53 Biggles Chinese Puzzle

by Captain W E Johns

  Ginger went to the phone and put through the inquiry. The Bank has no record of anyone of that name,' he reported presently, hanging up.

  'We're getting on,' remarked Biggles. 'We know now that Mr. White had no authority to be in France. In those circumstances he would hardly be likely to present himself to the officials at any airport in this country. If he did he would have to show his passport; and a passport shows how much money one is entitled to take out of the country. In this case it was none. Of course, the name on the passport might not have been White; but that would make no difference; the Currency Control people would still want to know how he got seventy-five thousand francs. We can now take it that White never had the slightest intention of going to Liverpool.'

  'Okay,' agreed Ginger. 'So White was phoney. Where was he going?'

  'I don't know; but it looks as if he intended to keep clear of Customs airports. A licensed pilot wouldn't risk his ticket or his machine, much less his neck, by landing anywhere else. How otherwise could White get down? There's only one way. By parachute.'

  'He might have arranged with the pilot to let him jump,' suggested Ginger.

  'In which case the pilot would then have returned home. The machine didn't get home.

  Why? Obviously, because something had happened to prevent it.'

  'You think White intended from the start to go to Scotland?'

  'It begins to look like that,' averred Biggles. 'We know that district where this piece of rag was found. It's ideal for a jump. There isn't a house, much less a village, for some miles. It's mostly open moor with a little natural timber here and there. Was it by pure chance that the man dropped there, or did he know it? It so happened that the brolly fouled a tree. Proceeding along this line of surmise we must ask ourselves, what did he do next? Where did he go? He certainly went somewhere. As he was obviously working on a carefully prepared plan we can assume that he had an objective. How did he intend to reach it? Roads and railways being few and far between he would in any case have to walk some distance to reach transport of any kind.'

  'Having gone to so much trouble to get to Scotland he may have stayed there.'

  'All right. But there's a lot of room in Scotland. Did he stay in the district or did he go somewhere else? Did he walk to the nearest railway-station or had he arranged for road transport? No public services would be operating at the hour he must have jumped. But we shan't answer these questions sitting here, so let's slip up in the Proctor and see what we can make of it on the spot.'

  Three hours later, the police Proctor, at five thousand feet, heading for Dalcross airfield, was over the wide, rolling, heather-clad wastes, dotted with an occasional stand of pines, that lie between the Spey and the Moray Firth. The river, winding through its broad strath with the little Speyside railway that keeps it company, was below. Filling the distant horizon ahead was the sea.

  'It must have been in one of those clumps of trees down there that the keeper found the rag,' observed Biggles. 'The nearest road — in fact, the only road — is the one that crosses the open moor from Forres, up north, to that village beside the river. What's the name of it?'

  Ginger, who was sitting with the map on his knees, answered: `Knockando.

  There's a railway-station there.'

  'The man who parachuted down here must have made for that road, no matter whether he intended going to the station or to look for motor transport.

  By the time he got to it, it would be daylight, so somebody must have seen him. In lonely country like this a stranger is soon spotted. We'll get a car at Forres and come back over the ground.'

  'Are you going to call on the keeper?' asked Ginger.

  'I don't think so. He's already told all he knows. I want to find out, if possible, how our parachutist left the district.'

  Biggles landed at Dalcross. An airport car took them to Forres, from where, in a hired car, they returned to the wide open spaces which they had surveyed from the air. 'It'd be hard to find a more ideal spot for a para-chute jump,' remarked Biggles. 'Look at this road. Not a house or a tree for miles. I still suspect our unknown visitor chose it deliberately.'

  'Which means that he must have had some knowledge of it.'

  'Of course.'

  Biggles drove straight to the little Speyside station of Knockando. The station-master, who was porter, booking-clerk and everything else, was there. Biggles, introducing himself as a railway inspector checking tickets, asked the man if he recalled selling a ticket to a stranger on the first train on the vital Tuesday. The answer was no. In fact, the station agent said he hadn't sold a ticket to anyone. He hadn't seen a stranger. He knew everyone up and down Speyside, and had there been a visitor about he would have heard of it. Indeed, the man was so emphatic that Biggles regarded him with mild astonishment. see you take an interest in strangers,' he remarked.

  'Aye, and good reason,' was the curt reply.

  As they went back to the car Ginger smiled, realizing that they themselves were strangers. wonder what he meant by that,' he said.

  Biggles shrugged. 'It seems our parachutist didn't go by train.'

  'He might have gone to another station.'

  'Why should he walk several miles? It wasn't necessary. Once on the ground, he must have felt safe. No. Had he intended to go by train he would have made for the nearest station. If he didn't go by train he must have used a car.

  There's nothing else. That's assuming he left the district. Let's go and have a word with the policeman.'

  They found the constable just in from his round. He had seen no one he did not know, either on the night of the landing or afterwards. He seemed to share the railway man's suspicions of strangers; so much so that Biggles' curiosity prompted him to ask why.

  'Maybe you London fellers think people like me have an easy time of it here,' was the answer. 'Well, we don't. We work day and night. What with people breaking into the distilleries for whisky, gangs netting the river for salmon or poaching the deer, we have to keep our eyes open for strangers, and for strange cars.'

  'Have you seen a strange car lately?' asked Biggles quickly.

  'No. But if you want to know about cars go and see Captain Mackenzie.'

  'Who's he?'

  'He's in charge of the river watchers here for the Spey Fishery Board.

  Gangs come from as far afield as Glasgow these days, to net the salmon.

  No car gets in and out of this area at night without its number being taken. Motor cycle bailies keep an eye on strangers.'

  'That's useful,' said Biggles. 'Where does Captain Mackenzie live?'

  'The Grey House, on the Grantown Road.' 'Thanks,' returned Biggles.

  'We'll go and have a word with him.'

  In half an hour they were with the Fishery Board official.

  'Yes, cars are my headache,' he told them. 'There's no other way for poachers to get about with their nets, and carry home perhaps twenty or thirty fish. It's the cars we look for. We check everyone in and out of this area at night. Of course, my watchers, who are posted with motor cycles at strategic points, know all the local vehicles.'

  'Could you tell me what cars were on the roads between three a.m. and seven, a week last Tuesday?' asked Biggles.

  'Easily.' The official reached for his records. 'There were four,' he announced. 'Gordon's van went through from Elgin. Pickfords went through to Grantown. Only cars. Smith — he's one of our local farmers, crossed the bridge; on his way to the sheep sale at Perth, I suppose. The other was Mrs. Williams. Her Austin went out just after two in the Forres direction and came back a little before five.'

  'Is she local?'

  'Yes. Englishwoman. Lives on Strathspey, near Tomindalloch. Took Dalglennie House about two months ago. Nice young woman. Drove her car up from London.' The official smiled. 'She's not likely to worry me,' he concluded, his mind apparently still running on his job, which was the prevention of salmon poaching.

  'Has this lady a family?'

  'I don't think so. She's a wido
w, I believe, and as far as I know she lives alone.'

  'I see,' said Biggles, getting up. 'Well, thank you very much, Captain Mackenzie. You've been most helpful.'

  'That seems to settle the car question,' remarked Ginger, when they were outside.

  'I'm not so sure of that,' replied Biggles, as he drove off. 'Two in the morning seems a funny time for a young woman, living alone, to go out.

  What could she have been doing on that lonely road to Forres ? We'll go and have a look at this house, Dalglennie. We may be wasting our time, but I'm more than ever convinced that the man who jumped out of that aircraft had transport of some sort. Mrs Williams' car was apparently the only one on the Forres road at the critical time. In fact, it was the only car out in this district without a reasonable purpose. We might as well probe all the possibilities while we're here. This village we're coming to must be Tomindalloch. Hello! there's an Austin - outside the grocer's. London registration. Could be Mrs Williams doing her shopping.

  We'll see.'

  Biggles pulled up outside the shop, which, like many village shops, was also the post office. Leaving the car they went in to find a good-looking young woman giving her grocery order. They turned over some miscellaneous newspapers until it was completed when the shopkeeper wished the lady a polite 'Good morning, Mrs Williams.'

  As the woman went out Biggles faced the man. 'We're from London,' he announced. 'As you may have heard, a number of mail-bags have lately been stolen and we're checking up on registered parcels in this district.

  There was one I believe for a Mrs Williams about a fortnight ago. Was it delivered?'

  'That's the lady who's just gone out,' volunteered the shopkeeper. 'Yes, she got the parcel all right. I can tell you that without looking at my book. She happened to be in the shop when the London mail came in, so she took it with her.'

  'Good,' returned Biggles. 'Thank you. That's all I wanted to know. Good morning.'

  As they got back into the car Biggles was smiling faintly.

  'Judging from the quantity of groceries the lady was buying she seems to have a healthy appetite,' he re-marked. `Her name must be Williams, anyhow. Let's see where she lives.

  She went this way.'

  'You seem particularly interested in her.'

  'I'm more interested in the car, since it's the only one that came across the Forres road on the night, and at about the same time, that somebody arrived by air.'

  A drive of a mile took them to the house, a well-built cottage standing in a pleasant garden a little way back from the road. The name was on the gate. The Austin stood by the front door. Biggles drove past and allowed the car to run to a stop in the deep shade of some trees a short distance beyond. Watching the house he lit a cigarette. Presently the woman they had seen in the shop came out and started unloading from the Austin the groceries she had bought. In this she was joined by a man, dressed in old tweeds, who walked with a pronounced limp. A stubble of beard covered his chin.

  'Seems that the lady doesn't live alone after all,' observed Biggles dryly. I thought she was buying a lot of food for one.' He looked at his watch. 'Time's getting on. We'd better head back for Forres or we'll be late for the evening meal.'

  'And then what?' asked Ginger.

  'We'll waffle back to London in the morning and see what news they have there,' decided Biggles.

  It was nearly noon the following day when, back at Scotland Yard, on their way to Headquarters, Biggles knocked on the door of Inspector Gaskin's office and walked in.

  'Don't bring any more bad news to me,' growled the Inspector. 'I've plenty to go on with.'

  'Shan't keep you long,' promised Biggles, soothingly. 'The Air Commodore was telling me about a London bank cashier named Lynsdale bolting with fifteen thousand of the best.'

  The Inspector glowered. 'All right. Don't rub it in.' 'I take it you haven't found him?'

  'Lost him at Marseilles. He's at the other side of the world by now. He had it all nicely planned.'

  'The queer thing is,' said Biggles evenly, `no matter how well a job is planned, something usually gets torn to let the cat out of the bag.'

  'Nothing got torn in this case,' stated the Inspector shortly.

  'Oh, yes it did.'

  'What?'

  'This.' Biggles tossed the piece of fabric on the desk. 'Tell me,' he went on, Is that the Lynsdale file on your desk?'

  'It is. And I'm sick of looking at it.'

  'Did he by chance associate with a woman named Mrs Williams?'

  'Yes. Sister. A widow. She used to keep house for him.'

  'Left him a couple of months ago. Am I right?'

  The Inspector's eyes opened wide. 'How did you know?'

  Biggles ignored the question. Was Lynsdale ever in the R.A.F.?'

  'He was.'

  'Served on one of the airfields in north-east Scotland, perhaps.'

  `Dalcross. Bomber pilot. Who told you all this?' Biggles smiled. 'A little bird. Would I be right in saying he walks with a limp?'

  'Broke a thigh in a crash and was invalided out. You've been looking at this file!'

  'Better still, I've been looking at Lynsdale,' stated Biggles, his smile broadening at the expression on the Inspector's face. 'He's growing a beard, so you may find him changed a bit.'

  'Do you mean he didn't sail on that Portuguese ship from Marseilles?'

  'I don't see how he could have done. At the moment he's living with his sister at a nice little place in Morayshire called Dalglennie House, near Tomindalloch. I fancy you'll find the missing notes there.' Biggles held up the parachute fabric. 'Also the rest of this.'

  'What is it?'

  'The thing that got torn to let the cat out of the bag. Let me have it back for my collection of criminal curiosities when you've finished with it. So long.' Leaving the Inspector looking dazed they went on to Headquarters.

  'Well?' greeted the Air Commodore, smiling. 'Did you find our mysterious night-bird?'

  'Yes,' answered Biggles inconsequentially.

  The Air Commodore's expression of gentle banter switched to one of amazement. 'You did?' he ejaculated. Biggles nodded.

  'Who was it?'

  `Lynsdale, the missing cashier.'

  'How on earth did you work that out?'

  'No trouble at all,' replied Biggles, pulling up a chair. 'Strange how so often the most difficult-looking jobs turn out to be the easiest.

  Lynsdale made a plan that must have looked fool-proof, but he made one fundamental error - one that anybody could have made. He assumed - as indeed we did - that the district into which he proposed to jump was perfect for the job. Actually, he couldn't have chosen a worse place.

  Anywhere else and I doubt if a piece of rag in a tree would have attracted attention. Admittedly that was an accident; but in a thinly populated district where anything in the slightest degree unusual excites curiosity, it was fatal. To look down on those lonely moors from above, as Lynsdale had, one might suppose them to be asleep. On the contrary, they're very much alert. Salmon and deer poaching is now big business, with the result that strangers are regarded with suspicion and cars moving about at night come under closer observation than would be possible in an urban district.' Biggles reached for a cigarette.

  'From the start I thought there was something fishy about Lynsdale's effort,' he went on. '

  That trail he left to Marseilles was a bit too easy to follow. Why change notes at a travel agency where a record would be kept? How did he get a big bundle of notes through Customs? Actually, he had more sense than to try. Keeping only enough for his immediate purpose he posted the rest to his sister, in Scotland, who was waiting for them to arrive. He then blazed a trail to Marseilles and doubled back to Paris, homeward bound.

  Naturally, he daren't show his passport anywhere; but he had it all arranged. As he was able to fly, all he needed was an aircraft and a parachute to get where he wanted to go. Having chartered a plane in the name of White he had to get rid of it, and the pilot. Somewhere ov
er the Midlands he must have knocked the unlucky pilot on the head and gone on to Scotland. Having got to his objective, where his sister was waiting with a car, all he had to do was turn the nose of the machine towards the North Sea, set the controls for level flight, and step overboard with his brolly. The aircraft, running out a fuel, would crash in the sea and disappear without trace. A clever but dastardly piece of cold-blooded murder.

  His sister had got the new home ready, and there, no doubt, they reckoned to live in comfort without any more money troubles. That's all. I've told Gaskin.'

  'In which case they won't live in comfort much longer,' said the Air Commodore grimly. '

  Good show. You deserve a lunch for that. Let's go round to the club.'

  6

  THE CASE OF THE MISSING CONSTABLE

  BIGGLES was scanning the daily batch of aviation press cuttings as Ginger handed them to him, in the Scotland Yard office of the Special Air Police, when Inspector Gaskin walked in.

  'Morning, Inspector, how's life?' greeted Biggles cheerfully, without stopping what he was doing.

  'Grim,' replied the Inspector gloomily, sinking into a chair and thumbing his pipe.

  'What's on your mind?'

  Òh, it's this missing policeman affair. The news-papers have started the usual scream about inefficiency. What do they think we are — conjurers?

  The Daily Courier has offered a thousand pounds for the body, dead or alive — as if that'll help.'

  'They don't seriously expect it to help. A reward keeps public interest alive, and the police on their toes, which is good for everybody. Be a joke if someone knocked 'em for a thousand! If it was in my line I'd have a crack at it.'

  'That's what I was thinking. Since you've been at the Yard you've developed a knack of spotting something the rest of us miss.'

  'I've only glanced at the case. There's no air angle to it, is there?'

  'There's just a chance there might be, although I'll admit I can't see how. A plane has been in the habit of landing near the place where the officer must have disappeared.'

  'By night?'

  'No. Only by day.'