by W E Johns
“Sorry,” muttered the wing commander contritely, his eyes on Biggles’s face. “Sit down. Have a cigarette? What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for the Renkell prototypes,” answered Biggles bluntly.
“You won’t find them here,” asserted the wing commander. “They’ve gone—if they ever existed.”
Biggles looked up sharply. “What do you mean—if they ever existed? Are you suggesting that our Intelligence people were talking through their hats?”
“Er—no—not exactly,” answered the wing commander, awkwardly.
“Sounded like it to me,” returned Biggles. “Either the machines exist, or they do not. Intelligence say they do, and that’s good enough for me.”
“Okay. Go ahead and find them,” invited the wing commander. “All I can tell you is, there’s no trace of them here. We made a thorough search. First thing we looked for.”
“What about the workmen? What have they to say?”
“Most of them had gone by the time we got here. A few stayed on. I questioned them. They say they know nothing about such machines. They admit Renkell was working on new types, but swear they never got beyond the drawing-board.”
“What are these men doing now?”
“Just looking after things, presumably.”
“Who pays them?”
The wing commander raised his eyebrows. “I’ve never inquired. It’s no business of mine. The works manager pays them, I suppose.”
“Who pays the works manager?”
“How the hell should I know? I’ve never asked him. I’ve only spoken to him once. He told me they were turning over the plant to light plane production. He’s got a machine of his own in the shed—useful-looking job.”
“Then this chap is a pilot?”
“Yes. He served in the Boelcke staffel in nineteen-eighteen. Says he was too old for war flying in the last fuss.”
“What’s this man’s name?”
“Preuss—Rudolf Preuss.”
“What sort of fellow is he?”
The wing commander frowned. “Look here, Biggles, the Ministry told me to give you all the assistance possible, but aren’t you flogging a dead horse?”
“I’ve nothing else to flog at the moment,” answered Biggles imperturbably. “Tell me about this fellow Preuss.”
The wing commander shrugged. “He’s a typical square-head. Prussian, I should say. About forty-five—tall, flaxen, blue-eyed, stalwart type, has one of those aggressive moustaches. Efficient-looking bloke.”
“Where can he be found?”
“Either in the works, or in his office.”
Biggles rose. “I’d like a word with him. By the way, you haven’t mentioned to anyone why I’m here?”
“No.”
“Please don’t. You can give it out that I’m a British manufacturer with his technical staff having a look round for likely types to build under licence.”
“As you say. Like me to come with you?”
“That’s not a bad idea. You can introduce us. After that, leave the talking to me.”
The wing commander put on his cap and led the way to the Renkell works.
They found Preuss in his office, and saw at a glance that the wing commander had given a fair description of the man. His manner, when the introductions were effected, were curt to the point of rudeness, but Biggles took no notice. It was understandable. After an exchange of formalities Biggles asked, casually, “What happened to the two prototypes you had here?”
Preuss stiffened. “I have already made a report. There are no such machines,” he said harshly, in good English. “I am the manager. I should know.”
“What were you building when the war ended?” asked Biggles.
“Seeing the end of the war in sight, Herr Renkell was developing a civil type, in the light plane class.”
“In that case, why did Renkell leave?”
“He did not tell me,” sneered the German sarcastically.
Biggles nodded. “I see. We’ll have a look round while we’re here, if you don’t mind?”
“The works have already been examined,” said Preuss, in a surly voice.
“Look, Preuss, I understand how you feel about this,” replied Biggles quietly. “But I’ve come a long way, and I might as well see what there is to be seen. You can stay here and talk to Wing Commander Howath. We’ll find our own way round.” Biggles beckoned to the others, who followed him out into the corridor. He closed the door.
“Bad-tempered cuss,” muttered Algy.
Biggles did not answer. He had stopped before a door marked private. Under the word was the name, Kurt Baumer. “This must have been the test pilot’s office,” he said softly, as he tried the handle. The door opened and he went in.
There was little to see. It was evident that the room was no longer used. Only the furniture remained. The cupboard was empty, as was the locker. Biggles tried the desk. That, too, had been thoroughly cleared. The only paper in the room was in the waste-paper basket. Biggles emptied it on the desk and ran through the contents—one or two old newspapers, some blank forms, and a few odds and ends. Two screwed up pieces of paper turned out to be bills, both from tailors in Augsburg. Lying together were several snapshots of a Messerschmitt, in each case the same machine.
“That must have been Baumer’s war-horse,” observed Biggles. “That’s probably him in the cockpit, but it’s too small to give us much idea of what he looked like. I’ll keep one and have it enlarged when we get back. Hallo, what’s this?”
He had picked up another snapshot, this one a head and shoulders of a saturnine young man in Italian Air Force uniform. On the back a few words had been written in Italian. Biggles translated, reading aloud: “Souvenir of good comradeship, Libya, 1941. To Kurt, from his friend, Carlos Scaroni. Escadrille 33.”
“Hm. Baumer must have got thick with this fellow Scaroni when he was in Libya with Rommel,” went on Biggles. “It seems likely that they served on the same aerodrome, since they got to know each other so well. It may mean nothing, but we’ll remember it.” He put the photo in his pocket, swept the other papers into the basket and replaced it in its original position. “Now let’s have a look at the works,” he suggested.
When they entered the machine shop some half a dozen men were standing together, talking; they fell silent when the newcomers entered. Biggles nodded to them and then strolled on through the workshop, his eyes taking in every detail. There were the usual lathes and presses, but nothing unusual. He examined several of the presses. “These are all new jigs and patterns,” he said quietly. “It’s no use asking Preuss what they were using before these were put in. We shan’t find anything here—the place has been cleaned up. Let’s try the scrap-heap; there’s bound to be one. If I know anything about aerodromes it will be at the back of the hangar.”
Leaving the workshops they went on to the rear of the one large hangar, where, as Biggles had predicted, they found the usual accumulation of waste material—fabric, timber, and both sheet and tubular metal. Biggles turned over several pieces.
“Take a look,” he said grimly. “Nearly all this stuff has been flattened under a press. Why should they go to that trouble? You can guess the answer. Preuss is thorough all right, but here he has gone too far. The fact that he has been to the expense of smashing everything makes it quite certain that he had something to hide.” Stooping, he pulled out a flattened mass of tubular metal. “Straighten that out between you, and see what it looks like,” he ordered.
Leaving them to the task he went on delving into the pile, and presently drew out a short length of steel tubing that had escaped the press. Then a cry from Algy brought him round. Looking, he saw that the tubing had taken rough shape. It now formed the rough outline of a rudder. The shape was nearly oval.
Biggles whistled softly. “By thunder!” he exclaimed. “An oval rudder. That sailor who spotted the machine crossing the South Atlantic was right. This stuff must have been the original mock-up.1
All right. We’ve seen enough. Buckle it up and throw it back. Look at this piece of tubing I’ve found. No aircraft, even a heavy bomber, has longerons that size. It could only be one thing—a boom. This is a piece cut off it. That sailor was certainly right in his description. We haven’t wasted our time after all. One of those prototypes, if not both, crossed the Atlantic. Whether it’s still there or not is another matter. Let’s see what’s in the hangar.”
As they entered the big building, occupied by a single aircraft, a small civil type painted an ugly ochre yellow without registration marks of any sort, Preuss appeared, walking quickly. His face was slightly flushed.
“Hello, I thought you were with Wing Commander Howath,” said Biggles easily.
“He has returned to his office,” snapped Preuss. “This is not a military machine. It is a private plane. What are you doing?”
Biggles shrugged. “We’ve hardly had time to look at it. This is your machine, I understand?”
“Yes, it is mine,” assented Preuss in a hard voice.
“Mind if I have a look at it?”
“You won the war, so I suppose you can do what you like,” almost spat the German.
Biggles’s expression did not change. “Talking in that strain won’t help to mend our differences,” he said evenly. “If you must talk about the war, you should remember who started it. But let us not go into that.” He turned back to the machine. “This is one of Herr Renkell’s designs, I imagine?”
“What makes you think that?” asked Preuss sourly.
“Because designers tend to adhere to certain fixed ideas, with the result that their products usually have one or more features in common. That applies particularly to tail structures. One can tell who designed almost any machine by the shape of its tail—as you probably know. The rudder of this machine of yours is nearly oval. I gather that Mr. Renkell is partial to that shape?”
Preuss was staring hard at Biggles. “Where did you see one of Herr Renkell’s machines?” he inquired, with venom in his voice.
Biggles puckered his forehead. “I can’t remember. Perhaps someone described one to me.”
Preuss did not answer.
Biggles walked up to the machine, opened the cabin door and surveyed the interior. He invited the others to look. “You must admit that the Germans are thorough,” he remarked. “Take a look at that instrument panel. They’ve worked in every conceivable gadget. Roomy cabin, too.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You’ve installed a big petrol tank for a light plane, haven’t you?” he inquired.
“We take the view that long range will be demanded by private owners,” answered Preuss. “If one has to keep landing to pick up fuel, paying landing fees every time, private flying will be expensive.”
“That sounds a reasonable argument,” agreed Biggles. “Presumably you’re thinking of putting this type on the market?”
“After some modifications have been made,” returned Preuss. “As usual with a new type, there are teething troubles. The plane is still in the experimental stage. We are not ready to sell.”
Biggles nodded. “I see.” He closed the cabin door. “Let me know when you’re putting the machine on the market,” he requested.
“Very well.”
“Tell me,” went on Biggles, pointing to a name that had been painted on the engine cowling, “why did you call this machine Swan, and then paint it that dirty yellow?”
Preuss hesitated. “It can be painted any colour,” he answered.
“That’s true,” agreed Biggles carelessly. “Well, I think that’s about all. We’ll be getting along. Good afternoon, Mr. Preuss.”
The German bowed stiffly.
Leaving him in the hangar Biggles walked towards the control office. For a little while he was silent, deep in thought. Then he said, “There are points about that machine that excite my curiosity. To start with, if it was intended for a private owner, as Preuss asserts, the price would limit sales. I doubt if it could be turned out under a couple of thousand pounds, and not many people have that amount of money to spend on what is still a luxury vehicle.”
“The price could be dropped by discarding some of the equipment,” Algy pointed out.
“Then why install it in the first place?” argued Biggles. “What about that main tank? With all due respect to the plausible Mr. Preuss, few private owners would demand a range of two thousand miles. His argument about economy is the matter of landing fees is bunk. It would be cheaper to pay a landing fee here and there than haul that weight of petrol around. No, I can’t accept that.”
“What did you mean by that crack about the dirty colour?” asked Bertie.
“It would be hard to think of a more unbecoming colour for a private plane,” answered Biggles. “It was certainly not put on for appearance. If it was not put on for appearance then it must have been for a purpose. I can think of only one purpose. They painted planes, and tanks, that colour, for the Libyan campaign, to make them hard to see against the sand. Baumer served in Libya. Unless I’m mistaken we’re going to have desert sand gritting in our teeth before this job’s over. I’ll tell you another thing about Mr. Preuss’s Swan. With all that equipment he forgot something really necessary. Radio. Or did he forget? Did you notice the thickness of that bulkhead? Did you ever know a designer to pack in unnecessary weight like that? I never did. There’s something in that bulkhead. I should say it’s radio. Why hide it? There may be a good reason, but the one that comes to my mind is, because like everything else in that machine, it is a more efficient and expensive outfit than the type could possibly warrant. The more I think about it, the more convinced I am that that kite was never intended for the popular market. The original conception might have been—but not that machine.”
“You think Preuss is in the Gontermann-Baumer plot?” queried Algy.
“If he’s not actually in the scheme I’m pretty sure he knows where the missing machines are,” returned Biggles. “Gontermann and Baumer would need an inconspicuous communication aircraft to keep them in touch with things at home, and that bilious-looking Swan could do the job very well. It would be interesting to know, too, who is paying Preuss to keep the works running now the boss has disappeared. We’ll keep an eye on this bird.”
Biggles went into the office.
* * *
1 Before a new type of aircraft is built, a rough, non-flying, full-sized model is made from drawings, to give an idea of what the machine will look like, and to enable adjustments to be made, where necessary. This is called a mock-up.
CHAPTER IV
PREUSS PLAYS A CARD
THE Wing Commander was putting on his cap. “Find anything?” he asked cheerfully.
“Nothing to speak of,” answered Biggles cautiously. “What time do you usually knock off work?”
“About four-thirty. It’s that now. I’m just going.”
“Where are you staying?”
“I’ve got quarters in the town—at the Colon Hotel.”
“How about your lads, the care and maintenance party?”
“They live in billets round the aerodrome.”
“Do they knock off when you go?”
“Yes, usually.”
“I see. So after four-thirty there’s no supervision here?”
“That’s right. There’s really nothing for us to do, you know, now we’ve finished taking an inventory of the place. We shall probably be withdrawn altogether very soon. Are you chaps going back to London?”
“I haven’t made up my mind yet,” averred Biggles.
“There’s plenty of room in the hangars for your machines, if you want to stay.”
“Thanks. I’ll decide later. Don’t let us keep you.”
“All right. If you don’t need me I’ll push along. Leave the key of the office with the sergeant.” With a nod the Wing Commander departed.
“If we are going back to England we can just do it in daylight, if we start fairly soon,” Algy pointed out.
Biggles did no
t answer. He was staring through the window. Suddenly he made a dash for the door. He did not speak.
After a startled glance the others followed, wondering what had happened. By the time they were outside Biggles was walking briskly along the tarmac to intercept a man in workman’s overalls who had just left the vicinity of the two British aircraft. The man, a small, dark, ill-nourished-looking fellow in the early twenties, saw him coming, and quickened his pace; but Biggles overtook him.
“Just a minute,” he said, speaking in German.
The man stopped, glancing apprehensively in the direction of the Renkell works.
“What were you doing over there by those machines?” asked Biggles curtly.
“I was just looking at them, sir,” answered the man, nervously.
“Are you one of Mr. Preuss’s men?”
“Yes.”
“So you’re interested in flying, eh?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I always like to encourage young fellows who are interested,” said Biggles pleasantly. “Come on, I’ll take you up.”
The man did not move.
“What’s the matter—don’t you want a joy-ride?” asked Biggles.
The man moistened his lips, and glanced again at the works. “No,” he blurted.
Biggles’s manner changed. “What have you been up to?” he asked crisply, his eyes on a pair of pliers that projected from the man’s pocket.
“Nothing.”
“In that case a joy-ride won’t hurt you.” Biggles took the man firmly by the arm. “Come on.”
Protesting, the man was taken to the Spur.
“Get in,” ordered Biggles grimly.
The man hung back. His face was white. Beads of sweat were standing on his forehead. “No—no!” he cried.
“But I say yes,” rasped Biggles, thrusting the man towards the machine. “I am going to fly this aircraft and you’re coming with me.”
Again the man’s tongue flicked over his lips. “No,” he panted.
“Why not? Not nervous are you?”
“We—I—we should both be killed.”
