by W E Johns
Bertie was already walking towards his Auster. He could see Grant watching from the door of the office. He frowned disapproval as the Cub took off in an unnecessarily steep climbing turn. Another moment and Bertie was in his seat with the engine running. He put his little bag of french chalk handy beside him, waited until the Cub was over the distant trees that ringed the aerodrome and then took off to follow it.
As soon as he was in the air he could see the Cub perhaps a mile ahead, flying level at a height of about a thousand feet, which was well below the clouds. Bertie of course had not the remotest idea of how far the chase would go, but as apparently the Cub did not intend to climb any higher he thought it could be no great distance. The fact that the Cub was keeping well below the clouds made his task easier. He realized that Chandler might see him if he looked at his reflector but that could not be avoided. Anyway, there was no reason why both machines should not be flying the same or a similar course.
Actually, Bertie would have preferred to take advantage of the cover offered by the clouds, but they were at least three thousand feet higher and he dare not risk falling too far behind, as would happen if he climbed up to them. Knowing only too well how easy it is to lose a machine in the sky when it cannot be heard for the noise made by one’s own engine he resolved not to take his eyes off the Cub.
It is true that from time to time he snatched a glance at the ground in the hope of picking up a landmark he knew and thus check his whereabouts; but the country was mostly well-wooded farm land without a conspicuous feature, so all he knew was his course was south-south-west. He had maps, but there was no time to study them. Picturing the atlas he perceived that he would soon be over Dorset, if indeed he had not already crossed the county boundary. He could see the rolling Dorset Heights in the distance.
For a few minutes the Cub flew straight on, so it was obvious that Chandler knew exactly where he was going. Then two things happened together. The Cub appeared to be slowly losing height when the Auster’s engine backfired. A swift look at his rev. counter showed Bertie the needle quivering and falling back.
He was shocked. Aero engines are usually reliable, as they have to be, but they do occasionally give trouble, although this is something a pilot seldom thinks about until it happens. That it should happen at this vital moment was infuriating but there was nothing Bertie could do about it. An aeroplane engine cannot be examined in flight like the engine of a motor-car on the ground. A pilot’s revolution indicator tells him if some thing is wrong, but nothing more. It is enough. There is only one thing for him to do—go down. Whether or not he can do this without damaging himself or the machine depends on the nature of the ground below.
Bertie’s eyes went over the instrument panel. He saw he had plenty of petrol. He winced as another back-fire sent a little cloud of smoke or petrol vapour swirling aft and the aircraft began vibrating. He had no intention of risking a serious crash even for Chandler, so he retarded the throttle and began a quick inspection of the ground for a suitable place to land. The country was thickly wooded and at first he could see nothing that satisfied him. In doing this he had of course to take his eyes off the Cub. When he looked up it had gone. It took him some precious seconds to find it. Then he spotted it gliding in to land in a long pasture about a mile in front; and that, for the moment, was as much as he had time to see, except that he noticed a village about two miles farther on.
He had to make up his mind quickly. Could he reach the field where the Cub had now landed? He thought he could just do it. The advisability of this did not occur to him, although in fact he now had little choice. He was concerned only with getting down without a crash.
So he held straight on for the field, just holding flying speed. Seeing he was likely to undershoot he tried giving the engine a little throttle. The result was more smoke and such vibration that he lost no time in throttling back again. As the engine was no use to him, to reduce the risk of fire should he pile up he switched off; so it was with a dead airscrew that he just scraped over the tops of some trees. Remembering his bag of chalk he threw it out of the open side window and then touched down almost on the track made by the Cub, ending his run within yards of it Chandler had got out and was standing by his machine, watching him.
Bertie sat still, to recover from what, for any pilot, is an unnerving moment. But that didn’t prevent him from thinking, and thinking fast, as for the first time he realized fully the position in which he had put himself by landing at what presumably was Chandler’s hiding-place. One of his first thoughts was, how could he let Biggles know what had happened, for he seemed to be some distance even from a village where there would be a telephone. From which it may be gathered that he was not particularly alarmed by his immediate prospects.
He would not willingly have landed in the field, but having done so it seemed to offer possibilities. His job had been to locate the Cub’s hide-out. This he thought he had done, but he did not fail to perceive that he had gone a lot farther than Biggles intended.
Looking around he observed, at the far end of the field, a large red brick house. It fell short of being a mansion but it was a biggish place, with outbuildings, as if it was, or had been, a prosperous farm. He could see no road, so apparently it approached the house from the opposite direction.
Seeing Chandler now walking towards him he got out, smiling bleakly, and unfastened the chin strap of his flying cap.
“So it’s you again,” said Chandler, in a curious tone of voice.
“It’s me all right—but only just,” confirmed Bertie. “I don’t mind telling you I thought I’d had it.” Actually, this was not far from the truth.
“Why did you land here?”
“Why?” Bertie looked pained. “Are you kidding? With my engine rocking on its bearers I was thundering glad to get on the carpet anywhere. I should have had a rough passage if, at the last jiffy, I hadn’t spotted you going down just in front of me. I thought—well, where he can get his wheels on the floor so can I. So here I am.” He looked at the nose of the Auster from which a wisp of smoke was rising, indicating clearly that the engine was overheated.
“I heard you making heavy weather of it,” returned Chandler, bending down to look under the engine cowling. Pointing, he went on: “There’s your trouble. She’s dripping oil. Looks like a fractured oil lead, or maybe just a joint loose.”
“That’s capital,” said Bertie, with cutting sarcasm. “It looks as if I shall be here for some time. Do you happen to know the nearest telephone? Unless there’s anywhere nearer I’ll ring Lysett and ask them to send along someone who can fix me up.”
“Yes, sure,” said Chandler vaguely, as if he was thinking.
“Who lives at the big house?” prompted Bertie. “They should be on the phone.”
“It happens to be owned by an uncle of mine,” answered Chandler, after a long pause. “I dropped in to look him up. You can’t do anything with the machine as it is. I’ll take you to the house and we’ll see what can be done about it. It should be a fairly simple job.”
Bertie was aware of this but he did not say so. What he said was: “Thanks a lot. That’s most kind of you.”
“I might even be able to fix the oil leak myself,” volunteered Chandler. “I know a bit about engines.”
As Chandler had been a sergeant fitter in the R.A.F. Bertie did not need to be told this, either.
“You walk on,” said Chandler. “I shall bring my Cub along and put it near one of the barns in case I’m persuaded to stay the night.”
“Fair enough.” Bertie started walking towards the house, a matter of a hundred yards.
It can be imagined what his thoughts were at this juncture. He was by no means happy to put himself completely into the hands of a man of Chandler’s character but he could hardly decline the invitation without arousing his suspicions. What reason could he give? He doubted if there was one that would sound convincing. There was this about it. He felt confident that up to the moment the man suspected n
othing. After all, the forced landing had been genuine enough. Having seen it happen Chandler could not question that. The smoking engine could not have been faked, and no pilot would have risked such a landing as he had made unless it had been absolutely necessary.
Of course, Bertie’s main concern was to get his report off to Biggles, but he didn’t feel inclined to walk away leaving his aircraft in the hands of a man like Chandler. A delay was therefore unavoidable. He consoled himself with the thought that what had happened might be turned to his advantage. He would see something of the house and who occupied it. But he was aware that the situation bristled with dangers and he would have to keep his wits about him.
As he saw it the position should work out something like this. He would speak to Lysett on the telephone giving his address, which he would learn at the house, and ask for an engineer to be sent along at once to do the necessary repair work. The man would probably come by car, but as Grant knew the circumstances there was just a chance that he might be flown over. Standing in the middle of a field the Auster would be plain enough to see. Even if Grant didn’t answer the phone personally he would be told what had happened and have the intelligence to pass word on to Biggles.
At the worst, Bertie pondered, he would merely be stuck where he was for a few hours; but provided he could get away before dark that wouldn’t really matter. So taking things by and large he was not seriously worried by the way things had turned out.
Reaching a wicket gate that opened into a much overgrown vegetable garden he watched Chandler taxi the Cub to a big empty hay barn in the corner of the field nearest the house. At the same time he took the opportunity of surveying thoroughly the field and the land around it. The field itself was of fair size, level, but rather long and narrow, so that landings would be affected by the direction of a wind of any force. It was all right for a small, light-powered aircraft, in the hands of a capable pilot, but it was not the sort of place that could be adapted for a general purpose aerodrome. The surrounds were too thickly wooded; indeed, trees, large and small, isolated and in groups, lined the hedges on all sides, and these would always be a hazard for a novice. Moreover, the meadow was low-lying, which meant that in bad weather it would not be easy to find. It was not the sort of place where anyone would expect to find an airfield, although this probably suited Chandler and may have been one of the reasons why it had been chosen. One would certainly have to be familiar with the general layout before attempting a night landing. Bertie noted the grass was short, as if it was well grazed.
Satisfied with his inspection he waited for Chandler to join him and they went on together up the garden path to what was obviously the back door of the house.
“What’s the name of this place?” asked Bertie, with affected carelessness.
“I just call it The Farm,” answered Chandler, in the same manner.
“How shall I know where to tell the repair people to come?”
“Leave it to me. I’ll deal with that when we get inside. No doubt you can do with a drink,” Chandler went on quickly, switching the subject. He opened the door of the house like a man who is at home and went straight on through a large untidy kitchen, where a gaunt, sourfaced woman was doing something to a door on the far side. This opened into a sitting-room furnished with some degree of comfort.
A heavily-built man of about sixty years of age reclined in an arm-chair smoking a thin black cigar. He wore large, horn-rimmed spectacles, from behind which strikingly pale-blue eyes regarded Bertie with a disconcerting stare. His face was square, broad and flat, rising to a domed forehead from which the hair had receded. Apart from a small tuft of grey beard he was clean shaven. He expressed no surprise at seeing Chandler who said, brightly, “Hello, Uncle,” with an accent on the word Uncle.
The older man, still looking at Bertie, inquired: “Who is this?”
“I’ll tell you about him in a moment,” replied Chandler. “Come through to the other room. I have some news for you.” Over his shoulder to Bertie, as he walked to another door, he said: “Excuse me a moment. I won’t keep you long.”
Both men went out leaving Bertie alone. He thought this was rather odd behaviour but he was in no position to question it. He looked round for a telephone, but not seeing one sat down, feeling a little uncomfortable. There was something about the atmosphere of the place he didn’t like.
When ten minutes had elapsed and the two men had not returned he had become definitely uneasy. What was going on? Had he been mistaken in supposing Chandler’s suspicions had not been aroused? Remembering what had happened to Taffy was a plan being made to dispose of him? He got up and walked to a window which he thought would overlook the back garden and the field beyond. It did. As he looked his lips came together in a tight line. The Auster was not where he had left it. In fact, he couldn’t see it. He polished his eye-glass and surveyed the hedges that bounded the meadow. That settled it. The Auster had gone.
The odd thought struck him, what a fool he would feel if in looking for a stolen aeroplane he lost his own.
CHAPTER V
A PROPOSITION
BERTIE had turned back into the room, bracing himself for trouble, when Chandler and his elderly companion returned.
“What have you done with my aeroplane?” he demanded coldly, determined to let them see he took a poor view of this unwarranted liberty with his property.
Chandler must have expected the question for the answer came readily. “Some bullocks are being turned into the field and it was thought advisable to move it in case they damaged it. They’re devils, you know, for rubbing themselves against anything handy.”
Bertie didn’t know, and he didn’t believe a word of it, although in fact this is true. He looked back at the window, and it was with mixed feelings that he saw a line of cattle walking through a gate into the field. “Look here, I say, was it necessary to put cattle in the field while my machine was there?” he asked.
“I suppose it wasn’t really, but the farm-hand wouldn’t know that. The cattle are the easiest way to keep the grass short.”
“Where have you put the Auster?”
“With my Cub. In the barn. It’ll be all right there.”
“How am I going to take off with bullocks wandering all over the bally place?”
“I’ll have them turned off when the time comes. That’s likely to be some time yet.”
“I suppose so. I’d like to get on with it, so now may I use the telephone?”
Chandler made a wry face. “I’m sorry, but at the moment it happens to be out of order. That’s why I’ve been so long. I had to find a chap to go on a bicycle to the nearest phone box, to let the post office people know. Don’t worry, they should soon have it working. While you’re waiting you might as well make yourself comfortable and have a drink. What shall it be—gin, whisky, sherry...?”
“I’ll take a glass of sherry, thanks,” accepted Bertie, without enthusiasm. He was thinking of other things, and thinking fast. This, obviously, was going to be more difficult than he had imagined.
Chandler produced the drinks from the sideboard, giving himself, Bertie noted, a stiff whisky. “Let me introduce my uncle,” he said smoothly. “I’ve told him about your forced landing. But how stupid of me! I don’t know your name. Mine’s Maxwell. John Maxwell. My uncle—Doctor Paul Hammal.”
The old man nodded.
“My name’s Lissie,” informed Bertie.
“Good. Now we know each other. Do sit down.” Bertie found a chair.
Chandler sat opposite. “From the way you brought your Auster in I’d say you’ve been flying for some time.”
“Quite a while,” admitted Bertie.
“In the Air Force?”
“During the war. I packed up when it was all over.”
“But you’re still flying.”
“Why not?”
“It’s expensive.”
“Not too expensive.”
“You must have plenty of money.”
�
�Enough.”
“Is that Auster your own machine?”
“No. It belongs to a concern in which I have an interest.”
“Where have you just come from?”
“Lysett. You saw me there.”
“I meant before that?”
“From London. Gatwick to be precise.”
“Where were you going?”
While these were perfectly natural questions as between one airman and another Bertie felt sure they were leading up to something, or why was he deliberately being detained? Of that he was in no doubt. The turning of the cattle into the field had been an excuse to move the Auster. Was that because Chandler didn’t want a machine to be seen on the ground near the farm? It seemed likely that cattle were usually kept in the field when Chandler did not want to use it as a landing ground, because that would not only hinder other machines from landing but would prevent any pilot flying over from suspecting the field was ever used for such a purpose. The allegation that the phone was out of order, which he did not believe, was merely another excuse for keeping him there. So ran Bertie’s thoughts, swiftly, as he waited for the next development.
Chandler went on, as if making casual conversation to pass the time: “What do you do for a living?”
Bertie forced a sort of apologetic smile. “Matter of fact, I don’t have to do anything.”
“You mean, you’re independent?”
“I own some property in the country the rents of which produce enough petty cash to keep me out of the National Assistance queue.”
“Very nice, too. Still, I suppose you could do with more.”
“Who couldn’t?” Bertie thought it time he asked a question. “How do you manage to afford to waffle around in your own aircraft?”
Chandler smiled broadly. “Me? Oh, I make a living at it.”