"That's what I'd like to know," replied the Air Commodore grimly. "I mean, I know what'
s happened. I want to know why. This is the story as it has been given to me. Two days ago a gillie out watching deer was caught in a sudden fog—a not unusual event—and sat down to wait for it to lift. Sitting there he heard an aircraft flying low. Then he heard it crash. Taking a chance of losing his way, he made for the direction of the sound. He found the machine in flames. He couldn't get near it so he set off down the mountain to fetch help. The police at Aviemore phoned the Air Ministry.
There was nothing particularly remarkable about this. It's happened before, and will happen again while pilots try to take short cuts through clouds that have rocks in them. The Cairngorms are liable to get in the way of anyone flying below five thousand feet.
"The usual procedure was taken. An R.A.F. Alpine Rescue Squad went up. By the time they got there the fire was out. Luckily there had been rain so the heather was wet, otherwise the whole area would have been burnt out.
The machine was a single-seater, so there was only one body in it, burnt, as usual, beyond recognition. We now come to the mystery. No machine has been reported missing. The R.A.F. had only a few machines out on that day and all returned safely to base. Airline operators don't use single-seaters, so they don't come into it. Every private owner has been contacted and accounted for.
The problem that arose, therefore, was where did this machine come from where was it going, and who was flying it ? The Air Ministry Inspector of Accidents sent a man up to look at it. He's just back, and all he's done is put an even more sinister aspect on the thing." The Air Commodore took a cigarette from his case.
"This man states that the machine is of no type known to us. That in itself is a staggerer, although, of course, there's just a chance that he is in error, as would be understandable owing to the state of the crash.
Apparently this unknown pilot flew head-on into the side of the mountain with results that you can well imagine. All that's left is a tangled heap of scrap. The fire did the rest."
"What about the engine ? " put in Biggles. "That would still be in one piece and it should tell us something."
"Believe it or not, the Air Ministry has been unable to identify it. All we know is, it's a twelve cylinder, air-cooled radial that probably developed something in the order of a thousand horse power. Judging from what remains of the tanks it must have carried a big load of fuel. A long range job, obviously. But even on the engine it hasn't been possible to find a mark or a number."
Biggles looked incredulous.
"You might well stare," said the Air Commodore.
"It must have been a special job for secret work, or possibly a prototype that never went into production," opined Biggles. "Even so, you'd think there would be a mark somewhere."
"The rest of the story tends to confirm that it might have been a special job for top secret work," went on the Air Commodore slowly. "The officer from the Accidents Board found in the wreckage a lump of metal which, although it had been melted by the heat to an
irregular mass, he could not place as a component part of either the airframe or engine. It was as heavy as lead, which again seemed odd, because you don't find lumps of lead incorporated in an aeroplane, in which lightness is an important factor. He brought this metal down with him. It has just been identified, and when I tell you what it is, you'll believe me when I say that the atomic research people, and their security guards, are fairly rocking on their heels."
" What is this stuff? "
"Uranium."
Biggles let out a low whistle. "Suffering Icarus ! That certainly is a bone-shaker. Have our atomic people lost any ? "
" No."
"What about America ? "
"We're in touch with them, but so far we haven't received a reply. The stuff was certainly stolen from an official source somewhere because it's virtually impossible for a civilian to get hold of any."
"This lump must be worth a lot of money."
"It is, but the intrinsic value is secondary. It's the fact that an unauthorised person was flying across this country with a quantity in his possession that has sent the balloon up."
"What has happened to the body ? " asked Biggles. "It was brought down, and was buried today in the nearest churchyard."
"And there was absolutely no clue, nothing in the pockets, that might give a line even to the man's nationality ? "
Nothing. Only one thing remained in his clothing that was not destroyed by fire ; but it was not without significance. It was a Luger automatic pistol. It had been loaded, but the cartridges had exploded in the heat.
Respectable peace-time pilots don't carry automatic weapons."
"Quite. He was ready for trouble apparently—but not the sort he met."
Biggles tapped a cigarette slowly on the back of his hand. "Just what do you want me to do about this ? "
"I want you to find out who this man was and where he was going."
"That's a tall order, with only a charred corpse and some buckled longerons to work on."
"Had it been a simple one, it's unlikely that the case would have been brought to us,"
averred the Air Commodore, a trifle bitterly.
Biggles thought for a minute. "Tell me this," he requested. "Are these Alpine Rescue fellows still on the spot ? "
"Yes. They're standing by waiting for orders." "The Air Ministry will be in touch with them by
radio, I imagine ? " ,c
"Then for a start, will you ask the Ministry to tell these chaps to stay where they are until I get there, after which they must be withdrawn. I shan't need them. If that signal can be sent in code so much the better.
There's just a chance someone else may be listening."
"I'll do that."
"One other point. Has this story got into the newspapers? "
"Not yet, but the evening papers have got hold of it and they are putting out a story about an aircraft, at present unidentified, crashing in the Cairngorms."
"They're not saying exactly where in the Cairngorms?"
"No. They don't know."
"Then I'd like them to."
The Air Commodore looked rather surprised, but he agreed. "All right. If that's how you want it I'll arrange it. I'll let them know that the crash lies halfway up the western slope of Ben MacDhui."
"You can also tell them that the body has been brought down and the guard withdrawn."
The Air Commodore's eyebrows went up. " Why ? " Biggles smiled. "Just a little idea of mine. I suppose it isn't difficult to spot the crash ? "
"The wreckage is scattered over half an acre." Biggles got up. "Okay, sir. I'll see what I can do about it."
"Don't be too long over it or I'm likely to lose my job," declared the Air Commodore, as he went out.
"Well, stuff me with suet pudding ! He doesn't want much," snorted Bertie, after the door had closed.
"I must admit this looks like a poser," admitted Biggles. "Well, let's get on with it. The first thing is to get to the crash."
But here, I say old boy, that means climbing up the beastly mountain,"
protested Bertie.
"I'm not climbing up any mountains," stated Biggles. "Ginger, ring Algy and tell him to have the Proctor ready to take off in half an hour, with three parachutes. He won't need one himself; he's Duty Officer so he'll have to come back. If we get cracking we should just be able to reach the objective in daylight."
"What's the idea ? " asked Ginger. "What are we going to look for when we get there ? "
"Nothing in particular," Biggles told him. "I hope somebody else will come looking for something, though —a lump of uranium, for instance. Get your brains weaving. This unlucky pilot wasn't just cruising about on his own account with a lump of atomic energy in his pocket. Unless I'm mistaken he was only the errand boy. Somebody, somewhere, was waiting for him. When he doesn't turn up that somebody is going to get worried.
When he reads in the papers
that an unidentified plane has hit the carpet in Scotland, he'
ll know, or he'll think he knows, where his precious lump of uranium is lying. What will he do ? I'll give you one guess."
"Go to look for it," answered Ginger promptly.
"Right first time," acknowledged Biggles. I want to be there when he gets there. Which is why, to save time, I asked the Air Commodore to tell him through the papers, just where the crash is lying. With a little encouragement this fellow may be induced to tell us what our security people must be panting to know—where the uranium started from and where it was going. Come on, let's get mobile. Bring your binoculars, Ginger.
We're going to the wide open spaces."
The sun was setting in a clear, windless sky, behind the rugged Monadhliath Mountains of Inverness-shire when the police machine arrived over the remains of the ill-fated aircraft which, lying in the middle of a blackened area of heather, were plain to see. The Proctor circled once, and then made a straight run at little more that stalling speed across the gently sloping flank of the mountain. In quick succession four objects dropped from its escape hatch ; first a large bundle, then three figures that were Biggles, Ginger and Bertie. As soon as Biggles, who had dropped last, had left the machine, the engine resumed its normal note and stood away to the south.
Ginger, after stumbling and falling in a sea of purple heather, picked himself up, stepped out of his harness, and turned to find himself the object of critical scrutiny by half a dozen stalwart young men in air force blue.
"Is that the way you usually get around ? " asked one, grinning.
"More or less," answered Ginger casually. "As in this case, it is sometimes easier than walking."
"Are you telling me ? " returned the Rescue man.
The arrival of Biggles on the scene put an end to facetious conversation.
"Who's in charge here ? " he asked briefly.
A corporal stepped forward. "I am, sir."
"I see. My name's Bigglesworth. Have you had a signal from the Air Ministry about me ? "
"Yes sir. I'm to take your orders," reported the corporal.
"They are quite simple," answered Biggles. "You can pack up and go home.
I'm taking over."
"That suits me," declared the corporal. "A couple of days here have been long enough."
"Did you bring a tent ? "
"No, we've made a rough bivvy by those big rocks." The airman pointed.
"Any rations left ? "
"Some tins of bully, biscuits, tea, sugar and condensed milk."
"Fine. You can leave them. I'll send a chit to the Air Ministry when I get back to say I took them over. Seen anybody about ? "
"Not a soul since the Accidents Branch officer departed."
"Okay. If you look lively you'll be off the hill before it gets dark."
The corporal turned away, and in a few minutes he and his crew could be seen striding down the hill in single file.
"And now what's the drill, old boy ? " asked Bertie.
"The drill is, for a start, you can go and collect the bundle of stores we dropped. It fell over there." He pointed. "Then we'll go and have a look at the corporal's bivouac, brew a dish of tea on the spirit stove, and keeping under cover make ourselves comfortable. We'
ll take turns at mounting guard. Those rocks seem to be just the right distance away from the crash.
No noise. Sounds carry a long way in This still air."
Biggles walked on towards the rocks, looking at the wreckage in passing.
"What a mess !
" he breathed. "That pilot couldn't have been very bright or he'd have known what was in front of him. Maps aren't expensive."
Ginger stopped to look at the spot where the unknown pilot must have been hurled from life to death in an instant of time without knowing anything about it. He gazed around.
Even on a summer evening, the landscape, with its brooding silence, was one of utter loneliness and mournful melancholy. The only sign of life was a grouse-cock sitting on a rock two hundred yards away watching him with deep suspicion. On three sides rose the purple giants of the Highlands, their outlines softened by distance and an imperceptible mist that had already filled the corries. Far below, the valleys were pools of sombre shadows. It was, he pondered, an appropriate setting for tragedy, and the vigil they were about to undertake.
Turning away he followed Biggles to the bivouac, which turned out to be no more than a flattened pile of heather in a slight depression with a primitive fireplace built of stones. A spring bubbled near at hand.
"When do you reckon this chap's likely to show up, if he's coming ? "
Bertie was asking.
"I couldn't guess," replied Biggles. "If he starts from somewhere close, he should be here fairly soon ; but he may have to come from the Continent. Be sure he'll get here as soon as possible because the longer the delay the greater will be the chance of someone finding the uranium.
He'll know where to come because the exact location of the crash must have appeared in the papers some hours ago. The question is, will he come by night or by day ? Both times have advantages and disadvantages. By night it would be more difficult to find the stuff, but by day there would be more chance of being spotted by someone. I'd say he'll try his luck in the dark. If he fails, then he'll wait for daylight. We'll take two-hour watches. There's nothing else we can do. The wreck can tell us nothing we don't already know. You'll take first watch, Bertie. Keep an eye on the skylines but don't show yourself." Biggles lay back and lit a cigarette.
Ginger awoke with a start and found himself in a world of blue moonlight and vague shadows. Biggles was squeezing his arm.
"What goes on ? " whispered Ginger, awake on the instant and remembering where he was.
" Ssh ! Someone's coming."
Ginger raised himself to a sitting position. " Where ?" "Can't see him yet. Twice a rolling stone has rattled on the scree below us."
"What's the time ? "
"Half-past one."
Nothing more was said. Ginger crouched beside Biggles. A yard away Bertie lay flat behind a stone. Several minutes passed in a silence that was profound. It was broken by a sudden whirr of wings as a brood of grouse hurtled past. Ginger didn't move, but his nerves grew taut as his eyes strove to probe the shadowy world in the direction from which the birds had come. What had disturbed them ?—a fox, a wild cat . . . or a man ?
It was a man. Presently he saw him, a mere outline against the colourless background, a silhouette that hardened as it drew nearer. Boots swished in brittle, sun-dried heather.
Then came the sound of heavy breathing as the figure, toiling uphill and at a distance of perhaps forty yards, suddenly altered its direction towards the scene of the fatal accident.
Now it was possible to make out a face, pallid in the moonlight.
Once the man stopped to gaze around, as if to make sure that he was alone. Then he went on again, quickly now, and presently the sound of metal scraping against metal told the watchers that he'd reached his objective and had begun his search. His purpose was no longer in doubt.
Biggles drew the others to him and cupping his hands round his mouth, whispered : "
Bertie, work round behind him in case he sees us and bolts. He'll run downhill if he goes.
Ginger, come with me. Keep close. No noise."
Fortunately the man himself was by this time making enough noise to drown the lesser sounds that their movements might cause.
Biggles crawled forward through the heather, feeling his way, stopping frequently.
Ginger followed in like manner at his heels. He couldn't see the man but he could hear him all the time as he searched within the charred and twisted wreckage. Nearer and nearer they drew, until they, too, were at the crash. And still the man was obviously unaware of their presence.
Biggles touched Ginger on the arm and pointed. Grasping the meaning of the signal, Ginger worked his way to the far side of the gaunt skeleton of what had been an
aircraft. Then came a pause.
It was broken in dramatic fashion. Biggles's voice cut through the hush like a whip-lash.
"Come out of that ! " he ordered.
A shuddering intake of breath told Ginger the extent of the shock the words infficted.
There was a wild rush as the man scrambled out on his side. "Take it easy
! " rapped out Ginger. The man spun round, and crouched as if to run ; but Bertie rose up from the heather and the man remained motionless. They all closed in on him.
Biggles spoke, and his tone was peremptory. "We're security police. Who are you ? "
Silence.
41 Biggles Takes The Case Page 4
