by W E Johns
Thus ended, as far as Biggles was concerned, the Affair of the Secret Aerofoil. It only remains to be said that evidence found in Overstone Manor revealed the Buchners to have been enemy agents. They were not, it turned out, brother and sister, but man and wife, and their purpose was to obtain information about anything new at the Experimental Establishment, for which reason the woman had encouraged the attentions of officers on the nearby station. What actually happened on the fatal morning was never known, but a reasonable supposition is that Brand had been invited to call, and the woman had entertained him in the house while her “brother” took photographs of the new aerofoil. Brand may have returned to his machine unexpectedly and caught him in the act, and in the altercation which would naturally follow had been clubbed from behind. As cats have a habit of standing against the feet of people they know he may have stumbled, or fallen over it. Buchner, whose flying licence was found in the house, revealing that he was a pilot, had then finished his photographs and disposed of Brand’s body, and the machine, by faking an accident. The Crown Prosecutor proved a charge of wilful murder against Buchner, who in due course paid the penalty demanded by the law.
Brand’s faithless sweetheart was sentenced, as an accessory, to a long term of imprisonment.
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THE CASE OF THE MYSTERIOUS GUNSHOTS
AIR COMMODORE RAYMOND finished his monthly inspection of the Air Police equipment and returned with Biggles to the Operations Room, followed by the pilots of the Department.
“Well, you seem to have everything on the top line; all you need now is something to do,” remarked the Air Commodore jokingly, as he accepted a cigarette from Biggles’ case and sat down on a chair that Ginger pulled out for him.
“You find us something to do and we’ll do it,” replied Biggles lightly.
“How would you like to run out to Africa?” suggested the Air Commodore.
Biggles threw him a sidelong glance. “I had a feeling you were holding something up your sleeve. What’s happened in Africa, and in what particular area? Africa, as I remember it, is a biggish sort of place.”
“One question at a time,” requested the Air Commodore. “And you needn’t refer to the matter in the past tense. Apparently it isn’t only what has happened, but what is still happening. Frankly, I might as well say at once that I don’t think it’s anything very exciting, or even urgent; but if you’ve nothing better to do you might as well have a look at the thing. There’s been a complaint from the Colonial Office. If I do nothing about it, and it did turn out to be something serious, the public, quite rightly, would start asking what we were doing.”
“What’s happened—so far?” queried Biggles.
“Apparently the thing began a couple of months ago—that is, as far as we know. Of course, it might have been going on for a long time without us knowing anything about it. Anyhow, a couple of months ago a native of the Karuli tribe walked into the hospital at Khartoum with an arm in such a state that even the doctors were nearly sick. It had been shattered by a bullet and had turned septic. The arm was amputated. Asked how he had come by such a wound the man complained that he had been shot at from an aeroplane, for no reason at all. He and some of his friends were out hunting when an aeroplane appeared and sprayed them with machine-gun bullets.”
“Where did this happen?” asked Biggles.
“In the Southern Soudan—on the fringe of the Sudd. You’ll have seen the Sudd, I imagine?”
“Anyone who has flown over the main trunk route from Cairo to the Cape can hardly have missed seeing it,” answered Biggles dryly.
“I don’t know much about it myself,” admitted the Air Commodore.
“You haven’t missed much,” Biggles told him. “The Sudd is really the basin of the White Nile. It stretches from Khartoum to Malakal—that’s about four hundred miles. Exactly how wide it is I don’t know because I’ve never flown across it, only down it; and that was as much as I wanted to see. But there can’t be less than ten thousand square miles of it. It’s all one vast swamp— bog, weed, mud, rushes and matted vegetation. But go on about this native.”
“That’s all, except that according to him this daft pilot was amusing himself by shooting bullets at all and sundry. He made one significant remark. He said it was the first time he had seen the plane, but he had on previous occasions heard shooting in the distance. To be quite honest, the authorities paid little attention to the tale. The Sudan Administration asked the R.A.F. Station Commander at Khartoum to request his pilots to be a little more careful about where they were shooting. The Station Commander promptly denied responsibility, stating that none of his pilots had been anywhere near the place; there was nothing to shoot at anyway; and in any case they did not carry ammunition, much less waste it, in peace time.”
“Seems queer,” murmured Biggles. “Somehow I can’t see a native making up a tale like that.”
“Quite right,” agreed the Air Commodore. “Later developments suggest that the tale was true. The next incident nearly had more serious consequences. Shortly afterwards, Captain Stonehouse, of the Sudan Police, was approached by a number of natives in a very hostile frame of mind. For a few minutes things looked ugly. And this was all the more surprising because this particular tribe had never given any trouble. However, Stonehouse managed to get them quiet, whereupon they explained their grievance. They had, they said, been shot at for no reason at all. They were looking for some lost cattle in the Sudd when an aeroplane came along and sprayed them with bullets. I should make it clear that these men had no connection with the Karuli tribe, to which the man with the shattered arm belonged. Their villages are at least a hundred miles apart.”
“Which makes the confirmation of the first story all the more impressive,” put in Biggles.
“Quite so. Well, the upshot was, really to satisfy the natives Stonehouse hung about for a week or so in the hope of spotting this alleged aircraft. He didn’t see it, but twice he heard the sound of distant shooting— machine-gun fire, at that. On one occasion he thought he heard the drone of an aero engine.”
“So however daft it may seem, there is no longer any room for doubt,” murmured Biggles thoughtfully. “Someone, with an aircraft, is firing a machine gun in the Sudd.”
“That, I think, has now been established,” asserted the Air Commodore. “Now tell me this. What possible reason could a man have for flying up and down a place like the Sudd, expending ammunition that is today quite expensive? And why pick on harmless natives for a target?”
“He didn’t pick on natives for a target,” said Biggles firmly.
“But he did!”
“I say he didn’t—unless we’re dealing with a lunatic. I’d say he was shooting at something else and the natives just happened to be in the line of fire.”
“Then what was he shooting at? What is there to shoot at in the Sudd?”
“To the best of my knowledge, the only living things in the Sudd, apart from an occasional party of natives who know what few tracks there are, are hippos, crocodiles, an occasional buffalo, several elephants and a great number of waterfowl of all sorts. Where does this Karuli tribe hang out?”
“West of the Sudd and at the northern end.”
“And these natives who cut up rough with Stonehouse?”
“Their territory is to the south-west.”
“Khartoum lies at the northern end; Malakal at the southern end; so it looks as if our crazy pilot must have his headquarters somewhere on the east side, or Stonehouse would have seen something of him.”
The Air Commodore stubbed his cigarette. “Well, what do you make of it?”
Biggles smiled faintly. “With so little to work on, what can one make of it?”
The Air Commodore considered him critically. “All the same, you’ve got an idea, haven’t you?”
Biggles nodded. “Of course. That’s what I’m paid for. After all the flying I’ve done you’d expect me to know something about the things that decorate
the landscape underneath me.”
“Well, what is it?”
“I’ll tell you when I’ve checked up.”
“What gave you the idea?”
“An old friend—my memory. To be more precise, a photograph I once saw. It was taken by a fellow who made one of the first flights down Africa. He flew over the Sudd—in fact, he was probably the first man to see the place from the air.”
“How are you going to check up?”
“By flying out and having a look round. But before I go there’s one thing I’d like you to do for me. A pilot has to have fuel before he starts off across the Sudd. He needs quite a lot of petrol if he’s going to stay there. I’d like you to ask the Air Ministry just how many machines have force-landed, or disappeared, in the Sudd, after refuelling at Khartoum or Malakal. I mean, recently. There haven’t been many, I think.”
“I’ve already done that,” answered the Air Commodore.
“Ah! So you tried to do the job without telling me anything about it,” accused Biggles reproachfully.
“No. It merely struck me that a machine might be down in the Sudd, and shooting off its ammunition to reveal its position to a possible rescue party.”
Biggles looked pained. “I don’t think that’s the answer. The shooting has been going on for a long time, and over a wide area.”
“Yes, that’s true,” admitted the Air Commodore.
“What machines if any, did the Ministry say had been lost in the Sudd area?”
“Only two. The first was an air liner of the Nestorian class, on the regular run to the Cape. It had to make a forced landing in the Sudd and stuck in the mud. The passengers were rescued by canoes. It was impossible to get the machine off again so it’s still there.”
“You’re sure of that?”
“Yes. Apparently it’s often mentioned by pilots in their reports.”
“And the other machine?”
“Something quite different—a Storch.”
“German, eh? How did that get there?”
“It did very much the same thing as the Nestorian. About eighteen months ago two German pilots, named Brund and Heckel, did a reliability test run from Hamburg to the Cape. It wasn’t successful, and the flight broke down somewhere near Kimberley. Early this year they tried again. They refuelled at Khartoum and took off for Malakal. They didn’t arrive, and nothing has been seen of them since. There was a search but it was fruitless. They must both be dead.”
“One would think so,” admitted Biggles. “Still, in this flying game one never knows. Just to make sure I’ll slip along and look over the ground myself.”
“All right. Then I’ll leave the case with you,” said the Air Commodore, getting up. “I shall be at the Yard if you want me. Good-bye for now.”
The pilots stood as the Air Commodore went out.
No sooner had the door closed on the Air Commodore than Ginger pointed an accusing finger at Biggles. “You’re holding out on us,” he challenged. “What about this photo you mentioned? What was on it?”
“I think I have a copy of it here,” answered Biggles. “Just a minute.” He went over to a filing cabinet and presently returned with a manila jacket tied with tape and labelled ‘Africa’, Opening it he searched for a little while, and then, with an exclamation of satisfaction, withdrew a large photograph. “Here we are! In my opinion that’s one of the most remarkable air photos ever taken,” he said, as he laid the picture on his desk.
There was silence for a moment while the others looked at it. Then Bertie said: “By Jove! I see what you mean, old boy. It certainly is a topper. I didn’t know there were so many elephants in the world.”
Ginger, with understanding in his eyes, was gazing at the photograph. It was an aerial shot, taken with an oblique camera from perhaps five hundred feet, of such a herd of elephants as he did not know existed anywhere, even in Africa. He tried to count them, but found it almost impossible. There were hundreds, some of them majestic tuskers.
“The chap who took that photo was probably the first man to see that herd,” remarked Biggles. “It caused a bit of a sensation when it was published because no one had any idea that such a herd existed. The experts said what had happened was this. By the latter half of the nineteenth century elephants were being so persecuted by ivory hunters that they withdrew into one of the few natural sanctuaries that remained in Africa—the Sudd. There, not even the hunters could follow them, so they were able to settle down and multiply in peace. No doubt quite a lot of people realised that here was a fortune in ivory waiting to be picked up—if there was any way of getting to it. One man at least realised that there might be one way. He bought an aircraft, engaged a pilot, and was all ready for an air expedition when the authorities stepped in and stopped him.”
“Quite right!” burst out Bertie. “Only an absolute bounder would think of shooting grand beasts like that from the air.”
“Where money is concerned some people have no conscience, I’m afraid,” said Biggles sadly. “You’re quite right, Bertie. So were the authorities when they said no. The Sudd was the last big natural game reserve left and they were determined to keep it that way.”
“And you think someone has sneaked out in an aircraft and is now machine-gunning the poor brutes?” questioned Algy.
“I can think of nothing else likely to attract anyone to the Sudd,” answered Biggles. “When the Air Commodore told his story the first thing I asked myself was, what financial reward was there to be found in the Sudd? On the face of it there was nothing. Then I remembered this photograph and the answer seemed to be ivory. I may be wrong, but I have a suspicion that those two German pilots are still alive. They may not have seen the photo, but they might well have spotted the herd on their first flight which ended at Kimberley. If so, the temptation to pick up some easy money might have been too much for them. They returned home, and came back properly equipped for the job. They had an excuse ready. They were trying to do what they had failed to do the first time— establish the reputation of their machine. Actually, to me that sounds suspicious in itself, because I need hardly tell you that if once a machine is suspected of being unreliable it’s hardly worth while trying to restore confidence in it. A Storch would certainly be an ideal type for the job. The Nazis, you remember, produced the prototype during the War, when they were looking for something ultra-light, and slow, for spotting and communication duties in difficult country. But this is all guesswork. Let’s waffle out to Africa and see how it fits into the facts. We’ll take the two Proctors, starting tomorrow morning.”
Biggles’ suspicions received some confirmation earlier than he expected.
A week later, at Khartoum, while the Proctors were being refuelled, the pilots were invited to lunch by the officer commanding the R.A.F. station. During the meal, quite naturally, Biggles discussed with the wing-commander the object of his trip, in the hope that he might learn something, the station being no great distance from the locality of the trouble. One of the questions he asked was, had anything been seen recently of the Nestorian that had been abandoned in the Sudd?
“It’s funny you should ask that because one of my pilots flew over it the other day,” answered the wing-commander. “It’s still there, although there’s nothing queer about that, of course. The wreck has become almost a landmark. But the officer concerned, who had seen the machine several times, made a note in his report that something had changed. Flying low, he came to the conclusion that someone had been to the spot because a considerable area of ground had been beaten flat, almost as if a runway had been stamped through the rushes.”
“But would that be possible? I understood that the machine was stuck in mud,” put in Biggles.
“So it is for ten months of the year,” agreed the wing-commander. “But for a short time at the height of the dry season much of the Sudd dries out, and then the ground becomes fairly firm. I wouldn’t care to land on it myself, mind you, although it has been done. A light plane in the hands of a good
pilot would be able to land in quite a number of places. As a matter of detail, the summer season is rather a nuisance to us here, because the rushes get very dry and the natives, either deliberately or by accident, often set fire to them. The result is a haze of smoke that spoils visibility.”
“What are conditions like now?” asked Biggles. “I mean, for a landing.”
“As good as they could be. It’s been an extremely dry year, for which reason, no doubt, a lot of activity has recently been noted.”
Biggles looked up sharply. “What sort of activity?”
“Only native, of course. Occasionally we do a reconnaissance over the area, and once or twice lately my fellows have noticed a fairly considerable party of natives deep in the Sudd where normally they couldn’t get. I imagine they are after game, which the water attracts.”
The wing-commander dropped his voice. “It’s nothing to do with me, but I have an idea these natives are having a go at the elephant. Something seems to have disturbed the herd, anyway. Usually the beasts keep together, but lately they seem to have become scattered.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Biggles slowly. “Where exactly was this native activity concentrated?”
“Over on the east side. Occasionally we send a machine there to have a look at things along the Abyssinian frontier.”
“I think I’ll take a run that way myself,” decided Biggles. “If you’ll excuse me I’ll get off right away, to put in as much time as possible while the present conditions last.”
“They won’t last much longer. The rains are about due,” stated the wing-commander. “If you’ll come along to the map room I’ll show you exactly where the crash lies. I have some photographs of it too.”
“Thank you, sir,” acknowledged Biggles. “I’d like very much to have a look at them.”
Within two hours he was in fact looking at the actual crash, which stood on even keel, gliding in a wide spiral round it, finishing at a height of only a few feet above it. What the wing-commander had said about someone having visited the spot was obviously true.
