by W E Johns
As the Cub’s wheels left the ground it swept up in a steep climbing turn that made Biggles hold his breath. Such a take-off would be risky at any time. With a cold engine it was madness. It had climbed to about two hundred feet and was still climbing when the end came. The engine coughed. It coughed again and then choked to death. The airscrew spun to a stop. Inevitably, at such a steep angle of climb, in a sudden silence that was uncanny the Cub wallowed helplessly in a stall. It fell off on a wing; the nose whipped down and half going into a spin it plunged earthward like a shot bird.
Biggles could imagine Chandler working feverishly with throttle and joystick knowing they were useless. Given sufficient altitude the Cub would be brought to even keel by its own inherent stability; but there was not enough room for that at the height at which it had stalled. There was nothing Chandler could do. Nothing the best pilot in the world could do. The Cub went into the tree-tops with a rending, splintering crash, which is like no other noise on earth and once heard is never forgotten.
Silence fell. The only movement was the departure of panic-striken birds from the vicinity.
For a couple of seconds Biggles hesitated, undecided whether to go to the crash or return to the house. Without petrol there was no risk of fire and Gaskin might have his hands full. Then he acted as would any pilot in the circumstances. He tore across the field as the shortest way to the place where the Cub had ended its career.
When he reached it he found the wreck much as he expected, the fuselage a crumpled heap, its back broken, one wing torn off at the roots and hanging from a tree. Apparently at the last moment the pilot had tried to jump clear. His safety-belt was undone—if in fact in his haste to escape he had troubled to fasten it. The door was open and his body lay half in and, half out of the seat. Feeble moans came from his lips.
Biggles dragged him out of the wreckage. There was nothing more he could do by himself. He would have to go to the house for help. He was wondering if anyone there had seen the crash when after a deep groan death rattled in Chandler’s throat. It was, he knew, the end.
Feeling sick and shaken, for no pilot likes to see this sort of thing, Biggles turned away, intending to go to the house, hoping there to find a telephone and so bring a doctor and an ambulance to the spot. He saw Ginger racing down the field towards him.
“There’s no hurry,” he told him, as he ran up.
“I was watching,” panted Ginger. “How bad is it?”
“Couldn’t be worse.”
“You mean?”
“Yes. He’s dead.”
“Too bad. But if ever a man asked for it, he did, the way he took off. Knowing the Cub was out of petrol—”
“I’m not holding myself responsible for that,” declared Biggles shortly. “Even with a full tank no one but a drunk or a lunatic would have dragged a machine off the ground like he did that Cub.”
“So Lorrimore won’t get it back after all.”
“That doesn’t matter. At least he’ll now be able to claim the insurance and buy a new one.” Biggles took a last look at the crash. “They say every man’s life is what he makes of it,” he remarked philosophically. “Well, this is what Chandler has made of his. Silly fellow. But there, who are we to judge? Let’s get back to the house.”
“You’re too soft,” muttered Ginger. “I haven’t forgotten he killed Bertie.”
“That remains to be proved,” answered Biggles. “Come on.”
CHAPTER XIII
HOW IT ALL ENDED
“WHAT was happening at the house when you left?” Biggles asked Ginger as they hurried back.
“Everything’s under control. They’re all there. Gaskin has arrested everyone and phoned the County police for transport to take them into custody.”
“Who do you mean by all?”
“There were only three people in the house; an old man, a Chinaman and a woman.”
“I would have expected more. But with a pilot it may have been enough.”
“That’s all we could find.”
“What about Taffy?”
“I let him out. He’s all right. He’s in the living-room with the others. Sergeant Smith was searching the place when I came away. I heard the Cub start up and dashed out to see what happened.”
“Have any of the prisoners said anything?”
“Not a word in my hearing.”
“I was afraid of that. If that old man, Hammal as he calls himself, won’t open his mouth, it will still be some time before we know what I’m most anxious to know. Chandler knew the answer, and was in the mood to squeal, but Hammal shot at him. Now he can’t tell us.”
“Tell us what?”
“The truth about Bertie.”
“What more do we want to know? Chandler murdered him.”
“I’m not so sure of that. I can’t remember Chandler’s exact words, but from the way he said them it seems there might have been three people in the Auster when it crashed. If so, who was the third man? I’m wondering if it was to meet this unknown character, if there was one, that the C.D. car came here. It must have had some reason for coming to a place like this in the middle of the night.”
“You think it may have been this unknown man who was shot.”
“It seems possible. He didn’t arrive here.”
“In which case there’s a chance Bertie may still be alive?” Ginger looked expectant.
“I’m beginning to hope so.”
“But Bertie didn’t get back here either.”
“I don’t see how he could, with the machine crashed.”
“But Chandler managed to get back.”
“Obviously he had the means to do so. Bertie wouldn’t be likely to have much money on him, English or French, and if Chandler went off on his own, as he said he did, Bertie would be left in France to get home as best he could. That, of course, is assuming Chandler didn’t shoot him.”
“Then you think there is hope?”
“Yes. But I’m afraid to bank on it. These people were all lying so one doesn’t know what to believe; but as I say, there were moments when Chandler’s explanation of what happened in France had a ring of truth in it. Hammal must know the truth about the man who was killed because that’s the first thing Chandler would tell him. He’d have to tell him.”
“Why?”
“To explain why he came home alone. If there was a passenger in the Auster, and the car was here to meet him, there would be no point in keeping it here if he wasn’t coming. Is that why it went off? But we’re going round in circles. If Hammal won’t open his mouth we shall have to wait for the facts until I’ve spoken to the Air Commodore. By this time he should have the details from France.”
They reached the house and went straight through to the living-room. On the table lay a stack of money, in notes; and beside a bag in which apparently they had been contained, a pile of small objects.
“What’s all this?” asked Biggles.
The Security officer answered. “Diamonds.”
Biggles whistled softly. “So that was the line of business.”
“Commercial diamonds,” Sergeant Smith corrected himself.
Biggles look at Gaskin. “What has Doctor Hammal to say about them?”
Hammal himself answered. “I have nothing to say except that they are my property and I can prove that I paid for them.”
“Where were they going?”
“That’s my business.”
“Who was the passenger Chandler went to France to pick up?”
“Ask him. Being what he is no doubt you’ll find him ready to talk.”
“He won’t talk any more to anyone. He’s dead. He tried to escape in the stolen plane and was killed taking off.”
“Serves him right, the fool. He couldn’t leave the bottle alone.”
Biggles’ lips curled contemptuously. “A nice friendly epitaph for a man who’s been working for you.”
“I have nothing more to say.”
Biggles turned to Sergeant Smith. �
��Where’s the telephone?”
“In the hall.”
“Is it working?
“It was a few minutes ago when I rang up County police headquarters.”
“Would you mind ringing them again and ask them to arrange for a doctor and an ambulance to be sent along to pick up a man who has been killed in a plane crash?”
“Certainly.”
Biggles turned back to Hammal. “You may change your mind when you’ve had time to think it over. We shall find out all we want to know, anyway. I have the number of the C.D. car that was here last night. No doubt the French police have everything sorted out by this time.” To Gaskin he went on: “Can I leave you to take care of things here? I’m anxious to get back to Lysett to see if there’s any more news from the Yard.”
“About Bertie.”
“Of course.”
“Go ahead. It won’t take us long to get everything tidied up.”
For the first time Biggles spoke to Taffy. “Are you all right?”
“Nothing wrong with me whatever.”
“Good. Would you like to come with me to Lysett? We’ll get you home from there. There’ll be room for you in our car.”
“Thanks. I’ve been here long enough.”
“You can tell us all about it on the way to the aerodrome. Gaskin, I imagine your party will be flying back to London in the Viking?”
“When I’ve handed this lot over.”
“Then I may see you at Lysett; if not, at the Yard.”
Biggles, Ginger and Taffy walked down the field to the road, and finding the car where it had been left were soon on their way to the airfield.
“I’m still a bit mixed up about all this, look you,” remarked Taffy.
“I’ll tell you all about it presently,” answered Biggles. As they turned into the gate Ginger clutched Biggles’ arm. “Can you see what I see?”
“I don’t know what you’re looking at.”
“That Auster, standing in front of the sheds.”
“What about it? There are scores of Austers in the country.”
“But there’s only one with that registration. Look for yourself.”
Biggles looked hard. “I don’t believe it. There must be some mistake. Bertie’s machine crashed in France.”
“Whatever happened to it, it seems to have managed to get home.”
Biggles brought the car to a skidding stop in front of the office. Grant was standing at the door.
“How did that machine get here?” shouted Biggles, pointing at the Auster as he sprang out.
“It flew in.”
“When?”
“About a quarter of an hour ago.”
“Who brought it here?”
“Lissie.”
“Where is he?”
“In the washroom, having a clean up.”
Bertie himself appeared, smiling. “What cheer, chaps,” he greeted, fixing his eyeglass.
Biggles gripped his hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Am I glad to see you.”
“Same here, old boy.”
“I never expected to see you again.”
“And believe you me, laddie, there were moments when I never expected to see you.”
“But I still don’t get it. France reported the Auster had crashed.”
“So it did, but nothing was badly bent. With the help of a couple of farmers and their nag I managed to get it off.”
“I don’t mind telling you we were worried stiff,” asserted Biggles. “We thought Chandler had shot you. France said a body was lying beside the machine.”
“Quite right, but it wasn’t mine. Feel me. I’m no ghost. Chandler had a crack at me but I got away and he made off. Wait till I see the dirty dog. I’ll tell him—”
“You won’t tell him anything. When we went to the farm to pick him up he skipped in the Cub. He stalled taking off and went into the deck. He’s dead.”
“Oh dear! Too bad.”
“Whose was the body that got us all foxed?”
“Some Johnny we picked up near Marseilles.”
“Don’t you know who he was?”
“Not a clue, old boy.”
“Didn’t you go through his pockets?”
“Not me. Corpses give me the willies. Chandler didn’t kill him. We were plastered pretty badly on the way home, as you’ll see when you have a look at my flying machine. The wretched fellow in the back seat stopped a lump of something and we landed to see if we could do anything about it. Chandler put us down in a lot of rushes mistaking them for grass.”
“The great thing is, you’re home. You can tell us more about it when I’ve had a word with the chief on the phone.”
Grant stepped in. “While you’re doing that I’ll lay on something to eat. No doubt you could all do with a bite.”
“Several bites, if you can run to it,” requested Bertie. “I missed my early morning cuppa.”
Biggles was soon back. “Okay,” he said. “The chief hasn’t any fresh news. France is in a bit of a flap. They found the body, which is still unidentified, but no aircraft. The Air Commodore can now tell them why. Proceed, Bertie, and tell us all about it.”
Over a substantial meal Bertie told his story. “I had about a pint of juice left when I waffled in here,” he concluded. “What beats me is, why the French pranged us as they did. They fairly gave us the works. Anyone would think they were all ready and waiting for us.”
“Matter of fact, they were,” said Biggles sadly. “My fault. Sorry. We saw the Auster take off. I sent Ginger to put a call through to Marcel Brissac and tell him what was on the way.”
“Oh here, I say, that was a bit thick.”
“How were we to know you were in it?”
“Absolutely—absolutely. I see that. Which reminds me. I shall have to go back to that bally farmhouse.”
“Why?”
“I left my police ticket in the room where they locked me up, pushed down the back of the chair. I thought if I was searched, and it was found, Chandler might be peeved with me.”
“I’d say you were right, at that,” grinned Biggles. “But there’s no need for you to go back there. Gaskin or one of the others will still be there. It’ll take some time to search the entire house. Ginger, you might give them a ring and ask them to pick up Bertie’s pass. They can bring it along when they come.”
Ginger made the call. “That seems to be the lot,” he said when he returned.
“Not quite,” disputed Biggles. “We’ve cleaned up this end of the racket, but there’s still the other end. The people there can’t know what has happened here so the chances are they’ll carry on. I’ll let Marcel know. I may slip over and see him. He can lay on a reception party for the gang the next time they turn up to meet the aircraft. That should get everything buttoned up. Tell me, Bertie. Do you know exactly what the racket was?”
“No, but from what I saw I’ve a pretty good idea. It seemed to be a two-way job. Chandler was taking over commercial diamonds. He told me so. He also as good as admitted they were intended for one of the Iron Curtain countries. He was, I think, paid for them in cash at the other end. He then brought back with him someone who didn’t want to be seen entering the country through one of the regular channels, airport or seaport. Probably some cheap crook in a hurry to leave the Continent.”
Biggles shook his head. “I doubt if you’re right, there. I suspect it was someone, possibly a spy, important enough to have a foreign Diplomatic Corps car sent to meet him at the farm. We may know more about that presently. Meanwhile, let’s get back home. The Air Commodore will be biting his nails waiting to hear what we’ve all been up to.”
“What about my poor old Auster?” questioned Bertie. “I wouldn’t swear it’s a hundred per cent safe to fly.”
“It’d better stay here for a complete overhaul. I’ll fix that with Grant. I must also thank him for being so helpful, lending us his car, and so on. I don’t think we need wait here for Gaskin. In the Viking he may be home before u
s. I’m anxious to get back and report to the chief. He’ll be expecting us.” Biggles got up.
“What about my pass?” queried Bertie.
“Gaskin will bring it along with him when he finds we’ve gone on. Let’s get mobile.”
For all practical reasons, as far as the Air Police were concerned, this was really the end of the case of the Missing Aircraft.
Nothing else of importance was found at the farm.
Hammal persisted in his refusal to speak and some time later was sentenced to a long term of imprisonment on several counts, one of which was the attempted murder of Chandler, to which Biggles and Gaskin were witnesses. His real nationality was never learned.
It turned out that the woman in the house was his wife, and completely in his power. She was charged as an accessory and got off lightly. The Chinese boy was discharged for lack of evidence against him. A simple creature, his story was he had been Hammal’s cook at a period when the doctor—if in fact he was a doctor—had lived in China. His master, he said, liked certain Chinese dishes, so when he had moved to England he had taken him with him. He swore he didn’t know what went on at the farm except that men came and went. This might well have been true.
The identity of the man who had been killed in France was never disclosed. It was said that he carried nothing by which he could be identified. Biggles did not question this; he was not sufficiently interested; but he had his own ideas about it. He linked it with the fact that although he was able to give the registration of the C.D. car which had visited the farm, he was never told to whom it belonged although certain people must have known. He suspected it was one of those political matters which for diplomatic reasons are better hushed up.
It only remains to say that he took the first opportunity to go to France and compare notes with his Interpol colleague, Marcel Brissac. With him went Bertie, who was able to point out where the clandestine meetings took place. As a result of this a trap was laid, and the next time a car arrived on the scene at night the French police were there waiting for it.