograph of Felceman.

  He knew he had seen the man before, but he was some time working out where the meeting had occurred. Then he remembered . . . the lone Spitfire beset by half a dozen Messerschmitts. He had gone to the rescue.

  He and the unknown pilot had fought their way out of the scramble and later landed on his own squadron airfield. There the stranger had thanked him, his foreign accent thickened by emotion and excitement. 'You save me that time, sir. They come too many for me, these Boches.' Biggles had never learned the man's name. Indeed, he had forgotten the incident until the photograph recalled it to his mind.

  His soliloquy ended abruptly as his questing fingers closed over a small, smooth, very light object. Removing

  the weeds that clung to it he dried it on his handkerchief, when, in the light of a match, it was revealed to be a cylinder the size and shape of a shaving stick. Unscrewing the cap he drew out a piece of paper. He was afraid the message would be in code, but it was in clear English. He smiled grimly as he read: 'Be careful. A Scotland Yard man is here. He may visit you. If trouble, liquidate him and follow emergency routine.

  Bring the last consignment. Acknowledge receipt of this by switching lights as usual.'

  Biggles re-read the message, replaced it in the container, screwed on the cap, threw it back into the stream and watched it go on its way as lightly as a cork. Then he lit another cigarette and settled down to wait for the message to reach its destination.

  The lights were on in Felceman's hangar. He kept his eyes on the yellow square. Time dragged interminably, but still he watched. Then, at long last, came the signal that the message had been received. The hangar lights blinked off and on again. The signal, Biggles did not doubt, had been watched for with equal anxiety by a pair of eyes behind a window of the research station.

  He set off across the moor towards the hangar. He was puzzled. Why, he wondered, had FeIceman turned against the country which, during the war, he had risked his life to serve? There was something wrong about that, somewhere, he decided. Still, he would soon know the answer.

  As he drew near the hangar the clink of metal on metal became audible.

  Following this came the staccato chatter of an electric riveter.

  Evidently Felceman was still busy.

  Taking advantage of a lull in the noise Biggles rapped on the transit port of the main doors, which were closed. The only reply was a further tattoo on the riveter. He waited a moment, then pushed open the port and stepped throu
gh.

  The hangar was brightly lit. The sound of the riveter came from under the Moth's engine cowling, which was open. Too late he saw it had no operator. A hard object pressed into the small of his back. 'March, mister,' said a voice.

  Biggles walked forward. A switch clicked on the wall behind him and the chatter of the riveter stopped.

  'I hear you knock, so I walk round from other side,' said the voice.

  'I thought it might save us both trouble if I walked in,' explained Biggles. 'Do you mind if I turn round ? ' Without waiting for an answer he turned, and as they faced each other he heard Felceman catch his breath. 'Remember me?' asked Biggles quietly.