by W E Johns
What Biggles was thinking about his failure to return he couldn’t imagine. Or perhaps he could. Eventually, of course, he would make a search for him, or the Auster, but with so much ground to cover the chances of him finding the hastily discarded bag of chalk seemed remote— too remote, he feared, for him to rely on it. It would only need a shower of rain to wash the chalk into the ground, anyway, although fortunately the weather looked like remaining fine.
With nothing to do except think he wondered exactly what illegal business was being conducted from the farm and who was behind it. Not Chandler. He wouldn’t have the money or the facilities to start what was obviously an organization. Somebody must have supplied the finance to buy the house and landing field, probably the whole farm property. Was it the uncle, so-called Dr. Hammal? That seemed more than likely. He wasn’t British. He didn’t look British. The name Hammal didn’t sound British. There was the accent, too. It was not sufficiently pronounced to suggest his country of origin but he had obviously been in England for a long time. Chandler was merely employed by him, Bertie decided. With a chip on his shoulder through being thrown out of the R.A.F., and then refused a civil licence, he would fall in readily with any scheme, no matter how crooked.
Who else was in the house? There was the woman in the kitchen, presumably the cook. Whatever she was doing she must know what was going on. Who else? The farm-hand who had driven the cattle into the field. He would know about the flying that went on even if he took no part in it. That would make him one of the gang. There must, Bertie thought, be more people in it than that. What about mechanics to take care of the aircraft? Chandler, having been a fitter in the R.A.F, could probably manage routine jobs without one. He must have been a man of exceptional ability before he took to drink or he would not have been selected for flying training.
Again Bertie turned his attention to the room he was in. It had been prepared for someone, some expected guest. It was not Chandler’s room or he would not have been put in it. Apparently it was not occupied at the moment but for whom had it been intended? It was no use trying to guess the answer to that. In the corridor he had noticed other doors like his own so there was no shortage of accommodation. It was a big house, and no doubt had originally been the residence of a wealthy farmer; but what sort of establishment was it now? From what he had seen it was fitted out more like a guest-house. Who were the guests?
So ran Bertie’s thoughts. Bored with inaction he went to the window and looked again at the field. The cattle were still there, which he took to mean there would be no more flying that day. Still watching, he saw Chandler arrive at the garden gate from the direction of the barn. His hands were black and there was a smudge on his face. He entered the house. Bertie came to the conclusion that he had been working on the aircraft.
Satisfied there was nothing he could do for the time being, and having made up his mind to accept the proposition, he sat in the chair to await Chandler’s return; and as he sat there he turned his attention to a slight sound he had heard before. It was a faint, intermittent tapping. With his head full of other matters, if he had thought about it at all he had taken it to be water dripping somewhere. He got up and went to the sink. Neither of the taps was leaking. He located the sound coming from lower down. He examined the pipe which ran along the floor close to the wall but could not see any water.
Standing there, puzzled, with a shock he suddenly realized there was something familiar in the succession of taps, which had now stopped. Was his imagination playing tricks or had they been the dots and dashes of the Morse Code? Why hadn’t he noticed it before? Was someone, somewhere, tapping out a signal? He waited. Again came the taps, and this time there was no mistake. The message, one common enough, was the three dots and dashes, repeated, that spell a call for help, S-O-S.
Shaken, his brain racing, Bertie dropped on his knees and quickly discovered that the sinister appeal was being carried along the water pipe. Somebody, somewhere near, was tapping the same pipe that passed through his room. Who? Why? Was it possible there was another prisoner in the house? It seemed fantastic—and yet, why not? He was himself a prisoner. Taking a penny from his pocket he waited for another pause and then tapped, very gently, the “message received” signals. At the same time he was wondering, was this a trap? Deciding he would have to be careful what he said, because the pipe might well run all over the house, he asked the question: “Who are you?”
At once the answer came. “Name Welsh. Prisoner. Who are you?”
For a moment Bertie was stunned. Whatever answer he may have expected it was not this. In his own dilemma he had forgotten Taffy. Taffy! he thought wildly. Of course. It was so easy now he knew. He replied: “Name Lissie. Air pilot. Prisoner too.” He was, of course, delighted, and excited, to learn that Taffy was still alive.
Then began a dramatic conversation, although Bertie, still afraid of being overheard, actually said very little. It need not be recorded in detail. It all amounted to this. Taffy was in the next room. His window, like Bertie’s, overlooked the landing ground. He had heard aircraft. He had seen the Auster with a dead prop make its emergency landing. Had watched the pilot come to the house with Chandler. Sounds had indicated he was in the next room. Not having seen the Auster before he had taken a chance by trying his luck with a signal. Bertie asked him if a proposition had been put to him. Taffy said yes, and he had turned it down.
At this juncture, hearing footsteps approaching along the corridor, Bertie sent a swift “message ends” and returned to his chair.
The door opened and Chandler came in. “Well?” he asked. “How do you feel about it? Have you made up your mind yet, one way or the other?” He brought with him a faint aroma of whisky.
Bertie smiled wanly. “Of course. I’m not a fool, although as far as I can see I haven’t much choice. I can use money as well as most people. Aside from that, a little excitement in a dull world wouldn’t come amiss. But before we get down to brass tacks there are one or two questions I’d like to ask.”
“As long as you don’t want to know too much, go ahead,” invited Chandler, closing the door and taking a seat on the bed. He allowed his jacket to fall open showing the gun, presumably to remind Bertie it was there, and discourage him from anything in the way of violence.
“If I say I’m in the party where do I live?” began Bertie.
“Here, of course.”
“Does that mean you live here?”
“It does.”
“But when I landed you told me you’d just dropped in to—”
“You wouldn’t expect me to tell you on the spur of the moment what I’ve told you since?”
“No, I suppose not. But about living here. You realize I haven’t any kit.”
“Don’t worry about that. We can fix you up with everything, pyjamas, small kit, the lot.”
“You talk as if you knew I was coming.”
“It happens we often have temporary guests so we’ve laid on a small stock of the necessary gear in case they arrive without any.”
Who, Bertie wondered, were the guests? But he didn’t ask. “Where do I have my meals?”
“With us, if you’ll promise not to do anything silly.”
“Do I have to spend the time I’m not flying locked in this room?”
“I hope that will only be temporary. It depends on yourself.”
“When do I make my first trip?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“In the Cub?”
“No. The Auster.”
“But the Auster’s out of action.”
“Not now. I’ve put the trouble right.”
“What was it?”
“Only a loose junction in the oil lead.”
“That means she must have lost plenty. She’ll need more.”
“I’ve filled her up. I can manage oil but not petrol. I’ve checked your tanks. You must have topped up at Lysett.”
“I did. Will you be with me?”
“Of course. You’ll need
me to show you the way and vouch for you at the other end.”
“Am I right in thinking we shall be going abroad?”
“You are.”
“Where?”
“France.”
“Where in France.”
“Does it matter?”
“It might. It’s a long run from the Channel to the Mediterranean. If we’re going to the extreme south we shall be cutting it fine for petrol. But maybe you’ve made arrangements to fill up at the other end.”
“No. But we should manage.”
“In still air, no doubt; but what happens if we run into a stiff head wind on the way home?”
“We shall have to take a chance on that. We shouldn’t have any trouble. I’ve done the trip before so I know every inch of the ground. I have a compass course set. Adjustments for drift, should they be necessary, can be made in the air.”
“Are we taking something out of the country or going to fetch something?”
“Both.” Chandler smiled. “It’s a two-way service. That doubles the profits. Anything else?”
“Do you carry any papers, genuine or otherwise, in case of trouble?”
“Not me. I’ve no time for red tape. If I want to go somewhere, I go. Who’s to stop me?”
“I’d better know the drill. What do you do if you’re challenged?”
“I take no notice of ground signals.”
“What if a fighter is sent up to force you down?”
“Force me down! Ha! Don’t make me laugh. I’d like to see anyone trying to catch me.”
“How long is this business of yours likely to go on? I don’t want to spend the rest of my life here.”
“Naturally. Neither do I. It depends on how well things go. But never mind about that. I came up to tell you supper’s ready if you feel like coming down. Don’t ask questions at the table. My uncle won’t answer them anyway. You may find him a bit touchy but it means nothing. He’s like that.”
“I imagine he isn’t really your uncle.”
Chandler smiled again. “Of course he isn’t. I created him for your benefit when you landed, to make an excuse for being in the field. But let’s go down.”
Bertie followed his host to the dining-room. Dr. Hammal was already there, seated at the head of the table. Next to him was the woman who had been in the kitchen. The lights were on and the table was well dressed for a cold meal, with two bottles of wine conspicuous. Caviare in bowls of crushed ice had already been served. A young man who looked like a Chinese brought in a napkin-covered plate of toast.
“Make yourself at home,” said Chandler, as they took their places. “As you see, we don’t do ourselves badly.”
Bertie agreed mentally.
There is no need to describe the meal in detail. It was excellent, but in the absence of conversation it was a dull affair. Chandler, Bertie noticed, took whisky instead of wine, and would have had more had not Hammal raised his eyebrows. When it was over Bertie was returned to his room and again locked in. Chandler’s last words were: “Have a good night. You may not get much sleep tomorrow night.”
Bertie, powerless to do anything, decided to accept the advice. He found the kit Chandler had promised, pyjamas on the bed and toilet things in place. He was tempted to make a signal to Taffy via the water pipe, but decided against it as being too dangerous. Having nothing really to say it seemed an unjustifiable risk. With so much to think about it was some time before he got off to sleep, but on the whole he had a fair night.
Morning brought another fine day. Bertie got up and dressed, and had a look at the field. The cattle were still there. Nothing else. At eight o’clock Chandler appeared and took him down to breakfast. As at supper there was an uncomfortable atmosphere and little was said. Afterwards he went out with Chandler to the barn where they looked over the aircraft and ran up the Auster’s engine to check it. The conversation was entirely technical.
As they walked back to the house Bertie said: “Look here, I don’t want to press you, but don’t you think it’s about time you told me exactly where we’re going tonight? I ought to be in a position to keep in touch with things—if you see what I mean.”
Chandler hesitated. “I suppose you might as well know now. The objective is Marseilles, or just north of it. I have an appointment there with someone.”
“Thanks,” acknowledged Bertie. “As long as I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you know that district?”
“I have flown over it,” admitted Bertie carelessly.
After lunch, another desultory meal, he returned to his room to wait for nightfall. He was not exactly worried, but he was far from happy. To his certain knowledge Chandler had had six stiff whiskies, and he would have preferred to fly with a sober companion. That is not to say Chandler was drunk; but he was in the awkward mood of a man who has had enough alcohol but not sufficient to satisfy him. Again Bertie thought of contacting Taffy, if he was still in the next room, but refrained for the same reason as before.
Some time later the sound of an approaching aircraft took him quickly to the window and he was thrilled to see an Auster pass just beyond the bottom end of the field. It was flying low and on a dead straight course. It was too far away for him to make out the registration letters but he thought it might be Biggles looking for him—as in fact it was. It passed on out of sight. Soon afterwards he saw it coming back, no longer on a straight course but weaving from side to side. He felt almost sure Biggles was at the controls but was of course unable to confirm it. Apparently the chalk mark had not been noticed for it held on its way and presently disappeared. He was disappointed but not surprised. With cattle grazing it was unlikely that the field would be given a second glance.
Some time later he saw the beasts being herded out, and knew the reason. This was in preparation for the night’s work. He stayed at the window until dusk dimmed the scene but saw nothing else of interest.
As night closed in Chandler appeared at the door. “Ready?” he queried. “We’re all set.”
A quick meal—during which Chandler drank two more whiskies, this time by themselves—and Chandler got up. With their flying caps in their hands they made their way through the darkness to the barn, Chandler leading, torch in hand. Doctor Hammal was there, as he said, to give them a hand and see them off. Bertie noticed him hand a small wash-leather bag to Chandler who put it in his pocket.
“Are you going to do the flying?” he asked Chandler.
“No. You can take her. I’ll give you the course when we’re clear.”
“What about navigation lights?”
“We shan’t need any. No need to tell the world what we’re doing.”
Nothing more was said. The Auster was pulled into the open, Doctor Hammal helping. The two pilots took their places. In dead still air the engine was started and Bertie taxied into position facing the longest run the field could offer. He eased the throttle open. The Auster moved forward soon to race at increasing speed. Vibration stopped as the wheels left the ground and the aircraft was on its way.
“Keep climbing,” ordered Chandler. “I like to get somewhere near the ceiling and then glide across the coast without making a song about it. The height I lose doing that I take back over the Channel.”
The Auster bored into the night sky, climbing in widening circles. Bertie settled in his seat and plugged in the radio. Chandler, a hand resting on the dual control column, did the same. “This is better than flying to orders,” he remarked, with a chuckle.
Bertie didn’t answer. He viewed the immediate future without any serious anxiety. As Chandler had said, it was too easy; but he might have felt less sanguine had he known about the message Biggles had decided to send to France.
CHAPTER VIII
BIGGLES UNDERSTANDS
AFTER Ginger had gone to find a telephone Biggles sat still for some time turning over in his mind the situation as it now appeared. He had little doubt that the pilot of the Auster which had just taken off was Chandler. If not Ch
andler then another pilot working with him, which came to the same thing. There was no reason why more than one pilot should not be engaged in the criminal business that was obviously going on.
The most puzzling factor was the chalk mark in the field. It must have been dropped there by Bertie. That a bag of French chalk should have been dropped by anyone else would be stretching coincidence beyond the limits of credulity. It followed, therefore, that Chandler had landed in the field, and this was supported by the fact that a machine had just taken off. The cattle in the field could be ignored. They could be moved in and out as required. If this reasoning was correct it ended in the mystery of Bertie’s disappearance. What had he done after dropping the chalk? Where had he gone? Where was he now? Where was his machine? Was it his Auster that had just taken off? If it was, how had Chandler got hold of it? By force? That could only have happened had Bertie disobeyed orders and landed in the same field as the man he was following; and this he could not believe.
It may seem strange that Biggles never guessed the truth, which was that Bertie had been forced to land with engine trouble. But this is something which with modern aircraft rarely happens. Even if the possibility had entered Biggles’ mind, which it did not, it is unlikely that he would have given it serious consideration for the simple reason that it would appear preposterous that Bertie should choose to come down in the same field as the man he was after. Yet what was the answer?