Biggles and the Plane that Disappeared

by W E Johns

  “Really? How do you do that?”

  “It’s easy when you know how.”

  “How interesting. I’d like to know how you do it.”

  Chandler glanced at the doctor who spoke for the first time. “I do a certain amount of business abroad. Freight charges by any form of transport are so high that it isn’t easy to show a profit. Moreover, most services are slow, as well as being unreliable; so my nephew sometimes accommodates me by using his own plane.”

  The old man spoke perfect English, but Bertie detected the merest trace of foreign accent. It was too slight to reveal the man’s original nationality. Few people can speak another language well enough to pass as a national of that country.

  “I see,” said Bertie, slowly. “But doesn’t overseas flying involve you in a lot of trouble—umpteen forms to fill in, and all that nonsense?”

  “Not the way I do it,” murmured Chandler, with a sly smile.

  “You mean—you skip the formalities?”

  “Exactly. They serve no useful purpose. All they do is provide jobs for a lot of useless officials.”

  “But look here, that’s a bit risky, you know. If you were caught at that you’d get it in the neck.”

  “I take care not to get caught. If there is a slight risk, which I must admit, the money I save would more than pay the fine.”

  “How do you get away with it?”

  “It’s only a matter of having the know-how. I come and go as I like, usually at night. What’s to stop me?”

  Bertie affected an expression of disapproval. “You’re not by any chance talking about smuggling?”

  “You can call it smuggling if you like. There’s nothing unusual in that. You know as well as I do that practically every tourist who goes abroad for a holiday tries to diddle the Customs Officer. So what? It doesn’t matter whether the article is worth five pounds or five thousand, the principle is the same. A dear old lady bringing in an undeclared bottle of perfume is breaking the law just as much as I am. So what? Either you break the law or you don’t. If you do you’re a crook—and there are few people today who could swear on oath they’d never broken the law. There’s no degree of law-breaking. The man who bought petrol coupons under the counter when the stuff was rationed broke the law just as much as a boy who pinched half a crown out of the till.”

  Bertie had to admit there was truth in this.

  “Well,” went on Chandler. “Now you know, do you feel like having a nibble? We’ve got everything laid on.”

  Bertie did not answer at once. The situation called for thought. To refuse forthwith to co-operate would, he was sure, lead to trouble. To accept too quickly would look suspicious. He needed time. One thing was certain. These men, having told him so much, would never let him go. It never had been intended to let him go. Even though they did not know who and what he was they would be well aware that almost any pilot, civil or military, would report such a conversation as this to the police. He decided that if he pretended to accept the offer he would have a better chance of getting away than if he declined. If he refused—well, anything might happen. Taffy may have been asked the same question, and what had become of him?

  “Make up your mind,” prompted Chandler.

  “Don’t rush me,” countered Bertie. “Coming out of the blue, so to speak, one needs a little time to consider a proposition like this.”

  “You can make a couple o’ hundred quid a trip.”

  “What I don’t understand is this,” returned Bertie, still employing delaying tactics. “If you can make money as easily as you say you can, why let me in on it?”

  “That’s a reasonable question and the answer is simple. Two aeroplanes can do more than one. Your Auster can seat four, my Cub only two. One day I may need a three or four-seater.1 Moreover, once in a while a machine needs a complete overhaul, and while it’s unserviceable the organization is held up. Another thing. I use a lot of petrol, and as I haven’t a pump of my own I have to be careful how I get it.”

  “You got petrol at Lysett.”

  “I know; Lysett happens to be handy, but I can’t go there too often. If I overdid it some smart alec might wonder what I was doing with so much petrol. Two machines would make refuelling easier. They could ring the changes at different petrol stations.”

  “Hm, I see that. How did you get the Cub?”

  “I bought it,” lied Chandler glibly.

  “Any reason why you shouldn’t buy another?”

  “Yes.”

  “What?”

  “I couldn’t. I’ve lost my licence.”

  “Then how did you get the Cub?”

  “I bought it before they took my ticket off me.”

  “Don’t they know you still have the Cub?”

  “No. Officially it crashed, and was written off.”

  Chandler was certainly slick with his answers, thought Bertie. “Just as a matter of interest, what happens if I refuse to play?” he inquired.

  “You won’t—if you’re wise.”

  “Ah. Like that, eh.”

  “It’d come to the same thing,” went on Chandler, no longer smiling. “I should still have two aeroplanes to work with. The only difference would be I’d have to put in more time in the air. I’d like a rest sometimes while someone else did the work.”

  “Meaning that you’re going to have my Auster, anyway.”

  “You’re keeping pace with the argument.”

  “Aren’t you afraid I might go to the police and spill the beans?”

  “No. You’d be in no case to spill the beans to anyone—and you wouldn’t do any more flying.”

  Bertie looked hurt. “Here, I say, you know, that’s pretty forthright.”

  “I try to speak plainly without beating about the bush.”

  “You certainly do that. Now tell me this. Suppose I agreed to come into this fascinating venture what is there to prevent me, when I get my hand on a joystick again, from flying off and not coming back?”

  “That couldn’t happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I should be in the plane with you.”

  “In which case you might as well do all the flying yourself.”

  “Not at all. I should only do the first trip with you. What happened would incriminate you to the extent of making you one of us. From then on we should all be in the same boat.”

  Bertie looked amused. “In other words, I should be one of the gang.”

  “That’s right. But we don’t use the word gang. It sounds cheap and nasty.”

  “You certainly have all the answers ready. What line of merchandise do you deal in, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “That depends on what our customers have to offer. We’re not particular.”

  I’ll bet you aren’t, thought Bertie. “If I came in with you, how do I know I’d get paid?”

  The old man spoke. “Perhaps you’d like something in advance.” He got up, walked to a desk and from a drawer took a thick wad of notes. “Help yourself,” he invited, tossing it on the table.

  Bertie looked at it. A grin spread over his face. “That’s more money than I’ve seen in one lump for a long time, and I must say it looks very attractive,” he conceded. He didn’t touch it. “I prefer to have my wages when I’ve earned them,” he said.

  “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

  “Well, what about it,” said Chandler, now a trifle impatiently.

  “I’ll tell you what,” replied Bertie, who had already made up his mind to accept. “This proposition of yours is a new line to me. Would you mind if I took a little while to think it over, to satisfy myself there are no snags?”

  The old man answered. “Take all the time you want. There’s no desperate hurry.”

  “Does that mean I can move off and give you my answer later?”

  “Oh, come off it,” jibed Chandler. “Do we look as dumb as all that?”

  “Frankly, no,” admitted Bertie. “I didn’t seriously think you
meant that but I thought it worth a try—if you get my meaning. Very well. What do I do?”

  “Stay here. We have some spare rooms.” Chandler smiled again, cynically. “You’ll get all home comforts, wonderful food. This is a farm, you know. The eggs are fresh, the butter comes from a cow and the vegetables fresh from the garden. What more do you want?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Good. Come with me and I’ll show you your room. I’m sure you have more sense than to do anything silly—such as trying to leave us without saying good-bye or thanking us for our hospitality.” As he spoke Chandler allowed his jacket to fall open far enough to reveal a revolver in a shoulder holster.

  “Good lor’!” exclaimed Bertie. “Why do you carry that thing about? Must be jolly uncomfortable stuck under your armpit. Are you afraid of somebody, or something?”

  “No, I’m not afraid,” returned Chandler, blandly.

  “Extraordinary,” murmured Bertie.

  “No more extraordinary than you wearing a window in your face,” retorted Chandler, rather rudely. “Do you have to wear that thing?”

  “Not really, but it saves me having to look for a pair of spectacles, or grope in my pocket for them, when I want to look at something very small.”

  “Such as?”

  “Threading a fresh fly on a gut cast. Jolly handy when you’re standing in a river.”

  “You a fisherman?”

  “When I get a chance.”

  “Ever catch anything?”

  “Quite often. You’d be surprised what I catch.”

  “Good. This way.” Chandler opened a door and they went through to a corridor which brought them to the stairs. They went up to a room on the first floor. The door was opened and Bertie went in.

  “You should be all right here,” said Chandler from the doorway. “Nice and quiet. Just the job for serious thinking. Ring the bell if you want anything. See you later.” He retired, closing the door behind him. A key turned softly in the lock.

  Bertie took stock. It was an ordinary little room furnished cheaply but comfortably as a bed-sitting room with toilet conveniences and hot and cold water laid on. There was one window. It could be opened, as he quickly ascertained, but there was no question of escape that way. Four steel rods had been fixed horizontally across it.

  Having thoroughly explored, and satisfied himself there was no immediate prospect of getting away, he sat on the bed to think things over, uncertain whether he had made a mess of his mission or had succeeded rather too well. More by luck than judgement he had landed in Chandler’s headquarters; but whether it would turn out to be good luck or bad remained to be seen.

  * * *

  1 We try to avoid technicalities but here a word of explanation may be necessary. As the reader probably knows there are several types of Auster aircraft, military and civil. Bertie was using an Auster J/1 Autocrat, a 3-4 seater which had been on the establishment of the Air Police for a long time. The standard version has one 15-gallon petrol tank, but there may also be an auxiliary tank of 10 gallons under the fuselage giving a range of 600 miles. This was the type Bertie was flying, as Chandler would know. The stolen Cub was a P.A.-18 Super Cub 95 which can be adapted for crop dusting. It has two seats in tandem. The landing gear of both machines is the fixed-wheel type. Both are fitted with dual controls. The Auster, with a cruising speed of 110 m.p.h. is rather faster than the Cub.

  CHAPTER VI

  STRANGE DEVELOPMENTS

  BIGGLES and Ginger stayed at the office until midnight, still hoping Bertie would come through on the telephone.

  After a glance at the clock Biggles said: “It’s no use. Had he been able to call us he would have done so by now. Grant, at Lysett, can’t know what has happened or he’d have let us know.”

  “But what could have happened?”

  “The Cub dropped in again for petrol; it then took off and Bertie followed it. So much we know. What happened after that is anybody’s guess; but one thing is certain. Bertie hasn’t been able to get to a telephone since or he’d have got in touch. I don’t understand it. Either he lost sight of the Cub or he followed it to its hide-out. It must be one or the other. If he lost sight of it he would have landed somewhere and told us so. If he tracked it till it landed his orders were plain enough. Having noted the spot he was to return to Lysett and report. He hasn’t done either.”

  “If he tracked the Cub home he wouldn’t have been such a fool as to land.”

  “I’ve known him do crazy things but I can’t see him deliberately acting contrary to orders. He must be on the ground somewhere because he wouldn’t have enough petrol to stay in the air.”

  “I suppose he could have refuelled somewhere.”

  Biggles shook his head. “No, that isn’t the answer. Why should he, unless he had lost the Cub, in which case there was nothing to stop him from using the phone at wherever his tanks were being topped up. He’s on the ground. He hasn’t phoned. That can only mean he couldn’t. All we’re left with is a crack-up, and a bad one. Had he been able to walk he would have got to the nearest house and either phoned us himself or asked someone to do so. He would have got in touch with us somehow.”

  “The idea of Bertie lying piled up in a crash at this moment is pretty shattering.”

  “Can you think of anything else?”

  “No.” After a pause Ginger went on: “Hadn’t we better get to Lysett?”

  “And do what? There’ll be nobody there at this hour. Everyone will have gone home. To look for a crash in the dark would be futile. Without a clue as to which way Bertie went it would be pretty hopeless in broad daylight. I think a better plan would be to get some sleep and go to Lysett first thing in the morning. I shall want to speak to Grant and I don’t suppose he’ll be at his office before nine. On the off-chance that Bertie may still come through I’ll ask the switchboard operator to put calls through to the flat, and after six o’clock to Lysett. Let’s go home.”

  And so it was that daybreak found another police Auster on its way to Somerset. Nothing happened on the way and, as was to be expected, on arrival they found the airfield deserted except for a night watchman who was making a cup of tea. They had a cup with him. He knew nothing, so they had to control their impatience until nine o’clock, when the staff arrived. All they could say was what was already known; a Cub had been refuelled and had taken off followed by the Auster.

  Grant, when he arrived, could not do much better. “Which way did the Cub go when it took off?” asked Biggles.

  Grant pointed. “That way. It came in from that direction.”

  “You watched it?”

  “For as long as it was possible.”

  “Did it seem to be on a steady course?”

  “I’d say yes.”

  “At what height?”

  “Not more than a thousand feet. There it levelled out and carried straight on, tail up, as if it was in a hurry to get somewhere.”

  “Was there much cloud about?”

  “A fair amount, but well broken.”

  “At what height?”

  “Between four and five thousand for a rough guess.”

  “There wasn’t enough to make a compass course necessary?”

  “No.”

  “And Lissie took off at once behind the Cub.”

  “Yes. The last I saw of him he was following the Cub about a mile behind.”

  “And that’s all you can tell us.”

  “That’s all I know.”

  “You haven’t heard anything of an aircraft making a forced landing anywhere in the region?”

  “Not a word.”

  “Had that happened you’d have heard about it?”

  “Probably. The police would have rung up to ask if it was one of ours.”

  “I see. Thanks. We haven’t heard a word from Lissie so I can only think he must be down somewhere. We’ll have a look round. I shall drop in from time to time to see if there’s a message.”

  “Fair enough. I shall be here.”<
br />
  Biggles turned to Ginger. “Let’s see what the luck’s like.”

  They got into the Auster, took off, and at five hundred feet followed the line, at cruising speed, taken by the Cub as pointed out by Grant. Biggles studied the ground one side and Ginger the other.

  “I wonder did Bertie take the bag of chalk you suggested,” conjectured Ginger.

  “He said he would; but if he did, whether or not he used it is another matter. We’ll bear it in mind. If you see a white spot, or a fleck of white, tell me, and we’ll have a look at it.”

  Five minutes passed. Then Ginger said: “The question is, how far did he go?”

  “If he maintained his course he couldn’t have gone a great distance. That high ground on the horizon must be Dorset, and beyond that is the Channel.”

  “He might have gone beyond the coast.”

  “I doubt it. Had Chandler intended going to France surely he would have taken a shorter sea route. The Channel is wide here.”

  The search was continued until the English Channel came into view but no sign of a plane on the ground was seen.

  “There’s no point in going on,” said Biggles, turning back. “If Bertie crossed the Ditch we shall have to wait until we hear from him, and that’s all there is to it. Personally I don’t think he did. We covered a very narrow track coming here, but that’s all that would have been necessary had the Cub flown a dead straight line, in which case Bertie would have done the same. We’ll take in a bit wider area on the way back.”

  This was accomplished simply by flying a serpentine course which took in more ground although it meant doubling the distance. Over thickly wooded areas Biggles dropped off some altitude and occasionally circled or described a figure of eight. This allowed the ground to be examined more thoroughly and from close range.

  Suddenly Ginger called out: “I can see something white in a big field. Don’t turn. I can’t see anyone, but if there’s somebody there we shall be watched.”

  Biggles, who was gliding at the time, carried straight on for some distance before he touched the throttle. “Now then; what exactly did you see?” he asked.

  “A short white smudge as if something white in a bag had hit the ground and rolled as it burst open.”