by W E Johns
For which reason confidence at the Air Police Operations Office was fading. Fortunately no other problem had arisen to hinder investigations into the case now known officially as the Missing Cub. The Press had reported briefly and then apparently lost interest in the face of news of national importance. Air Police Sergeant Algy Lacey had gone to India to work on a report of gold smuggling.
Biggles sat in the office with Bertie discussing other possible lines of procedure. Open on the desk in front of them was a map of the Home Counties. With the Kingsmead Aviation Company’s Airfield as the centre a circle with a radius of 500 miles had been drawn with a compass.
“Somewhere inside that circle is the machine we’re looking for, intact or in pieces,” declared Biggles. “There’s no argument about that, and that being so it must be possible to find it. After all, it isn’t as though we were looking for a lost wrist-watch. An aircraft is a sizeable article. If it’s a wreck why has no one reported it? If it got down without being damaged why hasn’t Taffy got in touch? It beats me.”
Bertie answered. “I’d make a small wager it’s under water somewhere, a lake or maybe a reservoir. If that isn’t the answer it must be stuck on top of some bally mountain. You remember we once had a case like that. A murderer trying to get away with it plunked a Moth in a Highland loch. Unfortunately for him the tail unit showed at low water.”1
“You could be right,” agreed Biggles despondently. “Well, we’ll give it another couple of days; if we’ve heard nothing by then I shall have to ask the chief for instructions. He may decide we’ve put in enough time on it as it is. As I’ve said before, it’s Taffy more than the machine—” he broke off, looking up, as Ginger, still in his flying-kit, burst in, an expression of triumph on his face.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve struck the scent at last,” announced Ginger, taking off his helmet and goggles with unusual alacrity.
“Spill it,” requested Biggles, coming to life. “Where did you find it?”
“At the Marsdale Flying School, near Oxford. I was in the clubhouse going through the usual routine of describing Taffy’s passenger when a fellow who was having a drink at the bar—he turned out to be one of the instructors, named Gordon—looked round with a sort of sneer and said: ‘That sounds like Snifty Chandler.’ I joined him and over another drink went into the finer details—north-country accent, blue feather in pork-pie hat—the lot. At the finish he nodded and said: ‘That sounds mighty like Chandler to me.’ Naturally, I said, ‘What do you know about him?’ He knew plenty. Now fasten your safety belts.” Ginger piled his flying-kit on a chair and continued.
“If Taffy Welsh’s passenger was Chandler this business will begin to look a bit grim.”
“Was this fellow Chandler a pilot?” put in Biggles.
“Too true he was, and one with a pretty poor record.”
Biggles nodded. “So it looks as if I was right. But why use the past tense? Once a pilot always a pilot. Go ahead. Where did Gordon meet Chandler?”
“First, in the R.A.F.. Later, at the Marsdale School, before he, that is, Chandler, was chucked out.”
“What was Chandler doing there?”
“He was a flying instructor.”
“Ah,” breathed Biggles. “Now we seem to be getting somewhere. Carry on.”
“Gordon told me he first met Chandler in the Service. Gordon was a Flying Officer and Chandler a Sergeant Pilot in the same squadron. That was four years ago. It seems Chandler was a good enough pilot till he took to booze. Next thing was he was reprimanded for reporting for duty in an unfit state to fly. In other words he was tight. It happened again, with the result that he was grounded and lost his stripes. That seems to have sent him crazy, for what must he do but take up a machine without permission and throw it all over the sky. At the court martial his defence was that he did it to prove he could fly as well drunk as sober. The case got a short paragraph in the newspapers. Of course he didn’t get away with that, and out of the Service he went, on his ear, as an undesirable type.”
“What a fool the fellow must be.”
Ginger went on: “Later on it appears he got a job as a civilian instructor at a flying school somewhere up north. He didn’t keep it long. What happened Gordon didn’t know, but when he, that is, Gordon, was taken on as an instructor at Marsdale who should he find there but Chandler, still teaching people to fly.”
“Did Gordon tell the management what he knew about Chandler?”
“No.”
Biggles frowned. “Why not? He should have done.”
“He realized that later; but apparently Gordon is one of those decent chaps who believe in giving wasters another chance. Anyway, Chandler having assured him he was now on the water wagon he let it pass. But when, later, he saw Chandler, as drunk as a lord, trying to climb into an aircraft, he went to the club secretary and spilt the beans. That did it. Chandler was sacked on the spot.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About two months.”
“Did Gordon know what happened to him after that?”
“No. He just faded away.”
Biggles bit his lip. “Pity. How are we going to check that Chandler was the man who got into the back seat of Taffy’s Cub?”
“I’ve got the answer to that one,” asserted Ginger, feeling in his pocket. “Here’s a photo of the Marsdale lot, pilots and pupils. It was taken outside the clubhouse for a Christmas card about six months ago.” He put the picture on the desk. “Chandler is the one on the left. Lorrimore said he would know the man anywhere, so all we have to do is show him this photo. How’s that for a day’s work?”
“Jolly good,” complimented Biggles.
“This seems to be the answer,” murmured Bertie, smiling.
“Not quite,” corrected Biggles. “Assuming this man is the fellow we’ve been looking for we are now faced with the even more difficult job of finding him. We’ve taken a step forward, but the original problem remains. Where is the Cub, and far more important, where’s Taffy? We’ll come to that when we’ve seen Lorry. We’ll run down right away, show him the photo and ask him if he recognizes anyone.”
“I left the Auster outside,” said Ginger.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
In a few minutes, having confirmed that Lorrimore was still in his office, the Auster was on its way.
On arrival Biggles went straight in. “Any news of Taffy?” was his first question as the club secretary rose from his desk to greet them.
“Not a word.”
Taking the photograph from his pocket Biggles went on: “I want you to look at this and tell me if you recognize anyone.”
Without a moment’s hesitation Lorrimore put a finger on the man on the left. “That’s the man who came here for a joy-ride,” he stated.
“You’re sure?”
“I’d swear to it, on oath if necessary. Where did you get this? Do you know who he is?”
“All right. Don’t get excited. I’ll tell you all we know. He’s an ex-Sergeant Pilot, R.A.F., named Chandler. As that was his name in the Service, as he’d have to show his birth certificate we can be pretty sure that’s the correct one. He was chucked out for hitting the bottle too often. More recently he was an instructor at Marsdale. He lost his job there, too, for the same reason.”
Lorrimore’s lips tightened. “The lying swine. He told me he’d never been in the air.”
“Of course he did. Pilots don’t buy joy-rides. Had he told the truth you’d have wanted to know more about him.”
“Too damn’ true I would. But what was his idea?”
“Obviously, he wanted an aeroplane. As presumably he hadn’t the money to buy one he decided to pinch one. It was too easy. In view of his record I question if he holds a civilian ticket—but I’ll check on that presently. It’s only a minor point. A feeling is growing on me that there’s more behind this than any of us at first suspected. A man doesn’t pinch an aircraft unless he has a scheme for using it.”
“Y
ou think he has pinched it?”
“What else are we to think? He may not necessarily have wanted it for his own use. There may be somebody else in the picture. After all, the machine has to be housed. Then there’s a little matter of fuel and oil. They cost money, and as Chandler seems to have poured most of his pay down his throat his notebook could hardly be bulging. Maybe that’s why he has done what he has.”
“But what about Taffy?”
Biggles shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Frankly, at the moment I don’t know. But you can be sure we’re not going to write the case off merely as a lost aeroplane.”
Lorrimore shook his head. “I don’t get it. Unless Chandler is out of his mind he must realize that if he uses that kite it’ll be spotted.”
“It may have changed the colour of its plumage, and its registration.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well, that’s all for now. You’ll have to leave it to us. We shall do everything possible to get this sorted out. Meanwhile, if you hear anything let us know.”
“Of course. Right away.”
The Auster returned to its base.
“Well, and where do we go from here, old boy?” Bertie wanted to know when they were back in the office. “I can’t see that the photo has got us far.”
“As far as we could have expected. We’ve established that Taffy’s passenger was not what he pretended to be and that he was a professional pilot. We know he used a false name, and a man doesn’t do that without a good reason. Let’s look at it in the light of what we know now. Chandler didn’t want a joy-ride. He wanted an aircraft, apparently a small, light, handy machine, since he chose a Cub. His purpose? There can’t be many reasons why a man should do a thing like that. He might be a crook on the run hoping to shake off the police. That doesn’t apply to Chandler or we would have known about it. The alternative is he wanted a plane for his own use, presumably for some particular purpose.”
Ginger stepped in. “Bearing in mind the daft things he did in the Air Force you don’t think this was just another crazy lark?”
Biggles shook his head. “No. His lunatic behaviour in the Service was done under the influence of drink. He couldn’t have been drunk when he booked his flight or Lorry would have spotted it and refused to let him get in a plane. Again, don’t forget that Chandler was prepared to commit a serious crime to get that aircraft, violence, or perhaps even murder for all we know. A man would hardly do that merely for the fun of it. I shall take the line that Chandler wanted a plane. He hadn’t the money to buy one so he stole one. If I’m right that gives us something to work on. Assuming the machine is still airworthy we should be able to find it.”
“But you said yourself it might have been repainted in different colours and given a fake registration,” argued Bertie.
“Yes; but repainted by whom? Chandler couldn’t get it done professionally without questions being asked. Most people in the business would recognize the Kingsmead Club colours; and by this time they should know that G-ALZX has been reported missing. No, Chandler wouldn’t be such a fool as to take a chance like that.”
“He could do the painting himself.”
“That’s a very different matter. Amateur work isn’t up to professional standard. If Chandler has done it himself I’d bet any money that on close examination there are places where the original colours show, like places that are hard to reach with a brush or a spray. If the machine is still in operation a smart mechanic would be able to spot such places.”
“What mechanic?”
“Any mechanic on any airfield where he lands.”
“Does he have to land on an airfield?”
“Unless he’s clever enough to make an aero engine run on water. Remember, I’m assuming the machine is being used. That being so Chandler will need fuel and oil—not any old petrol, but aviation spirit. Where’s he going to get it when his tanks run low? There’s only one place—an aerodrome; and that’s where we may catch up with him.”
“That sounds like a lot of flying for us.”
“Not at all. I shall send a circular letter to every refuelling station in the country asking for watch to be kept for a Piper Cub which regardless of its registration shows signs of having recently been repainted. If such a machine should land asking for petrol, an excuse must be made to hold it while we, at Scotland Yard, are informed immediately by telephone. On no account must such a machine be refuelled. Something on those lines. I shall also contact Interpol with the same request in case the machine has gone abroad.” Biggles shrugged a shoulder. “I must admit it’s a long shot but what else can we do? We can’t cover every airfield ourselves, and to cruise around hoping to drop on the machine by accident would be an even longer shot. Chandler must know perfectly well that the Cub has been reported missing so you can reckon he’ll be more than somewhat careful where and how and when he takes it up. He may only use the machine during the hours of darkness. Even by day he’d probably be wise enough to use any cloud cover available.”
“That introduces another factor,” observed Bertie, polishing his monocle with thoughtful concentration. “Radar will pick him up. If he waffles across any of the regular service air corridors, by day or by night, the control rooms affected are likely to have hysterics. They’ll scream at him to get out of the way. Supposing he gets the signals, which he should, what will he do? Ignore them or alter course? If he ignores them we shall be told, that being our standing arrangement with the radar people.”
“Yes,” replied Biggles pensively. “You make a point there. Even so, I can’t see how radar would help us much. All it could do would be to give us the last known position of the intruder. At night we could do nothing about it. By day, by the time we reached the area the Cub could be miles away in any direction.”
“Radar could track him,” Ginger pointed out.
“Not if he’s as sharp as an ex-service pilot should be. If he suspected he was being tracked he’d go downhill like a bat out of hell to get under the beam. Still, it’s worth bearing in mind.”
“By the way, does Gaskin know anything about this?” queried Bertie.
“I haven’t told him—why?”
“He might help us by pushing out notices to all rural police stations asking officers on patrol to keep an eye open for a small aeroplane doing anything unusual—flying low, landing or standing in a field, for instance.”
“As I have an ugly suspicion that we may end up with a case of murder he probably wouldn’t mind doing that,” said Biggles. “I’ll speak to him about it. Anything else? No? Then I’ll draft the letter and get it sent out.”
* * *
1 See ‘The Case of the Submerged Aircraft’ in Biggles Presses On.
CHAPTER III
THE TRAIL OF THE CUB
ANOTHER week passed. Biggles had done all he said he would do but so far nothing had come in from the many areas of investigation. Although not yet prepared to accept defeat he had as usual become taciturn under the influence of frustration. Over and over again he said: “What else can we do?” Nobody could provide an answer.
Then, on the eighth morning, two things happened within minutes of each other to galvanize the office into activity.
The first was a phone call from Paris, from Marcel Brissac, their astute air-Interpol colleague in France. He had rung up to say that a Piper Cub, which had declined to answer signals, had been picked up the previous night over the Plaine de la Crau north of Marseilles. It had been challenged by a searchlight but had slipped out of the beam. It had, however, been held long enough for it to be recognized as a Cub. It had not been possible to observe registration letters but it was almost certainly a British machine. It had last been heard heading north. The radar at Bron airport had tracked it for some distance beyond Lyons, on the main route. It had happened before, and if it happened again, and the pilot refused to identify himself, it might be necessary to force it
down.
“What do you know about that,” muttered Biggles, after he had hung up and repeated the information to the others. “Marseilles. If that’s Chandler he can’t have much petrol left, if any.” He looked at his map, with the marked circle. “In fact, I’d say he must be getting petrol from somewhere, if the machine returned to England.”
“Plaine de la Crau,” murmured Ginger. “That rings a bell.”
“It should. We once had a spot of bother there. Wonderful landmark for airmen. Eighty square miles as flat as a billiards table and practically nothing but sand and shingle.”
“Nice place to get down if you’re in trouble,” remarked Bertie.
“There’s nothing to suggest that the chap flying the Cub was Chandler, although it could have been,” went on Biggles. “Easy place to find. The main line from Paris to the south runs right across it. Follow the railway and there you are. The same going back north.”
“You don’t think it’s worth a visit?” suggested Ginger.
“No. We wouldn’t be likely to find anything. Marcel will let us know if there’s a repetition of what happened last night. Even if the pilot was Chandler it would be futile to try to guess what he was doing in that part of the world.”
The possibilities were still being discussed when the telephone rang again. This time the news was more hopeful. The caller was the manager of Lysett, a small private aerodrome near Frome, in Somerset. He had received Biggles’s circular letter and put it on the notice board. One of the club mechanics, who had just returned from long weekend leave, reported that he had recently refuelled a Piper Cub which might possibly be the one the police were looking for. The registration was G-ALCK and it had recently been repainted. The pilot, who said he was the owner of the aircraft, had given the name of Captain John Maxwell. He was running short of fuel and oil. He was flying solo. The tanks had been filled right up and he had paid cash. The colour of the machine was now dark-blue all over but the wings had once been cream. This was discernible at the port wing tip which at some time had been slightly damaged and repaired. It was possible to see the original colour had been cream.