by W E Johns
He had nearly reached the guardhouse when Colonel Barclay overtook him.
‘Just a minute, Bigglesworth,’ he said. ‘It may or may not mean anything but I have just learned from one of my scouts that Felceman has been working all day on his Moth. It struck me that he might have been fitting long-distance tanks — or something. He might even be getting ready to move off for good.’
‘I was just going over to have a word with him,’ replied Biggles.
‘And I thought you might like to see this,’ Colonel Barclay handed him a photograph. ‘Taken just after the war. When I was checking up on him I got a copy from the portrait he submitted with his application for his pilot’s licence.’
Biggles looked hard at the photograph and handed it back. ‘Thanks,’ he said, and after showing his pass at the gate, walked on.
Darkness was closing in as he made his way along the bank of the stream to the footbridge. Reaching it, he sat down and smoked several cigarettes thoughtfully, by which time it was quite dark. Then, getting up, he manipulated cords attached to either side of the handrail and pulled in a fine nylon net which he had set on his visit to the spot three hours earlier. He was not thinking of salmon as he drew it in. In fact, he was by no means confident that he would catch anything. But on his first sight of the photograph of the Heatherstone Moor sub-station, when Professor Frail had shown it to him at Scotland Yard, the thought had struck him that the stream was a ready-made line of communication from the Establishment to the outside.
As he searched through the rubbish that his net had caught — indeed, all the while he had been waiting — he was preoccupied with something else. The photograph of Felceman.
He knew he had seen the man before, but he was some time working out where the meeting had occurred. Then he remembered... the lone Spitfire beset by half a dozen Messerschmitts. He had gone to the rescue.
He and the unknown pilot had fought their way out of the scramble and later landed on his own squadron airfield. There the stranger had thanked him, his foreign accent thickened by emotion and excitement. ‘You save me that time, sir. They come too many for me, these Boches.’ Biggles had never learned the man’s name. Indeed, he had forgotten the incident until the photograph recalled it to his mind.
His soliloquy ended abruptly as his questing fingers closed over a small, smooth, very light object. Removing the weeds that clung to it he dried it on his handkerchief, when, in the light of a match, it was revealed to be a cylinder the size and shape of a shaving stick. Unscrewing the cap he drew out a piece of paper. He was afraid the message would be in code, but it was in clear English. He smiled grimly as he read: ‘Be careful. A Scotland Yard man is here. He may visit you. If trouble, liquidate him and follow emergency routine. Bring the last consignment. Acknowledge receipt of this by switching lights as usual.’
Biggles re-read the message, replaced it in the container, screwed on the cap, threw it back into the stream and watched it go on its way as lightly as a cork. Then he lit another cigarette and settled down to wait for the message to reach its destination.
The lights were on in Felceman’s hangar. He kept his eyes on the yellow square. Time dragged interminably, but still he watched. Then, at long last, came the signal that the message had been received. The hangar lights blinked off and on again. The signal, Biggles did not doubt, had been watched for with equal anxiety by a pair of eyes behind a window of the research station.
He set off across the moor towards the hangar. He was puzzled. Why, he wondered, had Felceman turned against the country which, during the war, he had risked his life to serve? There was something wrong about that, somewhere, he decided. Still, he would soon know the answer.
As he drew near the hangar the clink of metal on metal became audible. Following this came the staccato chatter of an electric riveter. Evidently Felceman was still busy.
Taking advantage of a lull in the noise Biggles rapped on the transit port of the main doors, which were closed. The only reply was a further tattoo on the riveter. He waited a moment, then pushed open the port and stepped through.
The hangar was brightly lit. The sound of the riveter came from under the Moth’s engine cowling, which was open. Too late he saw it had no operator. A hard object pressed into the small of his back. ‘March, mister,’ said a voice.
Biggles walked forward. A switch clicked on the wall behind him and the chatter of the riveter stopped.
‘I hear you knock, so I walk round from other side,’ said the voice.
‘I thought it might save us both trouble if I walked in,’ explained Biggles. ‘Do you mind if I turn round?’ Without waiting for an answer he turned, and as they faced each other he heard Felceman catch his breath. ‘Remember me?’ asked Biggles quietly.
‘How could I forget you?’ muttered Felceman awkwardly. ‘You save my life that day. But now you are not my friend. Is it that you come for the radium?’
It was Biggles’s turn to stare. ‘For the what?’
‘The radium. The synthetic radium. You pretend you do not know what goes on there?’
He pointed in the direction of the research station. ‘Well, suppose I do have some radium,’ he went on recklessly. ‘Oh no, it is not for me. I am not a spy against Britain. It is for my friends who are still prisoners. I help them to escape. For escape they need money. Radium means money, the money that buys freedom.’
‘Just a minute—just a minute,’ protested Biggles. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s this about radium?’
‘The radium they make.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Somebody.’
‘Well, whoever told you that was a liar. The only thing they make there is figures on paper. It looks to me, Felceman, as if some smart guy has taken you to the cleaners.’ Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘The people whom you think are your friends are your enemies, and mine. When they’re finished with you, you’ll be in a concentration camp with the friends you imagine you’re helping. Have you ever seen any of this radium?’
Felceman was staring at Biggles’s face. ‘No,’ he admitted.
‘You had some to deliver. Where is the capsule?’
Felceman put a hand in his pocket and drew out a container identical with the one Biggles had netted in the stream. Slowly, as though reluctant to have his doubts confirmed, he unscrewed the cap. ‘They told me it is dangerous to expose radium...’
‘This sort won’t hurt you,’ Biggles told him drily. Felceman shook the capsule and stared at the roll of micro-film that dropped into his hand.
‘Now you see what you’ve been doing — playing into the hands of the very people who are holding your friends.’
‘What do I do?’ asked Felceman helplessly.
‘You’d better give me that gun for a start, before you get into mischief,’ Biggles told him.
Felceman handed it over without a word.
‘Now,’ went on Biggles, ‘who is the man at the Research Station who sends you these containers?’
‘I have never seen him and I don’t know his name.’
‘Is that the truth?’
‘I swear it. My orders come from a hotel in London where I take my salmon. One salmon has the container in its throat. But if you want to catch the man at the Station I tell you how you can do it.’
‘How?’
‘By using the emergency routine. Those were my last orders. It is simple. I signal with my lights that I have the message. Then I take my plane and land on the Station airstrip. The man you want will be there, waiting to escape. Perhaps we both go and pick him up.’
‘I think that’s a very good idea,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I’ll help you to get the machine out. We’ll deal with the salmon-buying gentleman in London later.’
Ten minutes later, as they took off and headed for the Heatherstone Research Station landing strip, only the lighted squares of the windows were visible. Then, as though in answer to a signal, the landing lights outlining the airstrip were flashed
on.
‘They’re operated by the security police from the guardhouse,’ Biggles told his companion. ‘Only a high authority would have dared to phone for them to be turned on.’
Felceman did not answer.
As Biggles brought the machine to a standstill a man running towards them was for a moment silhouetted against the lighted ground-floor windows of the Research Station.
Torch in hand, Biggles jumped down and waited. At the same time, from the yellow splash of the guard-house door, poured uniformed figures, running.
The landing lights went out. Biggles supposed that the police had become suspicious.
The running man loomed up. ‘Get going, you fool,’ he snarled. ‘What are you doing standing there?’
Biggles flashed the light full on him. Blinking in the beam stood Doctor Mills.
‘All right. That’ll do,’ said Biggles crisply.
‘So it’s you!’ For a second Mills hesitated. Then he crouched, and with a growl deep in his throat, sprang. Biggles saw the flash of steel and flung up an arm to protect himself.
At the same time he put out his foot. Mills tripped over it and sprawled.
Then, in some curious way, there were two figures on the ground. An arm went up, and fell. There was a grunt. Felceman rose, breathing heavily.
By this time the torches of the security police were lighting the scene.
There was a babble of excited conversation as two of them bent over Mills, who, as far as they were concerned, was still the Deputy Director.
Colonel Barclay panted up, a service revolver in his hand. ‘Bigglesworth, what on earth’s going on here?’ he demanded.
‘Here’s your man, Colonel,’ answered Biggles briefly.
‘Mills?’ The Colonel’s voice cracked with incredulity. ‘Who does this machine belong to?’
Felceman stepped forward. ‘I give myself up,’ he said naïvely.
‘Stand where you are,’ ordered Biggles. ‘You haven’t finished yet. You’re coming with me to deliver a salmon in London.’ Turning to the colonel he explained the position as briefly as possible. ‘I’ll leave Mills in your care,’ he concluded. ‘The Yard will handle the business at the hotel end, and no doubt square accounts with Felceman here, who has been no more than a dupe. I’ll see you later to tidy up the details. Come on, Felceman. Let’s get weaving. Good night, Colonel. You can tell the fellows here that they can smile again. They’re in the clear, now. It’s all over bar the enquiry.’
‘Good night, Bigglesworth. Thanks for calling,’ returned the colonel cheerfully.
‘Don’t mention it,’ answered Biggles, turning to the machine.
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE LUNATIC AT LARGE
Biggles strode into the Operations Room at Air Police Headquarters, laid his portfolio on the desk and turned sombre eyes on his three police-pilot assistants who were having their ‘elevenses.’ You can give me a cup of that,’ he said wearily. ‘I need something.’
‘Now what is it?’ inquired Ginger.
‘You’d never guess,’ answered Biggles grimly. He accepted a cup of tea from Algy, sipped it, put it down and opened his cigarette case. ‘I’ve been to the Yard. I’ve also been to the Air Ministry,’ he went on. ‘Everyone is running round in circles in an advanced state of heeby-jeebies.’
‘Tell us why?’ requested Bertie. ‘I’m all worked up.’
‘So are a lot of other people,’ Biggles told him. ‘Of all the crazy affairs that have come our way this one is the tops. Listen, and I’ll tell you about it.’ He sank into his chair. ‘There are, in the R.A.F., two flying officers by the name of Glibb — Charles and John. They are twins, and for that reason, no doubt, they are more attached to each other than ordinary brothers. Both are night-bomber pilots; and both, at their own request, are serving in the same squadron. They entered the Service during the war and survived two operational tours, more than once being badly shot about. In view of what has happened it is important to remember that. Their nerves, we may suppose, became somewhat frayed.’ Biggles took another sip of tea.
‘Now Charles is, or was, Mess Secretary on his Station,’ he resumed. ‘The other day a surprise inspection by an Air Ministry accountant officer revealed that a sum of money which should have been in his safe was missing. He admitted taking the money but offered no explanation; wherefore he was of course put under close arrest. He now awaits a court-martial and possibly a prison sentence.
‘John now comes into the picture. His reaction to this lamentable state of affairs appears to have sent him off his rocker. Three days ago he took off in a Halifax, with full tanks, and a load of bombs on board, to do some high altitude practice bombing over Heligoland. He took off before his crew could get on board. This strange event being noticed he was promptly recalled. He ignored the signal. Some hours later a message was received from him which made it clear that his strange behaviour was not accidental but deliberate. He issued an ultimatum. He said, in effect, that if his brother was not released from arrest forthwith, with a guarantee that the prosecution would be dropped, he would, on Saturday night, during the hours of darkness, proceed to unload his bombs on the Aircraft Establishment at Farnborough.’ Biggles’s eyes made a lugubrious survey of the faces of his audience.
‘Nuts!’ murmured Algy. ‘Absolutely nuts.’
Biggles shrugged. ‘Nuts is the word. Unfortunately, the mental condition of a man who operates a bomb release has no effect on the explosive nature of his cargo. Today is Thursday. In two days, unless this lunatic is bluffing, he is liable to do a great deal of damage, and, what is worse, kill a lot of people.’
‘Do you think he’s bluffing?’ asked Algy.
‘I wouldn’t know about that. All I know is, the Air Ministry would rather not take the risk.’
‘What about the brother?’
‘He knows nothing about it. What could he do?’
‘He could tell his brother not to be a silly ass,’ said Bertie.
‘How? No one has the remotest idea of where he’s parked himself and the Halifax. When he flies over on Saturday a green light will indicate that the ultimatum has been accepted. As things stand, it looks as if the Air Ministry will have to swallow its wrath and give in. I’ve got John Glibb’s docket in my bag. I’ve glanced at it. His medical history isn’t too good. Twice his nerves have nearly cracked and he had to be laid off to rest. In fact, he was nearly discharged as unfit, but he pleaded to be allowed to stay on. The Air Ministry is now regretting that it acceded to his request — but regrets don’t help anybody. The clear fact is, under the strain of the miserable business in which his brother is involved, his brain has cracked and he’s gone round the bend, poor chap.’
‘What are we supposed to do about this?’ asked Algy.
‘Find him, of course.’
‘Which means, I take it, that the police and the Air Force haven’t a clue?’
‘Quite right. Every station in the country has put every available machine into the air, but of V for Vixen — that’s the name of the machine — there’s no sign. That isn’t surprising, since its petrol would give it an endurance range of about four thousand miles. Which means that it might be anywhere between Timbuctoo and the North Pole.’
‘When he takes off, radar will soon pick him up,’ predicted Ginger confidently.
‘And then what?’ questioned Biggles sarcastically. ‘What are you going to do? Shoot him down? You couldn’t do that without proof that he is resolved to carry out his threat. Apart from that, the Air Ministry will think twice before it knocks down a machine loaded to capacity with high explosive. Suppose it fell in the middle of a town? Pretty problem, isn’t it?’
‘And no one has an idea of where he might be?’ prompted Ginger.
‘Not so far. That’s the puzzle that has been handed to me to solve. I’m now going to study his record to see if I can get a line. As I see it there is just one guide, although the time factor may not be long enough for us to follow it u
p. He can’t have landed on a proper airfield or he would have been spotted. To land anywhere else must mean that he knows the place intimately; for, after all, he is still a pilot, and as such he wouldn’t be such a fool as to put down a heavily loaded machine on an unknown surface. He’d need a lot of room. Our only hope is to back-track his career, as shown in his record, until we find a place that he has visited where a big machine might be put down. It is bound to be somewhere remote, for practically all suitable ground has been taken over either for airfields or for agricultural purposes, neither of which would suit him. Now you can all start thinking, while I go through this docket.’
‘I suppose it’s no use taking up a machine to have a look round?’ suggested Ginger.
‘Not the slightest. The country has already been covered from Land’s End to John o’Groats. If the machine is still in the United Kingdom, and we’ve no indication that it is, either it’s under cover or else it has been carefully camouflaged. Either way, we shan’t find it by tearing about haphazard. This docket is our only hope.’
Biggles took the big wad of documents from his portfolio, opened the buff manilla cover, rested his head in his hands and began to read.
Ignoring lunch, he did not speak again until tea-time, when he turned over the last of the many papers in the folder.
‘Well?’ queried Algy.
Biggles shook his head. ‘Not a thing. There’s nothing either in his private life or his service career that offers anything like a suggestion. I’ll go through the whole thing again when I’ve had something to eat, to make sure that I haven’t overlooked anything.’
The following morning, Friday, the last clear day, found Biggles still sitting engrossed over the docket. He refused to be drawn into what he declared to be the futile business of an air reconnaissance without anything to work on. ‘If that machine is in the open someone would have spotted it by now,’ he asserted wearily. He pointed to the docket, now showing signs of wear and tear. ‘If the answer isn’t here, we’re beaten.’
