by W E Johns
“What happened?”
“We don’t know, but it rather looks as if Brand had to make a forced landing—or was trying out a test landing in a field—but misjudged his distance and ran head on into some trees. No one saw the crash, but it was heard by two farm labourers working in the next field. They had just knocked off for lunch. That’s how we know the time. The crash occurred precisely at one o’clock. The men ran to the spot and pulled the pilot clear. He was still alive but unconscious. One man ran for help. An ambulance took Brand to hospital where he died. He had several minor injuries, but the one that killed him was a fractured skull. The back of his head had taken a terrible crack.”
Biggles lit a cigarette thoughtfully. “Was he strapped in when the labourers got to him?”
“No. They say he was half in and half out of the cockpit. He had evidently unfastened his safety belt.”
“Did he recover consciousness before he died?”
“Only for a moment. He made a remark, in a rambling sort of way, about a Persian—a new Persian. The doctor wasn’t quite sure of the words, but he says that’s what it sounded like.”
“Does that make sense to anyone?”
“No.”
“Is that statement the reason why the Air Ministry got cracking on the case and called in the Yard?”
“No. The reason was this. As I have told you, the crash occurred at one o’clock. Brand should have been back before that.”
“Why?”
“Because he took off at nine o’clock.”
“Which means that he was in the air for four hours.”
“Exactly. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t have been, because the Crane has a maximum fuel capacity of only three hours.”
Biggles pursed his lips. “I see,” he said slowly. “So he had been on the ground, somewhere, for an hour.”
“Precisely. And that’s what has put the Air Ministry in a flap—bearing in mind what Brand was doing. A lot of people would like a glimpse of that new aerofoil, which represents years of research. Naturally, we’re afraid someone may have seen it.”
“Had it been touched?”
“Not as far as we know. It was still complete, but had, of course, been fractured in the collision. But that isn’t to say that no one saw it... or photographed it. When a new invention is stolen—well, we know the worst. But if an enemy agent can get hold of a secret without the fact being known an even more sinister situation arises, because it might then be put into production without our being aware of it. It might also be improved upon.”
Biggles nodded. “It boils down to this. You want to know where Brand was, and what he was doing, for that lost hour of flying time?”
“Exactly.”
“And the only clue you have is this queer statement about a Persian?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Is the crash still there?”
“Yes. It was not to be touched until the Inspector of Accidents had seen it. Gaskin is there.”
“All right, sir. I’ll see what I can make of it,” promised Biggles.
The Air Commodore got up. “Well, get cracking, because my phone won’t stop ringing until I have something to report.” He went off.
Ginger, looking at Biggles, spoke for the first time. “Where, may I ask, are you going to start looking for this Persian?” he inquired.
“The man I’m going to look for,” answered Biggles, “is the skunk who killed Brand.”
Ginger’s eyes opened wide. “But Brand was killed in the crash! My guess is that he had engine trouble, and unfastened his safety belt intending to use his brolly; then, seeing that he was too low, in trying to get down he hit the trees. The verdict will be, an error of judgement on the part of—”
“Forget it.” Biggles stubbed his cigarette. “Brand was dead, or as near dead as makes no difference, when his machine hit the trees.”
“How do you work that out?”
“Well, to start with, a pilot of Brand’s experience doesn’t make such daft errors as the one you suggest. The evidence confirms that. When a vehicle collides head on with something the driver is flung forward, not back. I’ve seen a good many crashes in my time, and in practically every case it was the face of the pilot that took the crack, the result of his head striking the instrument panel. If Brand’s crash had been genuine it would have been his forehead that took the shock.”
“Then your theory is, the crash was faked? Brand was, in fact, murdered?”
“It looks that way to me.”
“But in that case, if Brand was already unconscious at the time of the impact, what about the man who ran the machine into the trees?”
“I’d say the machine first landed in the field. The murderer then pushed the throttle wide open and jumped clear. The aircraft, with Brand dying in his seat, would run into the trees. We can soon prove, or disprove, that.”
“How?”
“Because, if my theory is right, the throttle will still be open and the switch on. Had Brand been conscious, the last thing he would have done when he saw that a crash was inevitable, was switch off, to reduce the risk of fire.”
“True enough,” agreed Ginger.
“Let’s take a Proctor and go down to have a look,” said Biggles.
Twenty minutes later the police Proctor was circling over the scene of the tragedy. The grass field in which the pilot had apparently tried to land, the belt of trees and the crumpled remains of the Crane, were all in plain view. Beside the crash stood an R.A.F. breakdown lorry. Some airmen were beginning to dismantle the wreck. The bowler-hatted figure of Inspector Gaskin was also conspicuous.
Biggles tilted his port wing for a better view. “Take a look,” he told Ginger. “You can see the wide wheel track of the Crane distinctly from up here. It landed first alongside the far hedge—a nice straight run, you’ll observe. Then it stopped, turned, and ran on again into the trees. Notice the swerve? I’ve told you the reason. That machine was no longer under control. Had Brand been conscious he wouldn’t have swung like a pupil on his first solo. In fact, I don’t see that he had any need to run into the trees at all, because there was plenty of room to lift the machine over them.”
“I was just thinking the same thing,” replied Ginger.
Biggles landed. Together they walked towards the crash. The Inspector came to meet them. “Glad to see you,” he told Biggles. “This sort of thing isn’t in my line. I can’t make head nor tail of it.”
“You will, in a minute,” Biggles told him, and continued on to the wreck.
“All right boys, stand easy for a minute,” he told the airmen. He made his way to the cockpit, took one glance and beckoned to Ginger. “There you are,” he said. “Remember what I told you? The throttle is still open and the switch is on. I imagine she didn’t catch fire because the tanks must have been nearly dry. That, I think, is as much as we shall learn here. All right, boys, carry on.”
He took Inspector Gaskin to one side and in a few words gave him the facts, and his opinion of them. “Brand was murdered,” he asserted. “We can guess how, and why. What we have to find out now is where he was murdered, because there, with luck, we shall find the man who wanted details of the new aerofoil. I suggest we go to Brand’s station and see if his C.O. can help us. He should be able to tell us something about Brand, anyway, and his movements.”
Inspector Gaskin nodded. “That argument makes sense to me,” he agreed. “I’ve got my car here.”
“That’s too slow,” objected Biggles. “We’ve got to move fast. I’ve a seat in my machine if you’d care for a lift?”
“As long as you don’t do anything like that with me,” agreed the detective, without enthusiasm, jerking a thumb towards the crash.
“I’ll do my best to keep you in one piece,” promised Biggles, smiling.
A quarter of an hour later they were being shown into the office of Group-Captain Kidby, technical head of the Experimental Establishment under whom Brand served.
Biggles
introduced himself and his companions, and explained why they were there.
The Group-Captain looked worried. “I can’t see what all the fuss is about,” he protested. “The aerofoil is still okay.”
“That’s just what we want to confirm, sir,” said Biggles. “There’s a chance that it may not be altogether okay. You see, Brand was murdered, and there’s reason to suppose that the aerofoil was the motive. May I ask you one or two questions?”
“Certainly,” agreed the Group-Captain, looking even more worried.
“Brand left the ground, I understand, at nine o’clock?”
“There’s no doubt about that. The Flight Officer logged him out.”
“And he carried enough petrol for three hours’ flying?”
“Certainly not more.”
“He knew about the new aerofoil? I mean, he’d known about it for some time?”
“He knew all about it. He had advised the modifications.”
“When was it arranged that he should do the test?”
“The evening before, about six o’clock. The work had just been finished and he was anxious to try it out.”
“Did he leave the station after that?”
“Yes. He went out to dinner.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“He mentioned to me that he was dining with his fiancée and her brother.”
“Oh. Then he was engaged?”
“I believe so.”
“Who’s the lady?”
“A Miss Buchner. A charming girl. Good looking, too. I’ve met her. Several of my boys were crazy about her.” The Group-Captain smiled wanly. “Brand won the race, so to speak.”
“You’d say he was in love with her?”
“Very much so.”
“You mentioned a brother?”
“Yes. Storna—that’s the girl’s name—kept house for him. They’ve a nice place about eight or nine miles from here, an old Georgian farmhouse called Overstone Manor, just this side of the village of Overstone. You’re not suggesting—”
“I’m not suggesting anything, sir,” interposed Biggles. “I’m trying to muster any facts that might be useful. These people Buchner. The name doesn’t sound English?”
“I believe they’re Hungarians—refugees, came over just before the war. Having been here for so long they speak English fluently, of course.”
“I see,” said Biggles quietly. “Tell me, sir. You knew Brand well. Was he the sort of officer who might make an unofficial landing when he was on duty?”
The Group-Captain hesitated. “That’s a difficult question to answer,” he replied slowly. “That sort of thing is done sometimes, as you know as well as I do. In this case, though, there would have been no harm in it, because part of Brand’s tests consisted of making difficult forced landings to try out in actual practice the slow speeds provided by the new aerofoil.”
“Can you think of any place that Brand might have chosen for such experiments?”
Again the Group-Captain hesitated. “There are plenty of places around here. He could please himself.”
“Had he any other local friends?”
“Not that I know of. His time was divided between his work and Miss Buchner.”
“You haven’t heard of a Persian coming to live in the parts?”
The Group-Captain looked surprised. “A Persian! Nothing like one.”
“One last question. Do you happen to know if Miss Buchner, or her brother, can fly an aircraft?”
“They’ve never mentioned it in my hearing, although I haven’t seen much of the brother. He’s only here occasionally.”
“Thank you, sir. I think that’s about all,” decided Biggles. “I won’t take up any more of your time.”
“If there’s anything I can do, let me know,” was the Group-Captain’s parting remark.
“I think,” said Biggles when they were outside, “our next port of call should be Overstone Manor.”
“Are you expecting to find a Persian there?” inquired Inspector Gaskin cynically.
“You never know,” replied Biggles seriously. “One thing I do know, now, is this. Brand was in love, and a man in love is liable to do things which, in sane moments, he would not do. If Brand more or less had permission to make forced landings I can think of nowhere more likely than the region of Overstone Manor. If he had time to spare surely it would be in the company of his ladylove. He wouldn’t be the first pilot to make an airborne visit to his girl.”
“Are you going to fly over?” queried Ginger.
“I am, because in the first place I shall look for wheel tracks, which should be easier to pick up from the air than from the ground. If there happens to be a field big enough to land in I may go down and have a word with Miss Buchner, or her brother.”
They returned to the machine. Biggles studied his map for a moment before taking off.
Almost at once the village of Overstone came into view. Biggles headed towards it. “That must be the Manor,” he told Ginger who was sitting beside him, indicating a house that answered to the Group-Captain’s description.
“There was no need for Brand to practice emergency landings there, anyhow,” observed Ginger dryly. “That big pasture behind those trees at the back of the house is nearly big enough to put a Spitfire down.”
“So I notice,” murmured Biggles. “Watch for tracks.” Cutting his engine he put the Proctor into a gentle glide.
“Can you see what I see?” he asked presently.
“I can see wheel tracks, if that’s what you mean,” answered Ginger. “They’re rather faint, though, and I wouldn’t swear they were made by the Crane.”
“Look near the barn, by the trees. I fancy Brand used his brakes there. You can see the grooves plainly for a few yards.”
“Yes, you’re right,” agreed Ginger.
“We’ll go down,” announced Biggles.
Without using the engine he made an S turn and landed, finishing his run near the barn to which he had called attention.
As they got out, a cat, which had apparently been inside appeared, mewing and flicking its tail in the manner of such animals. For a moment or two no one paid any attention to it. Then Biggles stopped suddenly, his hand on Gaskin’s arm. “Look!” he said tersely.
“Look at what?” inquired the detective.
“That cat.”
“What about it?”
“Do you remember Brand’s last words?”
“You mean, about a Persian—a new Persian?”
“What Brand said, or tried to say, was a Blue Persian,” said Biggles in a tense voice. “That cat’s a Blue Persian.”
Silence fell. The cat continued to walk round in circles. When Biggles spoke again his voice was hard. “I’d say that cat was the last thing Brand saw as he was struck down from behind. In his brief moment of semi-consciousness before he died the memory of that cat still lingered. To him it was a warning signal and he tried to pass the information on.”
Inspector Gaskin’s lips came together in a hard line. “That’s it,” he said grimly. “This is where Brand took the crack. I’m going up to have a word with the folks at the house. Keep quiet. We may see something before they see us.”
“Go ahead,” invited Biggles. “You’d better take over from here.”
With the Inspector leading, taking such cover as was available, they walked on to the house, which could be seen through the trees. Not a sound came from it, except the twittering of sparrows on the eaves.
“I’m afraid we’re too late,” murmured Ginger anxiously, as, keeping in the bushes that flanked the drive, they drew near the front door.
His fears were nearly justified; but there is a world of difference between ‘too late,’ and ‘nearly too late.’ While they stood in the bushes discussing the best method of entering the house, the front door was opened, and a dark, smartly-dressed young woman, good looking in a bold sort of way, came out. That she was going somewhere on a definite errand was at once apparent from
her businesslike manner, and the fact that she wore a hat and gloves. And it seemed probable from a small packet that she carried in her hand that her business was with the post office.
In the light of what followed it may be supposed that, taken by surprise, she lost her head and behaved in a manner which Gaskin, at any rate, took to be suspicious. There was nothing in the least threatening or offensive in his manner as, with the others behind him, he stepped out from the bushes, and raising his hat, said quietly: “I’m Inspector Gaskin from Scotland Yard. Assuming that you are Miss Buchner I’d like to have a talk with you.”
At his first words the girl gasped. The colour drained from her face.
Even more significant was the way she tried to run back to the house, at the same time holding the packet she carried against her blouse. But the detective was too quick for her. His hand closed over her wrist. “There’s no need to run away, miss,” he said quietly but firmly. “I think I’d like to see what it is you’re so anxious to hide.” He took the packet without difficulty, for, indeed, the girl seemed on the point of fainting.
“Addressed to somebody in Switzerland,” observed the detective, glancing at the small parcel. He handed it to Biggles. “You might have a look at that. It may be what we’re looking for.”
Biggles tore the package open. From an inner envelope he took a collection of micro-films. One glance at them was enough. “Quite right,” he said. “This is it.”
“Ah! In that case we’ll see if the gentleman is at home,” said the Inspector calmly.
He went to the front door and rang the bell.
It was opened by a foreign looking man in his shirt sleeves.
“Mr. Buchner?” inquired the Inspector.
“Yes?”
Before the man could have grasped the situation his wrists were in handcuffs.
“What—what’s the meaning of this?” stammered the man in an agitated voice.
“I’m Inspector Gaskin from Scotland Yard and I arrest you for the murder of Flight Lieutenant Brand, an officer of the Royal Air Force, on these premises, yesterday forenoon,” was the curt reply. “It’s my duty to warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you. Come along, sir.”
