by W E Johns
Biggles shook his head sadly. “I should have known there was a trick in it. What’s the latest miracle?”
“It won’t take long to tell,” asserted the Air Commodore. “Today is Monday. Yesterday, at twelve noon, an aircraft apprentice named Edmund Teale proceeded on leave from Halton Camp to his home near Buckbury, in Essex, where his father is a gamekeeper. Teale caught his train and arrived at Buckbury station last night at ten minutes to eleven, where he ascertained from the station-master that, as the train was late, he had missed the last bus to Stanfield Corner, which would have passed near his home. He did the natural thing. Leaving his kitbag with the station-master, saying he would call for it next day, he took his haversack and started to walk. The distance by road to his home is six miles, but as there’s a short cut across the fields that does it in four he took it. The station-master at Buckbury has confirmed that he last saw Teale on the footpath at eleven o’clock. The boy should have been home by midnight. He didn’t arrive; and he never will, because at dawn this morning his dead body was picked up on the Dutch coast. An early bather saw a body on a sandbank. He fetched the coastguard who brought it in. The uniform and identity disc told the police who it was. They phoned the Air Ministry, who have asked me to investigate.”
“And now you’re asking me?”
“Exactly.”
“Then let’s make sure I’ve got my facts right. The boy was at Buckbury at eleven o’clock last night —that’s definite?”
“Yes.”
“And at what time was the body found?”
“Five o’clock this morning.”
“Which means that, alive or dead, he had been transported from a footpath in Essex to Holland in six hours. That, in turn, means that he was carried in an aircraft.”
“Obviously. The time factor rules out anything else.”
“What was the cause of death—drowning?”
“No. The boy must have been dead when he was put in the water. There was no water in his lungs. He had been shot in the heart, from close range, by a bullet fired from a Luger automatic pistol. The bullet is now on its way to us by air.”
“So we have a plain case of murder.”
“There’s no doubt about that,” agreed the Air Commodore. “If we can find the owner of the Luger that fired the bullet that killed the boy we should have enough evidence for a conviction; but in the absence of any motive I’m afraid that’s going to be difficult.”
“I can’t altogether agree with you there,” said Biggles quietly. “There’s always a motive for murder although it may not be instantly apparent.”
“But what possible reason could anyone have for killing this unfortunate, harmless boy?”
“Unfortunate, yes, but not necessarily harmless,” disputed Biggles. “But let us not argue about it. As far as material to work on is concerned I’ve enough to keep us busy for the rest of the day.”
“I’m glad to hear you say it,” murmured the Air Commodore, rising. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“Have Teale’s parents been told yet?”
“They’ve had a wire to say the boy died in an accident. An officer is now on the way down to tell them as much as we know.”
“Nobody else knows the details?”
“Not yet.”
“What about the boy’s haversack. Has it been found?”
“No.”
Biggles stubbed his cigarette. “All right, sir. That’s all I want to know. Believe you me, I shall try very hard to find the skunk who shot an unarmed boy. If I do find him we’ll see what happens when he meets someone who also carries a pistol.”
The Air Commodore nodded. “Let me know how you get on,” were his last words.
The brief silence that followed the Air Commodore’s departure was broken by Ginger, who had listened to the conversation from the map table where he had been working with Algy and Bertie. “From the way you spoke anyone would think the case bristled with clues,” he observed. “I can’t see one.”
“That’s because you don’t look hard enough,” bantered Biggles, reaching for another cigarette.
“Suppose you tell us, and save time,” suggested Ginger.
“All right,” agreed Biggles. “Let’s start with the motive. There must be one. When that boy set out to walk home he was perfectly normal. The tragedy therefore occurred or began during the walk. He was shot. The person who shot him didn’t do it for fun. He had a reason. What could it have been? Considering the circumstances there could only have been one, or possibly two. He wanted the boy out of the way or he wanted to silence a witness. The two things go together, because having silenced the boy he would have to get rid of the body, anyway. Why did this person find it necessary to silence the boy? Obviously because the boy had seen something, or learned something, during the course of his walk. For the sake of argument we can say that as Teale walked home he saw or heard something which engaged his attention. We might even say, his professional attention. After all, he was a budding airman, and, as we know, an aircraft comes into the picture. He investigated, and was killed—not by an ordinary weapon, mark you, but by a Luger pistol, which is something a man carries for just such a purpose for which it was used. Exactly where Teale was killed we don’t know—yet. What we do know is, the murderer decided to dispose of the body by dropping it from an aircraft into the sea. By no other means could the body have reached the place where it was found. It follows, therefore, that the murderer had an aircraft available. It might not be stretching conjecture too far to say it was this aircraft which the boy saw, and going to look at it—as he certainly would—saw too much.”
“But I still don’t see how you’re going to start looking for a man who, having flown to Holland, might now be anywhere in Europe,” argued Ginger.
“Let’s see what we now have to work on,” suggested Biggles. “Indisputably, the boy boarded, or was carried aboard, an aircraft. As it isn’t possible to board an aircraft in flight, it follows that between eleven o’clock and midnight last night an aircraft was standing on the ground near the path that runs from Buckbury to Stanfield Corner. It must have been near the path because, as it was dark, the boy wouldn’t otherwise have seen it. He may have watched it land. In any case, he would know that only one of two reasons would cause a machine to land there. Either it had made a forced landing or else it was engaged in an illegal undertaking. We know it didn’t make a forced landing because it was able to take off again and fly to Holland. The landing, therefore, must have been irregular, otherwise the machine would have touched down on an official Customs airport—particularly if it had a foreign registration, as seems not unlikely. My argument that the landing was improper is supported by the fact that the pilot carried a gun, which is something a respectable civil pilot has no need to carry. He was ready for trouble should it arise. It did arise, and he used it—from which we may judge the character of the man we’re looking for. As the Luger is a continental weapon the chances are that he’s a foreigner—possibly, as the machine went to Holland, a Dutchman.”
“But are we quite sure that he went to Holland,” put in Ginger. “He might have flown out to sea, dropped the boy, and come back.”
“It wouldn’t have been necessary for him to fly right across the North Sea simply to dispose of the body,” declared Biggles. “One part of the sea would have been as good as another for that purpose. As the machine crossed the sea we may suppose it’s still there, because having been to the trouble to make a night flight it’s hardly likely that the pilot would fly back in broad daylight—particularly after doing what he had done, knowing that he would be seen. Anyway, for a start let’s look at the place where the thing began. It shouldn’t be difficult to find, because in the short distance between Buckbury and the keeper’s cottage there can’t be many places big enough for a machine to make a landing—a night landing, at that. Fetch the six-inch Ordnance Survey map of the district.” Biggles got up and walked over to the map table.
Ginger brought the map
and opened it on the table.
The point of Biggles’s pencil descended on Buckbury. “Here we are,” he said. “Here’s Buckbury. Here’s the path. This is better than I could have hoped for. See what I mean? The path runs through timbered parkland for more than half the way. There could be no landing there. Here’s a big field, though—the only one as far as I can see. It seems to be on the estate of this place, Larford Hall. All right. That’s as much as we shall learn from the map. Algy, slip down in the Auster with Bertie and get me a strip of vertical photos from two thousand. Cover the whole length of the path while you’re at it. Be as quick as you can. I’ll make some phone calls while you’re away. Ginger, ring up headquarters Essex Constabulary; find out the name of the police officer at Buckbury and get him on the phone.”
Ginger turned to the instrument while Biggles had another look at the map.
Within five minutes Ginger had the required information, and passed Biggles the receiver. “Here you are,” he said quietly. “Sergeant Winskip is the name.”
Biggles, note-book beside him and pencil in hand, took over. “Good morning, Sergeant. This is Bigglesworth of Scotland Yard here. I want you to answer a question or two. I believe you have a biggish place on your beat called Larford Hall... that’s right. Who lives there now?... Mrs. Vanester. Came here from Paris. Dutch lady originally from Java... ahhuh. How long has she had Larford Hall?... Twelve months. Has a business in London, eh. What sort of business?... High-class milliner in Bond Street. Trades under the name of Madame Karena. Yes, I’ve got that. Now tell me, have you had any complaints lately about low flying?... You haven’t. What’s the name of the postmaster at Buckbury?... Mr. Green. Right, Sergeant. That’s all. Thank you. Goodbye.” Biggles hung up and looked at his watch. “We’ve just time to run up to Bond Street before Algy gets back and develops his photos. Get the car.”
Ginger hesitated. “What the dickens are you expecting to see in Bond Street?”
“You heard my conversation with the sergeant,” asserted Biggles. “I’m going to glance at Madame Karena’s bonnet shop.”
“What do you expect to see there?”
“Hats, of course.”
“Hats!” Ginger looked incredulous. “What have hats got to do with us?”
“That’s just what I’m wondering,” said Biggles softly. “Of course, these are ladies’ hats—very expensive, no doubt.”
“So what?”
“I imagine expensive hats have expensive decorations.”
“Such as?”
“Well, feathers, for instance.”
“Are you kidding?”
“This is no kidding matter, my lad. Judging from what a fellow working for Guinea Airways once told me, when I had occasion to call at New Guinea, the feathers that once made fine birds can also make fat bank balances. Let’s go and see.”
Half an hour later Biggles’s car glided in to the kerb outside a small but expensive-looking establishment over which, in flowing letters of gold, appeared the name Madame Karena. There was only one window. Behind it, on a stand, was displayed one article. It was a hat, a small hat from which sprang two curving plumes, one up, one down. No price was marked.
“Let’s go in and see what they want for that flimsy piece of frivolity,” suggested Biggles.
He led the way in. To an elegant young lady who came forward he said: “A friend of mine has asked me to find out the price of the hat you have in the window.”
“The price is fifty guineas, sir,” was the reply.
“Thank you, but I’m afraid that’s rather more than I thought,” said Biggles sadly.
“Ragianas are very rare now, sir, but we have others,” said the girl, raising a hand to where more hats were on view—mostly, Ginger noticed, trimmed with gorgeous feathers.
“I was only interested in the one in the window,” replied Biggles. “By the way, are you by any chance Madame Karena?”
“No, sir. Madame Karena seldom comes to the shop. She designs our models at home.”
“I see. Thank you. Good morning.” Biggles went out and back to the car.
“Fifty guineas,” breathed Ginger. “Stiffen the skylarks! Women must be crazy. Ten fivers and then some for a couple of twirls of fluff. The hen they grew on must have been hatched from the original golden egg.”
“You may be nearer the mark than you imagine,” Biggles told him. “Those bits of fluff, as you call them, are worth considerably more than their weight in gold.”
“I still don’t get it,” muttered Ginger helplessly, as Biggles started the car.
“That’s because you don’t read the right sort of books,” murmured Biggles, smiling. “You heard what I told the Air Commodore this morning. It’s all a matter of supply and demand. Those feathers don’t grow on barn-yard hens, laddie.”
“What do they grow on?”
“A fool of a fowl that so dolls itself up with finery to dazzle its girl friends that it’s known as the Bird of Paradise. I call it a fool because all it usually gets for its trouble is a twisted neck. It’s been hunted almost to extinction by plumage poachers—poachers because the wretched bird is now strictly protected by law; anyway in British territory.”
“The girl called them Ragianas—or something.”
“Ragianas are one of several species. Others, I remember, are called Magnificents, Superbs, Gorgets and Empresses. Some time ago, when I was in New Guinea, they were the main topic of conversation on account of the new prohibition law. The punishment for bumping off one of those gorgeous birdies was pretty severe, too. A fine of two hundred pounds and up to two years’ imprisonment. Did that stop it? Not on your life. All it did was boost the value of the feathers sky high, so that poaching became even more profitable. The more rare the bird, the more expensive its feathers. The more expensive the feathers the rarer the bird becomes. That’s how it goes with everything today. The moral is, don’t cock your tail too high or you’re liable to lose it.”
“But what in thunder has all this to do with us,” cried Ginger.
“I’ll give you a line on the way it begins to look to me,” answered Biggles. “The Bird of Paradise dwells, as a matter of unromantic fact, in the jungles of the East Indies—notably New Guinea. The East Indies are mostly Dutch. Madame Karena came from Java which is in the Dutch East Indies—or Indonesia, as they call it now. As you may have noticed, she isn’t short of Paradise plumes. How does she get them? I can’t think they come through our Customs because we’ve made it illegal to kill the bird. Anyway, the duty would be enormous. Dutch aircraft operate to and from the East Indies, so it wouldn’t be surprising if there were plumes available in Holland. Last night an aircraft landed near Madame Karena’s country house. As it later flew to Holland we might assume it came from there. I don’t know what it brought here, but it certainly brought something; and as Madame Karena is well supplied with decorations for her fabulous titfers it might well be that the plane brought her some, which might not have got in through ordinary channels, and would have to pay a fantastic duty if they did. Anyhow, that’s how it begins to look to me.”
“And me, now you’ve been kind enough to give me the gen,” said Ginger.
Algy was waiting with the photographs when they got back to the airfield, the prints, still damp, having been arranged as a single picture on the table. Biggles picked up a large magnifying glass and subjected them to a searching scrutiny.
“Okay,” he said at last. “These tell us all we really wanted to know. There’s only one place within easy distance of the footpath where an orthodox aircraft could land, and that’s the big field in front of Larford Hall. As a path leads to it from the house it’s evidently part of the estate. Having seen it from topsides’ we’ll now go down and have a worm’s-eye view.”
“Do you mean fly down?” asked Ginger.
“Not likely. That might scare somebody. We’ll go down by car. There’s no great hurry.”
“What beats me is this,” averred Ginger. “If the bloke we’r
e looking for is in Holland how are we going to get at him?”
“With any luck we might arrange for him to come over to us,” answered Biggles blandly.
“But that may mean hanging about the field night after night for weeks, on the off-chance of him coming over,” said Ginger, aghast.
“Not necessarily,” corrected Biggles. “If we whistle he may come back tonight. Algy, I’m afraid you’ll have to take over here while I’m away.” As he spoke, Biggles took an automatic from the drawer of his desk, loaded it and put it in his pocket. “Bring your guns,” he told Ginger and Bertie. “We’re dealing with a man who not only packs a pistol but is ready to use it—even on a kid. Well, if he tries it on me he’ll find me ready.”
Three hours later, having had lunch on the way, Biggles brought the car to a stop outside the village post office at Buckbury. Inside, they found the postmaster busy behind the counter.
“Mr. Green?” queried Biggles.
“Yes.”
Biggles showed his police badge. “I’m from Scotland Yard and I want a word with you,” he said quietly. “In fact, I may need your co-operation.”
The postmaster looked alarmed until Biggles reassured him. “There’s nothing for you to worry about,” he told him. “Am I right in supposing that Larford Hall comes in your postal area?”
“Yes.”
“You handle the letters to and from the Hall.”
“Yes. Mrs. Vanester often comes here herself.”
“What sort of woman is she? I mean, how does she strike you?”
“All right. She doesn’t say much. I’d put her age at about forty. She’s on the big side, and good-looking in a foreign sort of way. I don’t think she’s altogether European, although that’s only my opinion.”
“I believe she says she’s Dutch.”
“That’s right. She often sends letters to Holland.”
“You see her mail, then?”