by W E Johns
Biggles thanked the speaker for the information and said he would send someone along right away to interview the mechanic. He then related the gist of the conversation to the others who were watching with interest. He went on: “Ginger, run through the file to see if there’s a Captain John Maxwell on the list of private owners. Bertie, check if there’s a Cub carrying the registration G-ALCK.”
As this was being done he resumed: “This sounds better. If Maxwell was Chandler he must be using a heck of a lot of petrol. Anyway, he’s managed to top up his tanks.”
“Nothing doing,” reported Ginger, closing his card index. “No Maxwell here.”
“And no Cub registered G-ALCK,” said Bertie.
“That’s what I thought,” asserted Biggles. “Better and better. This is where we get weaving. This is the drill. Bertie, you first. You’ll go to Lysett right away taking with you the photo showing Chandler. If the man who called himself Captain Maxwell was Chandler the mechanic who filled him up with petrol should recognize him. If he does turn out to be Chandler, as he got petrol there once and may come back for more. I want you to wait at the airfield until you get further orders from me. That means you’ll have to stand by for all the hours of daylight.”
“And if the man wasn’t Chandler?”
“You can come back home. But you might try to find out what this fellow Maxwell is up to, who the plane belongs to and why it’s carrying phoney registration markings. In any case, as soon as you know anything ring me up and give me the gen.”
“And if Chandler does turn up—what do I do? If he calls for petrol do I let him have it?”
Biggles hesitated. “If by any chance the machine is the one that was reported in the South of France there can’t be much petrol or oil left in the tanks. Which means it’ll need refuelling. I think you’d better let it fill up,” he decided. “I’m thinking of Taffy. If you tackle Chandler on the spot he may keep his mouth shut, in which case the only charge against him would be taking the aircraft without the owner’s permission.”
“But dash it all, old boy, he’d have to account for Taffy’s disappearance!”
“If he’s murdered him or got him locked up somewhere he wouldn’t be likely to admit it, and we couldn’t charge him with that without more evidence than we have at present. We couldn’t hold him for murder without producing Taffy’s body. He’ll have a good story ready, you may be sure, to explain how he happens to be alone with the plane. I’m not saying that he’s killed Taffy, who never did him any harm, but if he has I aim to see that he swings for it. Let him have what petrol he wants and then tail him to see where he goes. He should return to wherever he’s hiding the machine. You’ll have to be cagey about that. If once he suspects he’s being followed he’d probably manage to give you the slip—certainly if there was any cloud cover. For the rest, well, I shall have to leave it to you to act as you think best.”
“Where will you be?”
“Here by the time you get to Lysett. I shall slip along to Kingsmead right away to make a double check. Lorry will know if the Cub he lost had at any time damaged its port wing. It would be entered in the book. If that turns out to be so it should confirm the Lysett report and leave us in no doubt about the plane that called there.”
“Right-ho. If that’s all I’ll get along,” said Bertie.
“There’s just one other thing,” said Biggles thoughtfully. “The operation is to find out where Chandler is keeping that Cub; at present just that and nothing more. For obvious reasons it won’t be on an aerodrome. The only alternative is a field. Not any field, but a pasture big enough for the job. We can assume there’ll be some sort of camouflage, or cover, to hide the machine when it’s not in use. If, as we hope, Chandler shows you where it is, you won’t land, of course. Sheer off, but mark it well so that you’ll be able to find it again. That may not be as easy as it sounds sitting here. It won’t be close to a town or village where there are always people about. In open farm country grass fields all look alike, unless you happen to know the ground well. If there happens to be a conspicuous landmark so well and good; but if there isn’t, as you know, it’s even possible to miss a small landing field, which is why in the early days we started marking them in the middle with a white circle. It might not be a bad idea, if you do find Chandler’s field, to mark it with something.”
“Such as?”
“In the old days of war flying we used to mark enemy gun batteries and other targets with a small paper bag of flour, or french chalk, which is usually to be found in a machine shop. The bag bursts when it hits the ground and makes a white spot. It’s only noticed if you happen to be looking for it.”
“I hardly think that’ll be necessary, old boy, but I’ll take a bag along with me in case of accidents,” said Bertie lightly. “If that’s all I’ll press on.” He departed on his mission.
Ginger grimaced at Biggles. “This begins to look pretty black for Taffy.”
Biggles agreed. “Dead or alive we’ve got to find him,” he said grimly. “It’s lucky he wasn’t married, or by this time his wife would be screaming her head off, and not without reason. But let’s run down to Kingsmead and hear what Lorry has to say.”
They found him on the tarmac, and again Biggles’ first question was: “Any news?”
“Not a word,” answered Lorrimore lugubriously. “You heard anything?”
“Yes, but it’s a bit early to say how much our information is worth. We’re following it up. That’s why we’re here. I have a question to put to you. Did the missing Cub ever suffer some damage to its port wing tip?”
Lorrimore looked surprised at the question. “Why, yes. Only three weeks ago a pupil dented it taking the machine out of the hangar in too much of a hurry. How did you know?”
“I didn’t know but I thought it likely. A Cub painted dark-blue, with dud registration, has landed at Lysett, in Somerset, for petrol. The port wing tip had recently had a knock.”
“That’s it!” cried Lorrimore.
“Perhaps, but not necessarily,” returned Biggles cautiously. “It’s easy to buckle a wing tip.”
“Who brought the Cub in?”
“A man who said his name was Maxwell.”
“Could that have been true?”
“I suppose so. I’ve taken steps to find out.”
“You think it was Chandler using yet another name?”
“I do.”
“Was he—flying solo?”
“He was.”
“Then where’s Taffy?”
Biggles shook his head. “It’s no use asking me.”
“Did Lysett let the Cub have petrol?”
“Of course. Why not? It was filled up.”
“Then the machine must have done a devil of a lot of flying since it left here,” stated Lorrimore trenchantly.
“I’ve had a report from France that a Cub which refused to identify itself was over Provence last night.”
“Provence! For God’s sake—”
“Don’t ask me what it was doing. It may not have been your machine, anyway.”
“If it was it looks as if it’s gone for good.”
“I don’t think so. It was last heard heading north. It was tracked as far as Bron airport so there’s reason to suppose, if it was Chandler, that he was on his way back to this country. We may soon know. One of my chaps is already on the way to Lysett in case the Cub that called there for petrol comes back for more. Don’t worry too much. I’m certain of one thing. If Chandler imagines he can aviate a stolen aircraft indefinitely he must be drunk or crazy. He might do it once or twice, but if he goes on we shall catch him. I must admit that the job of finding Taffy is likely to be more difficult.”
“If it’s my Cub that went to France what could have been its object?”
“I can think of several reasons. It may have taken somebody over and dropped him off there. It may have picked up a load of contraband and brought it here. Anything. There would be no difficulty. Behind Marseilles ther
e’s a natural airfield big enough to take a squadron of jets with room to spare. But I mustn’t stay nattering here. I’m expecting a phone call from Lysett. I’ll let you know if there are further developments.”
“Thanks.”
Biggles turned away. “So long.”
The Auster returned to its base.
“This is where we wait for word from Bertie,” said Biggles, as he sat by the telephone and lit a cigarette. “I have high hopes. Barring a coincidence it’s almost certain that the Cub which landed at Lysett is the one we’re looking for.”
The call from Bertie came through an hour later. The report caused no surprise. It told them what they were so anxious to know. The mechanic who had refuelled the Cub had had no hesitation in identifying, on the photograph, the pilot who had flown it as the man who had said his name was Captain Maxwell.
“So it was Chandler,” Biggles told Ginger in a quick aside.
The only other information the mechanic had been able to give Bertie was, Maxwell—or Chandler as he appeared to be—had volunteered the statement that he had recently bought the machine second-hand. He was now getting the “feel” of it. For the time being he was keeping it at home, being a landowner with plenty of ground not far away. He had not mentioned an address or given any indication of where his estate might be. That was all. He, Bertie, had made the necessary arrangements to stand by to watch for the Cub should it return for more petrol. He would ring again if he had anything fresh to report. If he did not come through personally, as might happen if he had to act quickly, Grant, the aerodrome manager would do so for him, to report what had happened. Grant knew all about it. He had explained the position to him.
“So far so good,” said Biggles, when he had rung off.
“You’re not thinking of going to Lysett yourself?” questioned Ginger.
“I don’t think so—not yet, anyhow. As things stand we could do no more than Bertie should be able to do alone, so there’s really no point in it. Too many people hanging about might make Chandler suspicious, and if he should take fright we could lose him. Moreover, we told Bertie we would be here. If he happened to come through again while we were on our way to Somerset it might throw things out of gear. It’s dangerous to change a plan halfway through an operation. We may not get another chance like this so I’d rather not take any risks of upsetting it.”
“What’s wrong with grabbing the machine, and Chandler, if he should land?”
“We’ve discussed that before. It isn’t enough. We must give him enough rope to lead us to where he’s keeping the machine, because that’s the only way we shall find out what’s become of Taffy. Chandler told the mechanic he was keeping the machine on his own ground. Certainly he must be hiding the Cub somewhere when it’s not in use, but I question if the ground is his own property. From what we know of him he’d hardly be likely to own an establishment with a field big enough to land in. Where would he get the money?”
“He’s getting money from somewhere, apparently, or he couldn’t have been able to pay cash for the petrol he bought at Lysett.”
Biggles nodded. “I hadn’t overlooked that. It implies he’s not running a racket on his own account. He must have somebody behind him, to finance him.”
“The man who owns the landing ground he’s using.”
“It begins to look like that. It wouldn’t surprise me. I had half suspected something of the sort.” Biggles looked at his watch. “I’ll slip out and get some lunch. We’d better not both go out together. You stay by the phone in case Bertie comes through again. I shan’t be long. When I come back I’ll take over while you get a snack.”
Biggles was away for less than an hour. He returned to find a call had come through from Lysett, although not from Bertie. It was Grant, the aerodrome manager, speaking for him. What he had to say was brief and to the point. The gist of it was, the wanted Cub had just landed for fuel and oil. Its tanks were nearly empty. The same man, thought to be Chandler, was flying it, again solo. The fuel had been supplied and, as before, paid for in cash. It had then taken off with Lissie following on.
“Good thing we stayed here or we shouldn’t have known anything about this till we got to Lysett,” was Biggles’ comment to Ginger. “We’d better wait here, too, because Bertie won’t waste any time getting through to us when he has something to say, and this is where he’ll expect to find us. There’s nothing we can do until we hear from him.”
“If the Cub merely dropped in to fill up and then went straight back to its hide-out that shouldn’t be long,” observed Ginger with satisfaction.
“If it does that we should soon know all the answers,” returned Biggles cheerfully. “You might as well make a dash for something to eat while the going’s good. Presently we may be too busy to think about food.”
In this, however, he was mistaken. When Ginger came in after a hurried meal there had been no further word from Lysett. Nor from Bertie, who might possibly have landed somewhere else.
When three o’clock came and the telephone remained silent Biggles was frowning. By four he was looking worried. Five o’clock found him pacing the floor, smoking cigarette after cigarette in his irritation.
“What the deuce can Bertie be doing?” he demanded at intervals.
Ginger, of course, could not provide the answer. All he could say was: “If Chandler went to the South of France last night it would explain why his tanks were empty this morning. He may be in a hurry to get back there and so prepared to risk a trip in daylight. Bertie would follow as long as his petrol lasted.”
“I suppose that could happen,” agreed Biggles. “But two trips to the South of France in twenty-four hours hardly sounds feasible to me.”
At eight o’clock, with daylight fading, he sat down and stubbed his cigarette in the ash-tray. “Something’s gone wrong,” he muttered.
CHAPTER IV
NOT IN THE PROGRAMME
IN supposing that something had gone wrong Biggles was correct. It is unlikely that he could have imagined how far it had gone wrong; which perhaps was just as well. For this Bertie was not to be blamed.
He had reached Lysett aerodrome without any bother, and having parked his Auster where it would be out of the way yet within easy reach, made himself, and his purpose, known to the aerodrome manager, a young flying enthusiast named Duncan Grant. In the office he told him the details, as far as they were known, of Taffy Welsh’s disappearance, what was suspected and what was now proposed. Grant promised his full co-operation.
He sent for the mechanic who had refuelled the Cub. Bertie showed him the photograph. The man, an ex-R.A.F. fitter, instantly pointed to Chandler and said: “That’s the man.” Questioned further he agreed there had been a certain amount of conversation, but not much, as the pilot seemed anxious to push on. He repeated as much of it as he could remember but this yielded nothing of importance. An interesting detail was, he had gathered the impression that Maxwell—as he still called him—had had “a drink or two”. However, this was nothing to do with him.
All this Bertie passed to Biggles over the telephone, the chief item, of course, being the confirmation that Maxwell was Chandler, so the Cub he was flying must without doubt have been the missing machine. This done, having seen his Auster refuelled, he made himself comfortable in a deck-chair on the veranda of the clubhouse, a position from which he could see everything that went on, although being mid-week the aerodrome was quiet.
He was prepared for a long wait, possibly for some days, but as he had arranged for meals and accommodation at the club this did not worry him. It was nothing new. In the course of his flying life, like most pilots he had spent many hours doing what he was doing now, just sitting looking at an aerodrome in the hope that something interesting would happen. Grant stayed with him for a while and then returned to his office to get on with some work. It was a fine day, warm, with intermittent sunshine, the sky being about a quarter covered by slow-moving cumulus cloud.
Within twenty minutes the p
urr of a light plane flying low brought him to the alert, and his eyes turned to the direction from which it was coming. He recognized a Cub. He could hardly believe that so soon it was the machine for which he was waiting, but as it glided in to land, and he noted the registration letters, he saw to his great satisfaction that it was. He stood up, leaning in a casual attitude against the veranda rail, while the machine taxied slowly to the petrol filling station, where it stopped. The airscrew died. The mechanic to whom Bertie had spoken appeared from the hangar in which he had been working. The pilot of the Cub jumped down, and after a few words the business of refuelling began.
Bertie strolled over. He wanted to see the pilot’s face and there seemed to be no reason why he shouldn’t. In the circumstances the man, even if he was Chandler, could hardly suspect him of being anything but a casual visitor.
It was Chandler. He wore a tweed suit, flying cap, and goggles which he had pushed up. He greeted Bertie with a nod, as one airman to another.
“Nice day,” observed Bertie carelessly. “Coming in for a drink?” What he hoped to gain by this should the invitation be accepted he really didn’t know, but he thought there was just a chance Chandler might let something drop.
Anyway, the offer was declined. “No thanks. I’m in a hurry to get on,” was the reply.
Bertie’s eyes wandered along the leading edge of the port plane to the tip. “Going far?” he inquired.
“No. Just a practice cross-country,” answered Chandler. “What are you doing here?”
“Same as you. Putting in a little flying time. I dropped in here thinking I might run into somebody I knew. I shall be pushing along myself presently.” Bertie made this last remark in anticipation of Chandler seeing him in the air in the near future.
That was all. The mechanic fetched the bill from the office. Chandler paid it in cash, and getting back into his seat started up. Then, with a wave, he taxied into position to take off. The mechanic signalled the sky was clear.