by W E Johns
Agra lay flat also watching.
Soon afterwards a touch on Ginger’s arm from Biggles’s hand brought him back to full consciousness with a start. Looking at the hangar he saw that the light had at last been put out. But another one soon appeared outside, obviously an electric torch held in the hand of one of the two men who had emerged and were now walking in the direction of the old administrative offices.
Very quietly Biggles rose to his feet. “Keep in the shadow,” he breathed, “and follow.”
Reaching one of the nearest buildings, which from its size and shape Ginger thought must have been the station headquarters, the light was switched off. There was a broad flash as the door was opened and the two men went in. Thereafter only a narrow strip of light outlined the shape of a window. Biggles went on for a little way before he stopped.
“We’re close enough,” he whispered.
“That was the building where I heard the machine working,” said Agra softly.
Silence fell, to be followed by another tedious wait. “I’d say they’ve gone to bed,” muttered Ginger at last.
“Possibly,” answered Biggles. “But in that case I think they’d have put the light out. I know this is all very boring but we can’t afford to take a chance. Either they’re up to something or having a conference. They must be in a hurry to clear out or they wouldn’t have worked so late in the hangar.”
His patience was rewarded when, soon afterwards, the door was opened. In the light that streamed out two men could be seen carrying between them what looked like a black-painted, metal uniform case, a receptacle about three feet long by two feet wide and eighteen inches deep. A third figure, inside the building, was silhouetted against the light for a moment before the door was shut. The electric torch was switched on again, and to Ginger’s consternation the light began moving towards the spot where they were standing.
Biggles backed swiftly into the thickest jungle and dropped flat. Ginger and Agra, needing no warning, did the same.
The two men, still carrying the box between them, drew nearer, and presently entered the jungle within a few yards of where the watchers lay, hardly daring to breathe. As they crossed a patch of dappled moonlight, Ginger noticed that one of them carried, in the hand not occupied with the box, a queer-shaped object which nevertheless looked familiar; but for a moment he was unable to recognize it. Then he remembered. It was an entrenching tool, of the type carried by infantry soldiers.
The light, swinging from the movements of the men carrying it, went on; but it did not go far. Biggles had just moved out of his hiding place to follow when it stopped at the foot of an exceptionally large tree. There was a brief conversation, too low to be overheard, and then, while one man held the torch the other began digging in the soft mould.
It did not take him long to make a hole large enough for his purpose, which was now fairly obvious. The box was put in and covered up, both men helping in this operation.
The ground was then made smooth, some moss placed on top, and several handfuls of dead leaves thrown on it. This simple task complete, the men retraced their steps. They seemed to be in good spirits. Said Braunton, as they passed the spot where the watchers were once more lying flat: “He’ll be a smart guy who finds that. We’ll get on with the machine in the morning. Another day or two should see us through.”
“I shan’t be sorry either,” replied Mailings. “But for you cracking up we could have been away—”
“Okay, don’t let’s go over that again,” broke in Braunton harshly. “It was sheer bad luck.”
With that they passed on.
Biggles did not move except to turn his head to watch the men re-enter the hut they had recently left. The door was shut and a few minutes later the light went out, leaving everything in darkness.
“Well, that’s that,” murmured Biggles as he got up.
“Do you think they could have had the jewels in that box?” asked Agra eagerly.
“I don’t think there’s any doubt about it,” answered Biggles. “They were in that building, but in view of what I said about the aerodrome being re-opened they decided to put them out of sight in case anyone should turn up here.”
“Why didn’t you grab them while you had the chance?” asked Ginger.
“We can be sure they’ll still be here in the morning, otherwise they wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of burying that box,” replied Biggles. “Had we made a move in the jungle just now anything could have happened. We can reckon they carry guns, in which case there would have been shooting. They would have known that we had watched them burying the box, and had either of them got away he could have made things very uncomfortable for us. When it gets light we shall be able to see better what we’re doing. They have no idea we’re here, so we should be able to catch them on one foot, so to speak. You can relax now. I’ll keep an eye on things.”
The night died slowly. Ginger must have dozed, but he was awakened by the pressure of Biggles’s hand. Sitting up with a start he saw that dawn had broken. Following the direction of Biggles’ eyes he observed Braunton and Mailings walking towards the hangar, into which they presently disappeared.
“They’re still hoping to get the machine finished so that they won’t have to walk to wherever they intend taking the swag,” remarked Biggles. He looked at his watch. “Seven o’clock,” he murmured. “We’ve plenty of time. Algy won’t be back for an hour.”
“Weren’t you taking a chance, ordering the machine back before we had located the jewels?” enquired Ginger. “The return of the Wellington could hardly fail to make them suspicious.”
“As a matter of fact that was my intention,” returned Biggles. “In an emergency most people make a rush for their valuables. The chances are that Braunton, in a panic, would have tried to save the jewels, and so shown us where they were. Actually, that is just what has happened.”
Soon afterwards, from the building in front of them, came a curious, rasping whirr of wheels that Agra had first noticed.
Biggles glanced again at his watch. “Well, we might as well make a start,” he decided. “First of all we’ll see what is going on in that building.”
Making a detour to avoid being seen from the hangar should either of the two men come out, he advanced slowly to the door of what was now clearly revealed to be the old station headquarters, for a notice to that effect, in faded white letters, was still on it. With a warning signal to Ginger, Biggles took out his automatic and reached for the door-handle. It turned, but the door did not yield to his pressure. He knocked. The machine stopped and a voice said: “Who’s that?”
“Okay, open up,” grunted Biggles, roughly imitating Braunton’s voice.
The door was thrown open and a white man, dressed in overalls, stood on the threshold.
His lower jaw sagged foolishly as he stared into the muzzle of Biggles’ gun.
“Take it easy and you won’t get hurt,” said Biggles curtly. “I’m a police officer and I want a word with you.”
The man backed slowly into the room, followed closely by Biggles, who said tersely to Ginger: “All right. Take care of him.”
Ginger stepped forward, and before the man could really have grasped what was happening a pair of light steel handcuffs were on his wrists.
“What’s your name?” demanded Biggles.
“Shrenk,” was the answer in a surly voice. “I don’t—”
“Nationality?” cut in Biggles.
“Dutch. But I haven’t done—”
“Save your breath,” requested Biggles. “I take it you’re a professional diamond-cutter?”
There was no answer. Not that one was needed, for the tools of the man’s trade lay on the bench. In a vice glowed an enormous ruby on which apparently he had been working. Overhead shafting operated the cutting apparatus.
Biggles glanced at Agra. “We were just about in time. Your sparklers would soon have been unrecognisable.” To the Dutchman, a heavily built man with an expressionless face, h
e said: “Where did you come from?”
“Calcutta. But Braunton told me—”
“Never mind what Braunton told you. You knew these stones had been stolen. Be careful, because anything you say may be used as evidence against you.” Again Biggles looked at his watch. “Two minutes to eight,” he observed. “I hope Algy’s on time.”
Ginger went to the door. “I can hear him coming now,” he asserted.
“Get over against the wall and stand still,” Biggles told the diamond cutter. “Don’t try any tricks.”
“What about the other two?” asked Ginger in a low voice.
“We needn’t go for them. They’ll come here when they hear the machine, and recognise it,” answered Biggles.
In this surmise he was correct. A minute later came the sound of running feet. Then came Braunton’s voice, shouting: “Shrenk, get everything out of sight.”
A moment later the man himself; Mailings with him, burst into the room.
They stopped dead, their eyes round and lips parted from shock when they saw Biggles and Ginger standing there with guns in their hands.
“Come right in, Braunton, the game’s up,” said Biggles crisply. “You haven’t a chance, so don’t do anything silly. Keep you hands where I can see them —both of you.”
Braunton, pale and agitated, found his voice. “Who are you?” he blurted.
“We’re police officers, and you’re under arrest,” answered Biggles shortly. To Ginger he went on. “Go and bring the machine this way.”
The scene remained unchanged while the Wellington landed and taxied in.
“Look here,” said Braunton desperately. “I’ll do a deal with you. I’ve got the stuff. I’ll admit that. But only I know where it is. I’ll go fifty-fifty with you.”
“Nothing doing,” said Biggles icily. “Trying to bribe a police officer won’t make your case any better.”
“Okay, smart guy,” snarled Braunton. “You may have got me but you’ll never get the stuff. I shall be back one day and it’ll still be where I put it.”
“Maybe,” returned Biggles imperturbably. “But maybe we’re smarter than you think.”
“You haven’t a hope of finding it,” sneered Braunton. “Take me and you can say good-bye to the stuff you’re looking for.”
“I’m not looking for anything,” said Biggles coldly. “Save your breath. You’ll have plenty of time for talking later on.”
Algy and Bertie came hurrying in. Biggles made a signal and the handcuffs closed on the wrists of the two jewel thieves. “Keep an eye on them until I come back,” he ordered.
Then, beckoning to Ginger and Agra to go with him, he went out and walked briskly to the tree under which the box had been buried. The mould, recently disturbed, was soft, and it did not take long to recover the box. It was padlocked.
“I’ll get the key,” offered Ginger. “Braunton will have it.”
“Don’t trouble. Give me a hand. We’ll take it to the machine, calling at the hangar on the way.”
In the hangar the box was lowered to the ground. “We’ll just make sure there’s no mistake,” said Biggles, selecting a cold chisel and inserting it through the padlock. A jerk of his wrist and the lock snapped off. He threw open the lid, and there, flashing and gleaming in the light, lay such a collection of diamonds, rubies, emeralds and pearls, that Ginger could only blink in wonder and admiration.
“Well, there it is,” murmured Biggles. “It’s all yours, Agra, so you can help to carry it to the machine. I’ll go and fetch the others and we’ll head back for Calcutta for a bath and some breakfast.”
There is little more to tell. A week later the Wellington and its crew were back in London, where Air Commodore Raymond had already been advised by radio of the outcome of the case. Agra remained in India for the time being as affairs at Malliapore needed his presence. Braunton and Mailings received long terms of imprisonment, although Shrenk, who was only an accessory, got off with a lighter sentence.
Some weeks later Biggles received a registered packet with Indian stamps on it. In it were four magnificent, uncut rubies, one for each of those engaged in the operation, and a letter from Agra expressing his thanks and gratitude for the return of his fortune and extending an open invitation to the Palace at Malliapore should the course of the special Air Police ever lie in that direction.
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE UNKNOWN AIRCRAFT
IT was unusual for Air Commodore Raymond to walk unannounced into the Operations Room of the Air Police Service; for which reason Biggles, who was at work on his records, raised his eyebrows and stood up when the Air Commodore strode in. Air Constables Ginger Hebblethwaite and Bertie Lissie also sprang to their feet, Bertie dropping his eye-glass in his agitation but catching it deftly.
“All right you fellows, sit down,” said the Air Commodore quickly. “Bigglesworth, I want you to fly up to Scotland right away.”
“Very good, sir,” acknowledged Biggles, closing his books.
“The job’s top priority. I assume you have an aircraft standing by at the airfield?”
“Lacey’s on duty there,” stated Biggles. “I can get him on the phone and he’ll have any machine I want ready by the time I get there.”
“I’m afraid there’ll be a long walk involved in getting where I want you to go,” said the Air Commodore apologetically. “There’s no aerodrome within twenty miles. Lossiemouth is probably as near as any. You could get a car from there, but it means a long walk at the finish.”
Biggles looked alarmed. “I’m not much for walking,” he protested. “Life’s too short.”
“I know—I know; that’s why I mentioned it.”
“If you’ll tell me the trouble, sir, maybe I can think of something to save the soles of my feet,” suggested Biggles.
“Your objective lies in the Cairngorms, which, as you’ve probably flown over them in your time, you may recall is a pretty formidable group of mountains in Scotland.”
Biggles smiled faintly. “Is it at the top or the bottom? I’m nothing for climbing, but I don’t mind walking downhill.”
“It’s about half-way up—on the slope of Ben Macdhui, to be precise.”
“What’s happened there?”
“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.”
