by W E Johns
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ALL IN THE DAY’S WORK
THE Air Police “Proctor” aircraft climbed slowly, on test, fifteen thousand feet above its home airfield in Surrey, which could sometimes be seen through breaks in a layer of filmy summer cloud. Biggles sat at the controls, his eyes moving thoughtfully over the instrument panel. Beside him, Ginger, with two-way radio earphones in position, also watched the dials with interest.
“She seems to be all right now,” remarked Biggles.
Ginger did not comment. His head turned a trifle so that his eyes met those of his chief. “There’s an urgent signal coming through,” he said, reaching for his note pad. “It’s Algy speaking.” He listened for a minute or two, making notes, and then reported: “Algy says the Air Commodore is on the phone. We’ve got to grab the pilot of an Auster Autocrat, registration, G-KXRY. The machine belongs to Interavian Hire Service. It left Croydon five minutes ago.”
“Get the rest of the gen,” ordered Biggles, altering course a trifle.
Ginger listened again and resumed: “The pilot is named Lester Wolfe. He’s a cypher clerk at the War Office. He’s bolted with some vital documents. A warning was sent to all ports and airfields, but it was too late. Wolfe had just left Croydon.”
“Did he tell Interavian where he was going?”
“He said he was going to Glasgow, but he was last seen heading south. The documents concern Western Union defence plans. The Air Commodore says they must be recovered at any cost. Algy says there’s a deuce of a flap going on about them.”
“Sounds as if the fellow’s making for the Continent,” opined Biggles. “Are his papers in order?”
Ginger passed on the question. “Yes,” he replied presently. “Interavian say his papers were okay. The Air Ministry is on the job and all stations are trying to pick the Auster up by radar.”
“Okay,” replied Biggles. “Keep your eyes skinned. If the machine headed south we shouldn’t be far from its track. Ask Algy to ask the Air Commodore what he wants me to do. Obviously we can’t do anything while the Auster is airborne.”
There was another pause. Then Ginger answered. “Take any steps to recover the papers. We’ve got to get them back at any cost. Algy says we’re to get the man if we can, but the papers are the most important. They make a bulky packet. Wolfe was carrying a portfolio, so presumably they’re in it.”
Five minutes passed and Ginger spoke again. “Hello—yes?” he said sharply. Then, to Biggles: “Radar reports an Auster approaching the coast between Brighton and Worthing.”
“That’s better,” replied Biggles. “We’ll have a look at him. With speed and height of this bird we should soon be able to pick him up.” The nose of the Proctor swung a little, and dipped. The needle of the air speed indicator crept up the dial. “It looks as if he’s making for France,” went on Biggles. “Is the Air Commodore asking France to take a hand? You’d better find out so that we know what we’re doing.”
Ginger made the inquiry, then looked up. “The answer is no. Algy says if the papers fall into other hands, even for an hour, they could no longer be regarded as secret and two years work will have gone west. There seems to be a terrific flap going on about the whole business.”
“Okay,” said Biggles. “Tell Algy to expect us when he sees us. Find out how much petrol the Auster had in its tanks.”
Ginger put the question. “The machine is the long-range type, and started topped up,” he reported.
“Which means, if my memory serves me, that it has an endurance of five hundred miles,” observed Biggles. “We can beat it there, anyhow, I mean, if we can find it we shall be with it when it lands—wherever that may be. Good thing we started with full tanks.”
The Proctor droned on, heading south, over broken cloud which, as often happens, dispersed when the English Channel was reached.
It was Ginger who spotted the Auster. His roving eyes picked up a tiny speck, far below, that might have been a water spider crawling towards the vast, hedge-less fields of Northern France. “There he is!” he said sharply. “At any rate, there’s a small machine, and not very fast.”
Biggles dived steeply towards the aircraft indicated.
Five minutes sufficed to confirm Ginger’s opinion. Not only was the machine revealed to be an Auster, but it carried the registration letters of the aircraft chartered by the absconding clerk.
“Our problem now,” remarked Biggles, as he took up a position well above and behind the Auster, “is how to get our hands on the papers. It’s anybody’s guess what Wolfe will do next. He may land anywhere. He may have arranged to meet an accomplice somewhere.”
“What’s his idea do you suppose?” asked Ginger.
Biggles shrugged. “Unless he’s a fanatic, inspired by misguided patriotic motives, the answer probably is money. Those papers he’s grabbed would be worth a good deal to some people. I’d say he knows where he can sell them. Anyhow, he seems to know where he’s going, so we can take it that his plan was cut and dried before he did a bolt.”
Nothing more was said for some time. Then Biggles observed: “Unless he’s drifted off his course he’s not going to Paris. He’s too far west.”
This was eventually confirmed. The slight haze that hung over the French capital could be seen far away to the east, but still the Auster held on, now flying on a course that had become slightly east of south.
Another hour passed, with no change in the relative positions of the two machines.
“Do you think he’s seen us, and has realised that he’s being followed?” queried Ginger.
“I think it’s very unlikely,” returned Biggles. “I’ve kept pretty well in his blind spot. Moreover, as he got off with a flying start, so to speak, he’d hardly expect to be followed. It just happened that we were in the air, otherwise it’s unlikely that we should have caught up with him so soon. I’ll tell you something else. Either our bird doesn’t know the country very well or he’s a novice at the game.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He’s not flying a compass course. He’s following the main road you can see below. That’s Route Nationale Seven—the big main road to the south of France.”
“Could he be making for Marseilles?”
“He may be, eventually, but he couldn’t make it without an intermediate landing for more petrol. Unless he has a carnet he may have a job to get juice. It begins to look more as if he was making for Bron, the airport for Lyons.”
Events confirmed Biggles’ guess. The big airport of Central France, with its name in huge white letters, came into view. Several passenger machines were standing on the concrete apron. The Auster turned in, and apparently having received permission to land, went down.
“Now what?” muttered Ginger, as Biggles followed the Auster in.
“It’s a bit difficult to know what to do for the best,” admitted Biggles, with his eyes on the Auster, from which the pilot, dressed in an ordinary blue lounge suit and carrying a portfolio under his arm, had alighted.
“Well, there’s our man,” he added. “If we’re quick I think we have a chance here. Get out and try to snatch that portfolio. If you get it dash back here and we’ll skip. The Air Commodore can do the explaining to the French authorities afterwards.”
Biggles taxied the Proctor nearer to the control station, and stopped, but without switching off. Ginger jumped down and walked briskly towards the runaway clerk, who, from his casual manner, saw nothing significant in this.
Then the unexpected threw all Ginger’s ideas into confusion. He had assumed, naturally, that Wolfe was going to the control office to check in. In doing this he had to pass close to a French Bellatrix air liner which, with its engines idling was taking in passengers.
One of these, a stoutish, pale-faced man wearing a black beret, suddenly stepped aside.
As Wolfe passed him he handed him the portfolio. Not a word was spoken.
Wolfe walked on. The man with the portfolio turned quickly and entered the ca
bin of the big machine, leaving Ginger, who was within a score of paces of him, completely taken aback by the speed and unexpectedness of the development. Even so, he perceived that it was a perfect piece of timing, and obviously part of a carefully prearranged plan.
For a moment Ginger hesitated. There was now, he saw, only one chance of recovering the papers. Should the passenger machine take off—he had no idea of its destination—the portfolio would disappear for ever. He took the one chance to save them. Casually flipping his flying licence to the attendant, as if it were a travel ticket, he went into the machine. There were several unoccupied seats. He chose one behind the man with the beret. The portfolio was on his lap.
Ginger’s hand was moving to grab it, and his muscles were tensed ready to bolt, when the cabin door was slammed. The engines growled. The aircraft vibrated, and began moving slowly into position to take off.
With a quick intake of breath Ginger sank back, trembling slightly from the excitement of the moment; but as there was obviously nothing more he could do for the time being he relaxed, trying to recover his equanimity.
Looking through the side window he saw the Proctor, with Biggles, still in the cockpit, looking at him. Biggles raised a hand in a signal that might have meant anything, but Ginger took it to mean simply that Biggles had seen what had happened.
The Bellatrix took off. The man in the beret put the portfolio on the seat beside him. It was within easy reach of Ginger, but for all he could do it might as well have been a mile away. If he snatched it there was no means of disposing of it; nor would there be until the machine landed.
Where this was to be he had not the faintest idea. True, the pilot was taking up a course for the south, but this meant little; he might be going to Marseilles, but he might equally well be going to the Balearic Islands, or even Algiers, five hundred miles away on the other side of the Mediterranean.
The rolling valley of the Rhone, with its sun-drenched vineyards, began to slide away astern. Ginger stared out of the window, hoping to see the Proctor; but his view was limited and he saw nothing of it.
The Bellatrix landed at Marignane, the land and marine airport of Marseilles. Ginger knew the pilot’s intention some time before he actually landed; the way the machine was handled told him that; and his eyes returned to the portfolio for he now determined to grab it and bolt the moment the cabin door was opened.
To his disgust the opportunity did not arise. From the way the man in the beret picked up the portfolio and tucked it under his arm he might have read Ginger’s thoughts.
Was the man going to get out, or was he going on? was now the vital question; for at this stage Ginger’s eyes fell on the label of a piece of luggage near him. It was consigned, he observed with a twinge of consternation, to Gao, in the heart of French West Africa.
He began to wonder where the chase was going to end.
The man in the beret prepared to get out. He stood up. As the cabin door was opened he moved towards it. Ginger did the same thing. Again his nerves and muscles were braced for action the moment they were on firm ground. One or two other passengers who were also getting out jostled him from behind.
At the cabin door appeared a man in uniform. “Tickets, if you please,” he requested—in French, of course.
Ginger’s heart sank, although this obstacle was not unexpected.
The man in the beret gave up his ticket and passed on. Ginger took the only course open to him, short of causing a commotion by trying to force a passage. Producing his International Police Pass he explained as quickly as possible why he was travelling without a ticket. This inevitably took a minute or two. The ticket inspector was not unreasonable, but as he had never seen a police pass before he had some excuse for regarding it with suspicion.
Ginger, in a fever of impatience, still with his eyes on the black beret, now on its way to the airport buildings, did his best to explain. Still the ticket inspector seemed disinclined to let him through.
It seems likely that Ginger would have lost his man but for what he took to be a stroke of luck. A senior official appeared, walking briskly to the spot. In desperation Ginger started to explain, but to his surprise and delight the man smiled and stopped him with a gesture. “Pass, monsieur,” he said courteously.
Ginger needed no second invitation. He did not walk. He ran.
He had, of course, to go through the booking hall. One swift glance revealed that the man was not there. With sinking heart, in something like a panic, he dashed on, and saw him just stepping into a taxi—for at Marseilles the airport is fifteen miles from the town. One foot was already on the step. Perceiving that it was now or never Ginger did not stop. He charged. The man in the beret had his back to him; but the taxi driver saw him coming, and supposing, presumably, that he was seeking transport to the town, shouted that he was engaged.
Still Ginger did not stop. He charged as if he had been on a football field. His full weight caught the man under the shoulder and the result was what might have been expected, particularly as the man had only one foot on the ground, the other being on the step of the taxi. He was knocked sideways with no small force, and bounced from the forward wing of the car on to the dusty road. The portfolio flew out of his hand.
Ginger snatched it up in a wild scoop, without stopping, and raced on heedless of shouts.
He had no idea of where he was going. His one concern was to remove himself with all possible speed from the spot. A pistol cracked, and the whistle of the bullet made him swerve towards the airfield. More shots followed. Where the bullets went he did not know. Dodging to spoil the marksman’s aim, he ran along the perimeter of the airfield without wasting time by looking behind him.
A roar over his head made him glance up, however. An aircraft was coming in to land.
To his joy and relief he saw it was the Proctor. Turning at right angles he raced after it, being left, of course, far behind. Even so, as the machine, with its wheels on the ground, quickly lost speed, he soon closed the gap. Out of the corner of his eye he could see a number of other people running out from the airport buildings.
The Proctor turned towards them. Yelling and waving Ginger dashed across the front of its nose. Then Biggles saw him—for the first time, as he afterwards explained. He opened the cabin door. Panting, Ginger flung the portfolio inside and scrambled in himself. “Get weaving!” he shouted.
Biggles closed the door. The engine roared, and the aircraft sped like an arrow across the sandy airfield.
Still breathing heavily Ginger got into the second pilot’s seat. “Phew! That was a slice of cake,” he gasped.
“What was?” demanded Biggles.
“You turning up like you did.”
“You didn’t imagine that I was lying down at Bron having a nap, did you?” inquired Biggles.
“I thought you might follow, but I couldn’t see you,” explained Ginger.
“I had a busy five minutes before I set off after you,” stated Biggles.
“Doing what?”
“What do you suppose? Having ascertained that the Bellatrix was going to land at Marseilles I rang up the airport superintendent at Marignane, told him you were travelling without a ticket, and why. He promised to let you through, if you wanted to get out.”
Ginger’s eyes opened wide. “So that was why he was so obliging! I thought it was a stroke of luck.”
“It doesn’t do to rely too much on luck,” said Biggles lightly. “No matter. You’ve got the documents. I’ll send a signal to the Air Commodore from Bron, to put his mind at rest. While we’re there we’ll have a bite of lunch.”
“I call that,” declared Ginger, “a very good idea.”
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THE CASE OF THE SECRET AEROFOIL
BIGGLES broke off in his conversation with Air Constable “Ginger” Hebblethwaite as the door of his office at Air Police Operational Headquarters was opened abruptly and Air Commodore Raymond, chief of his Department, entered in a manner that might best be de
scribed as purposeful.
“‘Morning, sir,” greeted Biggles, with the easy familiarity of long comradeship.
“‘Morning Bigglesworth,” returned the Air Commodore briskly. “Sorry to barge in on you like this but I’ve just had a rather sticky business thrown at me. I’d like you to tidy it up, if you can. Matter of fact, Inspector Gaskin of ‘C’ Department is already on the job, but he’s just rung up to say that he could do with a little technical advice—if you were available.”
“That’s all right with me,” agreed Biggles. “I like Gaskin. He won’t stand for any nonsense. What’s the trouble?”
“You’ve seen the morning papers?” queried the Air Commodore, taking a chair that Ginger pulled out for him.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ll have read about this business of Flight Lieutenant Brand, a test pilot at the Experimental Establishment, being killed yesterday?”
Biggles nodded. “A bad show.”
“Worse than you may suppose,” stated the Air Commodore gravely. “There’s more to it than has been released for press publication.”
Biggles reached for a scribbling pad. “Give me the gen,” he requested.
The Air Commodore obliged. “When Brand was killed he was testing a new type of aerofoil—something quite new and a top secret. Actually, the device looked like solving a problem that has puzzled designers for years, the ideal compromise between fast and slow speeds; or, if you like, an adjustable variation. That is to say, a machine to which it is fitted can be slowed down, without risk of stalling, almost to the speed of an helicopter. The thing is operated from the cockpit.”
“To what machine had it been fitted for test purposes?”
“A new light two-seater job called the Crane. The design is fairly orthodox except that the undercarriage consists of two legs attached to the main wing spars. This gives an exceptionally wide track, and so reduces the risk of the machine overturning should a wheel strike an obstruction on rough ground. Brand had tested the machine before, but after some modifications he was on what was to have been the final test when he was killed.”
