Biggles and the Plane that Disappeared

by W E Johns

  “Then perhaps we’d better go down. There’ll be hell to pay if I arrive back with a dead man.”

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Someone will have to take the rap, and as he was in my care it’s certain to be me. Maybe you’re right. We’ll go down in the next field and have a look at him. There shouldn’t be much risk.”

  CHAPTER XI

  CHANDLER SHOWS HIS HAND

  THE Auster was less than a hundred miles from the north coast of France, over the big, hedgeless farm lands which are a feature of that part of the country, before Chandler, who was still in control of the aircraft, said he could see a field which should suit them. The ground was flat and without a tree in sight. As far as Bertie could judge this was correct and he told Chandler he was content to leave things to him.

  The first glimmers of the new day were streaking the sky eastward and the lights of isolated houses were already pin-picking the landscape as the French farmers, habitual early risers, prepared for work. The dim twilight, with a faint suspicion of ground mist common at the time of the year, would make landing conditions trappy rather than difficult, but Bertie did not comment on this. Chandler, obviously an experienced pilot, would be aware of it, and he was prepared to leave everything to his judgement. But even the best pilots can make mistakes.

  Chandler, airscrew idling, circled, losing height, always keeping in sight the wide, irregularly-shaped field, apparently grass, which he had chosen. A landing looked easy. There wasn’t a tree in sight and no light within half a mile. Bertie had only one apprehension: electric cables, which are almost impossible to see from above, now stretch across every country in Europe, and France in particular is festooned with them.

  Chandler made his final turn and at little more than stalling speed made a perfect approach, level and as straight as the flight of an arrow.

  It was only at the last instant that a glint of light on an occasional puddle of water told Bertie the truth; that what they had taken to be grass was one of the apparently endless reed beds that fill the hollows in that particular part of the world-as travellers by road or train must have noticed. He yelled, “Look out!” But it was too late.

  There was a horrible swishing noise as the undercarriage wheels dragged through the thin, five-feet-high stalks with their feathery tops. The blades of the metal airscrew threshed into them, slicing and hurling them in all directions. The result was inevitable. The aircraft lost speed so quickly that both pilots were pitched forward in their seats. As it sank into the lush growth the nose went down and the tail tipped up; and in that position the machine came to rest.

  Bertie lost no time getting out. The crash, if it could be called a crash, was not a bad one, and there was little risk of fire; but he was taking no chances.

  Chandler came round from the other side and joined him. “This was your bright idea,” he rasped in a passion he made no attempt to conceal.

  Bertie adjusted his monocle. “There was nothing wrong with the idea. It just didn’t work out. I’m not blaming you so don’t blame me. It was dirty luck. Anywhere else would have been all right. There are grass fields all round.”

  “It’s a hell of a lot of use telling me that now. You had nothing else to do but look at the ground. Couldn’t you see what I was landing in?”

  “No, I couldn’t. Nor could anyone else in this light. Do you suppose I’d have been such a fool as to let you touch down here had I known what the stuff was? It could have been worse. We are at least on firm ground. We might have been up to our necks in mud.”

  “That’s poor comfort.”

  “I can’t see what you’ve got to moan about. It happens to be my aeroplane—remember? But instead of standing here arguing about who was to blame don’t you think it would be a good thing to get this wretched fellow out of the back seat to see how badly he’s hurt?”

  “I suppose we might as well.”

  Not without difficulty on account of the position of the aircraft the passenger was lifted out and laid on the ground. Bertie knelt beside him and it did not take him long to ascertain the truth. “He’s dead,” he announced, getting up.

  “Dead,” breathed Chandler. “That’s dandy.”

  “A lump of something hit him smack in the chest. Must have killed him outright. He wouldn’t have known anything about it. Well, I suppose he understood the risks he was taking.”

  “What are we going to do with him?” Chandler now spoke quietly, as if sobered by shock.

  “That’s up to you.”

  “You’re in this as well as me, don’t forget.”

  “I’m not likely to forget, so let’s not quibble about that. We can’t leave him lying there.”

  “What else can we do?”

  “We might go through his pockets, for a start, to find out who he is.”

  “What good will that do us?”

  “As far as I’m concerned, no good at all.”

  “Then why bother? What does it matter who he is?”

  “It may matter to someone.”

  “I’m not interested. I’m only interested in getting away from this mess before anyone comes along; and it can’t be long before someone sees that damn tail sticking up in the air like a church spire. You realize what a spot we shall be in if we’re copped?”

  “As well as you do.”

  “Good. Well, I’m not staying here any longer.”

  “What can we do? Where can we go?”

  “You can do what you like, but I’m hoofing it while the going’s good.”

  “Hoofing it, where?”

  “To the nearest road. There must be one not far away.”

  “And then?”

  “Cadge a lift to the nearest railway—before it gets any lighter, and before the story of last night’s business is broadcast. I should be able to get to Calais or Dieppe and be on a boat for home before the police start looking for us. If necessary I’ll hire a car to take me to the coast, or the nearest airfield where I can charter a plane. There must be one not too far away.”

  “Have you any French money on you?”

  “Of course. I always carry some—in case.”

  “Have you a passport?”

  “No. But I’m not worried about that. I shall manage.”

  “How?”

  “When I get to the nearest Channel port I shall go to the British vice-consular office, or whatever it is, and report the loss of my passport. It was in my suitcase and somebody pinched the case. They’re bound to give me a pass to England.”

  “You talk as if you were going alone.”

  “I am.”

  “What about me?”

  “You can do what the hell you like.”

  “You’ll let me have some French money?”

  “Not on your life. I may need all I’ve got on me.”

  “That’s really noble of you,” sneered Bertie. “You mean you’re going to leave me here to face the music?”

  “I’m travelling alone. It’ll be easier. It’d look fishy if two people said they’d lost their passports.”

  “Aren’t you afraid that if I’m caught I’ll talk? If I did you wouldn’t get far.”

  “No. That’s one thing I’m not afraid of. You’ll be staying here.”

  It may have been the way Chandler said this, or perhaps a flash of intuition, that told Bertie what he intended. He had been watching his eyes, and they spoke as clearly as words. Chandler had a gun. There would be two dead men instead of one, and dead men can’t talk. The police when they arrived, as they were certain to sooner or later would assume the corpses had been the only occupants of the plane. There would be no alarm. Chandler would be able to get clean away.

  Bertie did not wait for him to reveal his plan. Once the gun was out he wouldn’t have a chance. He sprang. His fist lashed into the pit of Chandler’s stomach. Taken by surprise Chandler doubled up with a gasp. Before he could recover a vicious uppercut—for Bertie was ice-cold with anger—sent him reeling, to tangle his feet in t
he reeds and go over backwards. This gave Bertie all the time he needed to duck under the aircraft and plunge into the reeds on the far side. He did not stop. Bending low he ran on.

  After some seconds, presumably while Chandler was picking himself up and getting round the machine, three shots were fired. But the shooting was blind and did no harm. Bertie, anticipating this, was by this time lying flat, motionless, so that movement in the reeds would not give away his position. There he remained, tense, listening intently for some minutes before getting up and cautiously raising his head to see Chandler, two hundred yards away, leave the reed-bed on the far side and run on towards a line of telegraph poles. In the morning light they were plain to see, and almost certainly marked the position of a road.

  As soon as Bertie was satisfied he was not coming back he turned his attention to the Auster. He was confident from the way it had flopped down bodily, any direct shock being absorbed by the reeds, that it couldn’t be seriously damaged. He went first to the airscrew, fearing that if it had actually touched the ground the metal blades would be buckled. They would only have to be slightly out of truth to put the machine out of action. They appeared to be all right. One blade was just touching the ground, but the ground was soft, little harder than mud, which of course accounted for the reeds being there. The undercarriage, of the fixed two-wheel type with half axles and rubber cord shock absorbers, had not suffered. The fuselage showed a few holes from the shelling it had been through but as far as could be judged nothing vital had been touched. After an examination lasting a quarter of an hour Bertie could find no reason why the machine should not fly again if it could be moved to open land.

  His big problem was the body of the unlucky passenger, and he spent a few minutes wondering what he should do with it. Had the man only been wounded there would have been no question. But he was dead, so time was no longer of any importance. He didn’t like the idea of leaving the body lying there yet there seemed no point in putting it back in the machine even if he could manage that single-handed.

  As he stood there considering the matter he was jerked from his quandary by a hail. Looking in the direction whence it came he saw two workmen, in the customary blue blouses, with a horse and plough standing on the upper fringe of the reeds looking at him. He raised a hand to show that he had heard, whereupon one of them advanced towards him leaving the other holding the horse.

  Now Bertie had to make up his mind quickly, what he should do, what he should say. His first thought was to drag the body into the rushes where it could not be seen, but finding the idea repugnant he abandoned it. In the end he did nothing, trusting to his wits to provide a plausible explanation.

  The man, sturdy, red-faced, with a heavy black moustache typical of the type, arrived smiling sympathetically. Speaking of course in his native language he said: “An accident, monsieur?”

  “Yes,” answered Bertie, somewhat unnecessarily.

  The man came round the aircraft, stooping under the tail unit. His expression changed abruptly when he saw the body lying on the ground. “Name of God!” he breathed. “Is he badly hurt?”

  “He is dead.”

  “Psst! What happens?”

  “We were forced to land, and—as you see.” Bertie indicated the plane.

  “What will you do?”

  “I was thinking about it when you called— I don’t know where I am. Where do you live?”

  The man pointed to a house in tile distance. “À là bas.1”

  “Have you a telephone?” Bertie thought he might telephone Paris as the quickest way of getting a message through to Scotland Yard.

  “Non, monsieur.”

  “Where is the nearest?”

  “At Lanvin.”

  “How far away is Lanvin?”

  “Seven kilometres.”

  Nearly five miles, thought Bertie quickly. It was a long walk. “And a doctor?” he inquired.

  “Also at Lanvin.”

  Bertie did some more fast thinking. Perhaps it was just as well he was so far off the beaten track. News of what had happened farther south during the night had obviously not yet reached the place. For that matter, the British registration on the fuselage apparently meant nothing to the simple countryman.

  “Have you a motor-car at home?” he asked.

  “Non, monsieur.” The man smiled faintly as if this was a joke.

  “Somehow I must fetch help,” went on Bertie. “If I could get the aeroplane to the field I think it would fly. That would be the quickest way to get to Lanvin. Perhaps there is a railway there?”

  “Non.”

  “Will you help me to move the plane to the field?”

  “Certainly, with pleasure, monsieur, if that is what you wish. My son could bring our horse. That will make it easy. What will you do with—” the man pointed to the body.

  “It will have to remain here until the police come. No doubt they will bring an ambulance and a doctor.”

  The man looked dubious but said he would fetch his son. He went half-way to the field and bellowed instructions. Evidently they were understood, for the son unhitched the rope traces from the plough and leading the horse, the usual heavy grey Percheron, came towards them. When he arrived, after a short discussion on ways and means, the three of them got the Auster to even keel. Bertie made another examination. Finding nothing broken he said they would take the plane to the field.

  This, with the help of the horse, proved to be a relatively simple matter. The ropes were made fast to the undercarriage half-struts. Bertie and the older man supported the tail, and with the son leading the animal the Auster was towed to the field which was to have been ploughed. The horse was unhitched. Bertie got into his seat and looked at the petrol gauge. There was a fair quantity left. He started the engine. No trouble. There was no vibration, such as he had feared, to give warning of damage he might have overlooked. Telling the men to hold down the tail he advanced the throttle. The needle of the rev. counter told him the engine was in order. A few runs up and down the field and he was satisfied. He realized of course that he would taking a chance in the air, but he felt the circumstances warranted it.

  Now up to this time he had had every intention of flying to Lanvin, landing as close as possible, and with the help of the local police officer make contact with Marcel Brissac in Paris. To him he would be able to tell the truth. It struck him there might be no need for this. He did some quick mental arithmetic and reckoned that if all went well he could be in England well inside two hours. At that hour of the morning it would probably take as long, if not longer, to get in touch with Marcel and bring him to the spot. The local police, who did not know him, might be difficult. He might find himself under suspicion, even under arrest, subjected to interminable questioning. He could not afford to waste time. What he really wanted was to get in touch with Biggles before Chandler got home. If Chandler got home first anything could happen. All signs of what had been going on, and that included Taffy, could disappear. The farm might even be evacuated altogether.

  Feeling a bit mean at treating his willing helpers so shabbily he taxied close and through the open side-window shouted: “Guard the dead man until the police come.” Then, advancing the throttle, not without a certain amount of trepidation, and ready to cut the ignition at the slightest indication of engine or structural failure, he took off. For a while, still anxious, he flew straight, climbing gently. As the minutes passed, and the aircraft continued to behave normally, he breathed more freely and turned slowly to the north on a course for home.

  Looking ahead, after taking a little altitude, he saw a front of towering cumulus clouds, like monstrous cauliflowers, being rolled majestically towards France from the Atlantic by a freshening north-westerly breeze.

  He was not sorry to see them, for he was only too well aware that he was not yet out of the wood, so to speak. It was only to be expected from the hostile activity farther south that all French defences, and that included the north, would remain alerted, and cloud cover wou
ld be welcome should he be attacked from the ground, or, what he feared more, from the air.

  The reception the Auster had received puzzled him as much as it had surprised Chandler. It was most unusual. For an aircraft to be challenged by some airport control tower and ordered away should it threaten collision by wandering on, or near, the course of a liner on one of the regular services, was a fairly common occurrence; but that failure to comply should result in anti-aircraft defences being brought into action, in Bertie’s experience had never happened. There must have been a very good reason. Not by the widest stretch of imagination could he have considered the possibility of Biggles having stirred up such a hornets’ nest.

  He had not yet decided on an actual objective. There had been no time for that. He began to think about it now. Where was he most likely to find Biggles? London? He thought not. Biggles would almost certainly be out looking for him. If so he would probably make his base at Lysett. If he wasn’t there Grant would probably know where he was or what he was doing. Bertie decided to make for Lysett.

  He had already made up his mind what he would do were he questioned by radio. Indeed, there was only one sensible thing he could do, and that was identify himself, and the aircraft, giving the Interpol signal. What he feared, now it was full daylight, was that he might be shot down by some trigger-happy young French interceptor pilot, sent up to look for the Auster, before he could make himself known.

  With the real danger area, the coast and the Channel beyond, in sight, he decided to take the bull by the horns and speak to the ground before he was challenged. In fact, he was mildly surprised that this had not already happened. It did occur to him to wonder if the alert had been called off. If so a general call to that effect might even now be on the air. He should have plugged in earlier, he told himself, as he did so; but other matters had occupied his mind.

  The radio seemed strangely silent. He fiddled with it. He tightened the earphones. Not a sound. Not even a crackle of interference. This, too, was unusual. He fully expected to pick up signals being exchanged, or perhaps even music from one of the hundreds of transmitters that now cover the face of Europe like a rash. But there was nothing.