by W E Johns
It did not take him long to discover what was wrong. His radio was dead. Stone dead. Whether it had died a natural death through some fault, or, more likely, had been struck by a fragment of metal when the machine was being shelled, he did not trouble to try to find out. It was enough that it was out of action and there was nothing he could do about it. This was real cause for alarm. Even now he might be being challenged. His failure to reply could hardly fail to have unpleasant consequences.
He took a quick, anxious look around. He could see no other aircraft. Almost below him a white fringe of surf on a sandy beach delineated the wavering line of the Normandy coast, with, on the left, the Cherbourg Peninsula jutting out into the dark waters of the Channel. He had climbed to six thousand feet, but the bases of the billowing clouds were still some distance above him. He would have preferred to keep out of them, and not only in order to get his bearings when he reached the English coast; in those great masses of vapour there would be bumps, perhaps severe, and he did not want to put more strain on the Auster than was unavoidable. There might still be a weak spot somewhere.
He compromised by easing the joystick back for more height, resolved to stay just below the clouds if nothing happened, but close enough to reach them quickly and take cover should serious trouble threaten. He was not entirely happy about this because he knew that to anyone looking up from the ground he would be as conspicuous as a beetle crawling across a whitewashed ceiling. It was making the best of an awkward situation. He crossed the coast and headed out to sea.
Nothing had happened, and he had come to the conclusion that he need not have been worried when he was disillusioned in no uncertain manner. Dead on his course, a quarter of a mile ahead, a flash of flame gave birth to a coiling mushroom of black smoke. It was, he suspected, only a warning shot. If he ignored it others would follow, and they would be closer.
For a brief moment he hesitated, tempted to go down, when his behaviour could be explained; but this, inevitably, would take time, while his story was checked and confirmed by London or Paris. It was time too valuable to be lost; time for Chandler to get home and give the alarm. Then anything could happen to Taffy.
Pushing the stick forward for speed he zoomed, at once to be enveloped in cold, grey, clammy mist.
He continued to climb, his intention now being to get above the front. He had no wish to grope his way across the Channel through the murk. But the cloud was thick, and it took a little while. At last the grey turned to a tenuous white and he burst out into sunshine with the blue sky above. To his disgust, not only blue sky. Not more than a mile away three Alystere fighters, carrying the blue, white and red cockades of the French Air Force, were flying in echelon. From the way they peeled off and came down at him they must have received his position from the ground and were waiting for him to appear.
Bertie did not wait for them. He shot back into the cloud like a dabchick in a dirty millpond when stoned by mischievous children.
* * *
1 French: “Over there.”
CHAPTER XII
SHOWDOWN IN THE FARM
AT the same time as Bertie was making his uncomfortable way home, Biggles, shaken by the tragic information he had received from his chief via Grant, the manager of Lysett aerodrome, was contemplating bringing the case to a head by searching the farmhouse. There seemed no longer any reason for delay and he felt suddenly sick of the whole business. He said so.
“Before we jump we’d better all be clear about what we’re going to do,” advised Gaskin sympathetically.
“I shall arrest Chandler for the theft of an aircraft,” answered Biggles. “When we know more about what happened in France, and that shouldn’t take long, the charge may have to be changed to one of murder. Everyone else in the house can be held for questioning. We should be able to judge how far any others are involved when we’ve heard what Taffy Welsh has to say. He’s been locked up long enough. Apart from that I want to get my hands on Chandler.”
“You really believe he shot Bertie?”
“What else can we think? The man found dead beside the Auster hadn’t been killed in the crash. He’d been shot. Who else could he be but Bertie, and who else could have shot him except Chandler? There’s no doubt they left here together. Taffy saw them go to the barn where the Auster was housed. We saw it take off. What more do we want to know?”
“The motive. Can you think of any reason why Chandler should kill Bertie?”
“Yes. The machine was on the ground. It must have looked as if they’d both be caught. Bertie knew too much. If the police picked them up he might have talked. So Chandler would think, and he would have been right. He was determined to save his own skin at any cost. He carries a gun. That’s how he was able to force Taffy to land here. That’s enough for me. What else has been going on here we can only guess, but we may find the answer inside. Chandler’s the man I want.”
Gaskin nodded, tapped out his pipe on the heel of his boot and put it in his pocket. “All right, if that’s how you want it. I can imagine how you feel. We’d better not go to the door in a bunch. It’d be better to break up and cover both doors in case Chandler makes a bolt for it. If he’s the sort of man we think he is that’s more than likely; and if he’s still got his gun in his pocket we’d better be ready for trouble. If he’s used it once he’ll have nothing to lose by using it again.”
“I hadn’t overlooked that.”
“Have you got a gun, should Chandler decide to shoot it out?”
“No. Have you?”
“Not me. There are times when I’d be tempted to use it and that could get me into trouble. By the way, do you know the name of the man who owns this house?”
“No. Let’s go and find out. I suggest you come with me to the back door. That’s the one facing the field. You’ve got the search warrant should they demand to see it. The others had better go round to the front. There may be a car in the garage. If so someone may try to get to it. Is that all clear?” Biggles looked round.
“Suits me,” agreed Gaskin briefly.
“Right. Then let’s carry on.” Biggles spoke to those who were to go to the front. “We’ll give you two or three minutes to get in position. Get as close as you can but take care not to be seen unless anyone leaves. Off you go.”
Ginger, with the constable, and Sergeant Smith of the Special Branch, departed.
Biggles and Gaskin waited a little while. Then Biggles dropped the stub of his cigarette in the grass and put a foot on it. “Let’s go.”
They walked openly to the field gate and on through the back garden to the door. Gaskin knocked.
The door was opened by the unpleasant-looking female Bertie had seen. Behind her a young Chinese type was looking over his shoulder as he washed dishes at a sink.
“I want to see the master of the house,” said Gaskin.
“He isn’t here,” snapped the woman, and would have shut the door had not Gaskin stopped it with his boot.
“What’s his name?” inquired Gaskin imperturbably.
“Who wants to know?”
“I do. I’m a police officer.”
“Doctor Hammal. I’ve told you, he’s out.”
“Then I’ll have a word with Mr. Chandler. I know he’s at home.”
Again the woman tried to shut the door, but Biggles pushed past her, and brushing aside the Chinese who would have barred his way crossed the kitchen and opened a door on the far side.
Through a haze of cigar smoke he saw an elderly man sitting upright in an arm-chair, a bottle of whisky and two glasses on a small table beside him. “Are you Doctor Hammal?” he inquired crisply.
“What do you mean coming into my home in this way?” was the sharp answer.
“We’re police officers”
“I don’t care who you are. You have no right—”
“We have a search warrant. I asked you a question and you’d be well advised to answer it. Is your name Hammal?” Biggles felt Gaskin standing beside him.
“It is. What do you want?”
“Is this your house?”
“It is. What of it?”
“Who else, apart from you and the two people in the kitchen, lives here?”
“No one.”
“You are sure there’s nobody else in the house?”
“That is what I said. Are you daring to suggest I’m a liar?”
“What about the man you have locked in a room upstairs?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you mad? Why should I lock anyone—”
“You needn’t tell me. I know. I’ve spoken to him. Where’s Chandler?”
“I know of nobody of that name.”
Biggles shrugged. “Have it your way.” He held out a hand. “Give me the key of the room where you have locked Mr. Welsh. I know all about it. Don’t waste any more time.”
“Oh, very well.” Hammal got slowly to his feet and with the aid of a stick walked to a writing-desk. He opened a drawer. Then in a flash he had turned, pointing an automatic. “Don’t move, either of you, or I shall be forced to use this,” he said, without raising his voice.
“That won’t help you,” Biggles told him. “You’re only making matters worse for yourself.”
Hammal did not answer. Still presenting the pistol he crossed the room to a door on the far side and opened it. “Chandler,” he called loudly. “Come here. I want you.”
Quick footsteps. Chandler appeared. His face was flushed as if he had been drinking, but from his expression he took in the situation at a glance. “What’s going on?” he asked, his eyes going from the gun in Hammal’s hand to the visitors.
“We’re police officers and we’re here to ask you some questions,” informed Biggles. “You’re not compelled to answer them and I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence—”
“Cut the cackle. What do you want to know?”
“First, I believe you carry a firearm. Is that correct?”
“What of it?”
“Answer my question. Have you a gun?”
“I have, but—”
“Never mind the reason. I advise you not to attempt to use it. Did you fly an aeroplane to France last night?”
The question seemed to take Chandler by surprise. He forced a laugh. “Now what could have given you that idea?”
“I’m asking the questions. You flew an Auster. Right?”
“So what? I took my machine up for a run round and getting above the clouds may have drifted over France by accident. That can happen to anyone.” Chandler tried to speak naturally.
“It wasn’t your machine, but we’ll let that pass for the moment. You took someone with you. Who was it?”
“You’re talking through your hat.”
“Am I? Very well, if you won’t tell me I’ll tell you. The aircraft was a police Auster and your passenger was Sergeant Lissie of the Air Police.”
Chandler could not conceal the shock this must have given him. He crossed the room, poured half a glass of whisky and gulped it neat.
Hammal glared at him. “You fool! You liar! You told me Lissie was a friend of yours.”
Chandler stormed back. “I wanted another machine. You agreed to that. And I wanted someone to help me out. How the hell was I to know—”
“That’s enough,” cut in Biggles. “Shall I tell you the rest of the story? You were challenged over France—”
“Rot. Why should I be challenged?”
“Because I saw you take off and warned France to be on the watch for you.”
Chandler stared.
“You landed near Marseilles and were nearly caught on the ground. You got away, but you came under fire and were forced to land in Normandy. There, to cover your getaway you shot your co-pilot and left him—”
Hammal, still glaring at Chandler, burst out: “You didn’t tell me this. You told me—”
“That’s enough,” interrupted Biggles. “I’ll hear what you have to say presently.”
“I can assure you this is all news to me,” swore Hammal.
Turning back to Chandler, determined if possible to get the truth about Bertie, Biggles concluded: “Is there anything you’d care to say before I arrest you for the wilful murder of Air Police Sergeant Lissie?”
Chandler was looking dazed. “You’ve got this all wrong,” he blurted. “I didn’t shoot Lissie.”
“If you didn’t, who did?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“You were there. Do you deny that?”
Chandler drew a long breath. “All right! You seem to know a lot. I’ll tell you the truth.”
This was what Biggles wanted. “I’m listening.”
“Let’s admit that most of what you’ve said is more or less correct. I flew to France last night. Lissie wanted to come with me so I let him. We went in his Auster. He flew it. We landed near Marseilles. On the way home we came under fire and landed in Normandy, but not for the reason you think. The light was tricky and what I took to be a grass field turned out to be a swamp. We piled up in it. After some discussion we agreed it would be safer for each of us to make his own way home.”
“Why?”
“We knew we’d stirred up a hornets’ nest.”
“I suggest the truth is, Lissie told you he was a police officer and therefore had no reason to run away; whereupon you pulled a gun and shot him.”
“Nothing of the sort. Lissie didn’t tell me he was a cop. The first I knew about that was when you told me yourself, just now. I’ll take my oath we parted company by the Auster. He went one way and I went another. I got to a road, got a lift to a garage, hired a car to Barquise aerodrome where I found a machine to fly me back to England. I arrived back here in a taxi. That’s the truth.”
Biggles’ voice was as hard and cold as ice. “Either you learned Lissie was a police officer, or you didn’t want him with you, so you shot him dead and left him lying beside the Auster. There he was found by a farm-hand who reported the matter to the French police who informed Scotland Yard. Isn’t that more like the truth?”
“Nothing like it,” protested Chandler vehemently. “There was a dead man beside the machine but it wasn’t Lissie.”
“Who else could it have been?”
“I’ll tell you. It was—”
“Shut your mouth, you fool,” grated Hammal.
Chandler turned on him in a fury. “Do you suppose I’m going to swing for a murder I didn’t do?”
“I said shut up. You’ve said too much already.”
“Who are you telling to shut up? Oh yes, you’re only concerned with keeping yourself and your damned gang in the clear. I’m not having that. Not on your sweet life.” Chandler faced Biggles. “The man who was killed, not by me but by the French gunners, was—” He broke off. He must have seen Hammal’s gun swing towards him and guessed what was coming. He ducked, jumping sideways like a cat a split second before the gun crashed. Another instant and he was through the door he had left open. His running footsteps receded.
By this time Gaskin had leapt forward, caught Hammal by the arm and wrenched the gun out of his hand. “That’s enough of that,” he growled. “You’re under arrest for attempted murder.” Handcuffs clicked. “Chandler won’t get away.”
Biggles was not so sure. He dashed back through the kitchen to watch the back of the house, confident that those in front would stop Chandler if he tried to escape that way. Actually, his brain was in a whirl, for there was something about the way Chandler had spoken his final words that suggested he was telling the truth for once. That was why Hammal had tried to silence him. Moreover, from what little Hammal had said it seemed there might have been a third person in the Auster, someone whose identity had to be concealed.
A shout cut short Biggles’ train of thought.
“Look out! Chandler! Through a window. Making for the field.” The voice was Ginger’s.
Biggles moved quickly. He looked across the garden towards the field. Through the hedge
he could just make out a figure sprinting along the far side. If it was Chandler his intention was obvious. He was hoping to get away in the Cub.
He set off in pursuit. He was not particularly alarmed. Chandler would look at the petrol gauge and see the Cub had no petrol, or only a drain sufficient for a very short distance. Or would he look at the gauge? A doubt came into Biggles’ mind. Perhaps he wouldn’t. As the machine hadn’t been out since it had been refuelled at Lysett he would assume it was still topped up, and not trouble to check.
Shouting to Chandler to stop, Biggles ran on after him. Chandler had nearly reached the barn, but he heard. He turned, gun in hand. Biggles dived into the ditch, fortunately dry, that ran along the hedge. Chandler fired two shots.
“Watch your petrol,” shouted Biggles, still in the ditch, for he had no intention of taking on a desperate man, armed, without a weapon. His words were lost in the noise of the engine as it was started up. He went on shouting until he realized he was wasting his breath. He took a chance and ran on. Chandler was obviously in his seat and would find it difficult to shoot from there. He reached the front of the barn, taking care to keep the engine between him and the man in the cockpit, just as the Cub came out, engine roaring, and had to jump aside to save being knocked down.
For the last time, as the Cub passed him, with Chandler hatless, looking straight ahead, he yelled: “Stop! Petrol! Look at your—” he threw up his hands helplessly as the Cub went on, gathering speed. Surely, he thought, Chandler wouldn’t be so crazy as to take straight off without giving his engine a minute to warm up. Breathing heavily from exertion he could only stand and watch.
The Cub raced on, tail up, regardless of the cattle which, although still in a corner, might take fright and stampede across its front. But apparently the beasts had learned that aircraft were harmless for they did not move.
Biggles, watching, hands on hips, wondered how far the machine would get before the engine cut out or before Chandler realized from his fuel gauge that he had no petrol. There was nothing he could do. He had no regard for Chandler but as a pilot he didn’t want to see the man kill himself. Not that this was a foregone conclusion. There might be enough petrol to keep the machine in the air for a minute, perhaps five minutes, before the end came, as it was bound to. Even then, Chandler, an experienced pilot, might get down without a serious crack-up. That would depend on altitude and what was below him when the engine cut out.