The Snark was a Boojum

by Gerald Verner

  Leaving the road, we bounced up a slope, and across the grass of the green itself. I felt perilously unsafe, as if at any moment the wheels would lose their grip on the wet grass. I expected to be thrown from the pillion and experience a severe injury at any moment. Gale was leaning low over the handlebars, working the throttle like a malevolent demon, gunning every last burst of speed from his infernal machine.

  I have to admit Gale’s shortcut saved precious seconds, even if it took years off my life and, by the time we had reached the other side of the green, we could just make out the police car streaking ahead of us on the long road to Marling.

  We were gradually gaining on them. But it must have been obvious to Gale that if we managed to catch up with the police car Merridew would see us in his rear-view mirror and might make good his threat—he might harm Zoe. The thought of such an act was intolerable. I wanted to communicate my concerns to Gale, in case his bullish desire to catch them at all costs had caused him to forget her danger, but the speed at which we were travelling prohibited any attempt at contact, except digging him in the ribs.

  Suddenly we rounded a bend and along the straight road ahead the police car had disappeared. The only explanation was that they had turned off, obviously to avoid Marling, where in all likelihood Halliday had set up a road block or they might be slowed down by other traffic. I didn’t know the area well enough to predict if we were approaching a turning or, if we were, where it might lead to, neither did Gale. We shot past a turning to our right.

  Gale must have been thinking along the same lines as me, for suddenly he braked hard, skidding and throwing us forward, and almost unseating me. Turning the handlebars hard left, he wrenched his horrible smoking contraption round, doubled back about twenty yards, and roared off up a single track road, full of potholes, and patches of water. It was a steep climb up the side of a hill, punctuated by a staccato pop-pop-pop, followed by several loud explosions. When we arrived at the summit, drenched with water and splattered with mud, and I’m sure several dislocated bones, we could see the country-side stretched out below us. About a quarter of a mile ahead was the stolen police car . . .

  I thought of Zoe trapped with Jack Merridew, and of the macabre murders he had committed, and wished Gale could go faster . . . at the same time in contradiction, wishing he would slow down . . . fearing if we continued weaving from side to side to avoid holes in the road we might never catch up with them at all, but end up in a ditch with this orange beast on top of us.

  We shot through the small village of Crawhill, the road widening as it cut along a river valley towards Lower Fell. My face was streaked with rain, and I had to shake my head vigorously to get the water out of my eyes, in order to see anything at all. Letting go of Gale would have meant certain suicide. But this inconvenience was of little consideration, my mind totally concentrated on the car ahead.

  The road started to climb the side of the valley, twisting and turning through woodland, so the road was obscured, and we could no longer see the car ahead. Eventually the trees thinned out and we came to open moorland. I was relieved to glimpse a flash of red brake lights telling me our quarry was still there, maintaining roughly the same distance. A signpost flashed by. I caught sight of the name Dean Stanmoor. We were currently headed for Dean Stanmoor. Then the car ahead turned right down another minor road signposted Stanmoor Aeronautic Club.

  We followed, buffeted by powerful squalls, as the wind gathered strength across the open terrain. A long way ahead, I could make out some buildings, a small control tower and a bright red wind sock that was squirming in the sudden gusts of wind.

  Did Merridew have access to an aircraft of some sort?

  The thought of Zoe being spirited away in a plane caused fear and dread to clutch at my heart. This was no weather to go flying in.

  Gale suddenly turned his head and yelled something at me, pointing furiously to a gauge. I realised he was telling me we were running out of fuel. This infernal machine was about to abandon us in the middle of nowhere!

  As I saw the car ahead disappear from my view round the front of a corrugated aircraft hangar, the orange demon gave a phut . . . phut . . . sound, followed by a dying wheezing . . . like bagpipes running out of air. It looked as though we had finally run out of fuel. Gale held the clutch, and we coasted down a gentle slope to within a hundred yards of the entrance to Stanmoor Aeronautic Club.

  Stiff and sore, I climbed off the contraption and faced Gale.

  His face was one big grin. “Come on young feller, we’re on foot from here!”

  “What are we going to do?” I shouted, trying to make myself heard above a squall that blew our hair in several directions at once.

  “That’s a blithering idiotic question!” Gale yelled back. “We’re going to stop him!”

  “He’s got a gun!” I pointed out. “And he’s got Zoe!”

  Gale ignored me and made off towards the airfield at a pace that I struggled to keep up with. I hoped the police were not far behind us. If they did have a road block at Marling they must have realised Merridew had turned off and, knowing the area a lot better than we did, they would surely work out where. I expected to see police reinforcements at any moment . . .

  As we approached the gate we heard a sound I had dreaded, a nine cylinder radial aero engine starting up . . .

  The small airfield looked deserted. I couldn’t see anything until I came round the side of the hangar by the gateway. Then I saw the police car abandoned on the grass outside the hangar with its doors open. There was no sign of Zoe.

  A silver biplane, with a red and white striped tail, its wheels stumbling over tufts of grass, was headed towards the runway. I could only see a pilot, who must have been Merridew. In a flash Zoe’s words from the tea room came back to me: ‘It was too late when she found out just what kind of man he was—a gambler with debts piling up, an aviator mixed up in some shady goings on.’ Jack Merridew was an aviator with his own plane . . . I was staring at it!

  What had happened to Zoe?

  I raced round the front of the building, my worst fears painting horrible scenes in my head, and looked inside. There were two other biplanes in the hangar. Then I saw her at the back of the building. She was handcuffed by one hand to a water pipe, looking dejected and very angry.

  “Jeff!” she yelled as she saw me.

  I ran frantically towards her.

  “Are you hurt?” I called out.

  “Never mind me!” She shouted back, struggling to free her arm to no avail.

  “Where are the keys?” I asked as I reached her.

  “He’s got the keys with him—he’s getting away!”

  I don’t know what I thought I could hope to achieve against an armed man in a biplane . . . but I hurried out of the hangar and ran towards the aircraft.

  Merridew may have had the keys to the handcuffs with him but in his hurry to reach his plane he had obviously left the keys to the police car in the ignition. This was a huge mistake, because Gale was already in the driving seat, frantically trying to start the engine. As it screamed into life, in his impatience he was giving it too much throttle.

  I could only watch helplessly as the car leapt forward, nearly stalled, then went skidding and slewing after the biplane.

  I could see Gale through the passenger window, his face contorted with fury, wrestling with the wheel and yelling for all he was worth.

  I could only stand and watch, helpless to do anything. I hurried back to Zoe, thinking that Gale was wasting his energy chasing the biplane . . .

  Merridew had got away . . .

  Zoe was slumped against the pipe, exhausted from trying to get free. She looked up at me with an expression of frustration on her face. “This is so annoying!”

  “I’m sure the police will be here any minute, and they’ll have some keys,” I said soothingly.

  I looked back through the opening of the hangar. The biplane was bouncing over the rough ground still pursued by Gale in the police car.
The rain and wind were so strong it was impeding the biplane’s progress. Gale was gaining . . . I could see the gap was closing.

  Every so often the wind caught a wing, lifting the plane off one set of wheels, and caused it to slew in a different direction. The rudder was waving from side to side as Merridew wrestled with the controls, as he attempted to stay on course towards smoother ground where he could increase his speed for take-off. At that moment the biplane was side on to me, then it turned sharply, and I was looking at the tail and along the fuselage.

  I saw Merridew’s head turned towards Gale, his arm waving . . . There was something in his hand . . .

  Two sharp reports echoed across the airfield.

  I saw the windscreen of the police car shatter and Gale thrown back in the driver’s seat.

  Gale had been shot!

  The car lurched from side to side a couple of times, went out of control, slewed off course, and finally stalled.

  Was Gale wounded or dead?

  My heart sank as I ran towards the stationary police car with Gale slumped in the driving seat. I’d known all along we were ill-equipped to go chasing after an armed man, particularly such a dangerous one . . . This was foolhardy.

  The biplane had reached smoother grass. It was gathering speed . . .

  My eye caught a movement. I saw Gale raise his fist for a few seconds, then his arm fell back, and he slumped back in the seat and was still.

  A police siren sounded above the wind. A car was approaching rapidly.

  I watched the biplane leave the ground . . .

  A police car, its blue light flashing, and siren screaming, sped through the gateway and onto the airfield . . .

  It was too late!

  Merridew was in the air!

  For a few moments the biplane hung above the ground like a great bird . . .

  Then an updraught, a tremendous squall of wind and rain, caught it under the wing and flung it sideways . . . The wing tip struck the ground, struts snapping . . . the biplane was tossed upwards and flipped over . . .

  I caught a glimpse of a frantic Merridew struggling with the controls . . .

  The biplane crashed onto its tail which instantly broke into matchwood . . .

  The propeller threw divots of grass into the air as the blades struck the ground . . .

  The plane slid forward, gouging out a dark groove in its wake . . .

  The cockpit windshield, ground into the earth, splintered into a thousand pieces . . .

  I knew no one could have survived that crash . . .

  As the stricken plane finally slewed to a halt, I saw flames spring up around the engine . . .

  There was a deafening explosion!

  A ball of orange fire and smoke engulfed the biplane as a full tank of fuel ignited.

  I turned back to Zoe.

  Her mouth was open, and her eyes were huge, as she watched the scene in horror.

  The police car raced towards the wreckage . . .

  “I’m going to Gale,” I shouted to her.

  I ran out onto the airfield, and was assaulted by acrid smoke from the burning plane, as the wind changed direction for a moment and blew a black cloud of it at me.

  The police car skidded to a halt.

  Four uniformed men, whom I didn’t recognise, sprang out. Two of them, a sergeant and a constable, broke off immediately and ran towards the figure of Gale, still slumped in the driving seat of the stolen police car. The other two, both constables, came running towards me to cut me off.

  “Stop right there, sir!” yelled one.

  “It’s all right,” I cried back, rain lashing my face, “I’m with Halliday.” I pointed to the police car. “Simon Gale was shot . . .” I waved my arm towards the burning biplane which was spitting and crackling . . . “He shot him.”

  Much to my indignation the other policeman swiftly handcuffed me. “We’ll soon sort this out, sir,” he said, “meanwhile we’re taking no chances.”

  I realised they didn’t know who was good and who was bad—how could they know who anyone was?

  “My main concern right this moment is that you sort him out.” As my hands were cuffed I could only nod my head fiercely in Gale’s direction. I continued walking towards him as best I could.

  A sergeant, who was bending over an unconscious Gale, turned towards me. “He’s been shot in the shoulder. Lost some blood, but I think he’ll be all right.” He turned to the constable who had handcuffed me, “Dobson, drive over to that control tower and see if you can ring for an ambulance.”

  “I don’t think there’s time for that,” I cried. “You need to get him into your car now and drive him straight to hospital! By the time an ambulance gets here it could be too late!”

  Dobson halted and looked inquiringly at his Sergeant for instructions.

  “You may have a point there, sir,” the sergeant conceded. “Dobson, we’ll take him . . .” he turned to me. “Who is he?”

  “Simon Gale,” I answered.

  The sergeant turned back to Dobson. “You take Mr. Gale to Marling General.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As soon as Dobson had started the car, I nodded my head in the direction of the aircraft hangar. “Miss Anderson is handcuffed to a pipe in there. She’s was held hostage. Do you have any keys? She’s had a terrible time.”

  The sergeant nodded. “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  We both instinctively looked towards the burning plane.

  “Who was in that?” asked the sergeant.

  “Jack Merridew,” I answered.

  “No one could survive that!” he commented gravely.

  “No,” I agreed.

  The sergeant rubbed his chin. “Was he this Snark character—the one who’s been committing these terrible murders?”

  “Yes,” I said, “I believe he was.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chief Detective Inspector Halliday eventually arrived at the airfield. The death of his sergeant obviously weighed terribly upon him, and Simon Gale getting himself shot only added to his troubles. He looked drawn, his cheerful countenance had disappeared, and he seemed to have aged ten years. When he saw me handcuffed he apologised profusely and ordered one of the constables to remove them immediately.

  “They didn’t know who Merridew was, that was their problem,” he explained. “Come to think of it, we still don’t know who Merridew really was, do we?”

  “Not really,” I admitted.

  Halliday was frowning. “Have I missed something Mr. Trueman? How did Mr. Gale know that the Snark was Jack Merridew?”

  I laughed. “An intelligent bluff I’d say, that paid off!”

  “I’d never have been able to pull off a stunt like that,” confessed Halliday, “totally against all regulations.”

  “That’s where Simon Gale has the advantage,” I replied. “I don’t think he takes much notice of them.”

  Halliday smiled. “I think you’re right there,” he agreed. “What happened here? How did Mr. Gale get shot?”

  I rapidly explained to Halliday what had happened from the time I had arrived at the airfield to the moment when Constable Dobson drove Gale off to Marling General. When I had finished he shook his head.

  “Mr. Gale shouldn’t play the hero,” he said grimly. “He could easily have got himself killed, if he hasn’t already. I hope he pulls through . . .”

  The flames that had engulfed the biplane had died down, and now all that remained was a skeleton of what had once been a fine aircraft and somewhere within the glowing embers another skeleton, the charred bones of Jack Merridew.

  Zoe and I sat quietly in the back of the police car as we were driven to Marling Police Station. We had plenty to occupy our thoughts.

  It was gone three o’clock in the afternoon when we arrived in Marling, and gone seven in the evening by the time we’d completed our statements and left the police station. Sometime between arrival and departure Ursula Bellman had been arrested.

  Zoe took my arm and
looked up at me in that wonderful way of hers. “I’m going to take you to dinner,” she said in her husky, attractive voice. “I think you deserve it after rescuing a damsel in distress!”

  “It’s I who should take you for dinner,” I protested. “I didn’t rescue you at all!”

  “Well you almost did,” she said squeezing my arm. “I was abandoned, handcuffed to a water pipe and you consoled me until the keys arrived.”

  I looked at my mud-splattered trousers. They had dried out with awful creases and bagged at the knees. “They won’t let me in anywhere like this!” I protested.

  “I’m sure it will be all right!” She laughed. “Your trousers are a minor problem compared to what we’ve just been through!” She frowned and gave a huge sigh. “What a truly dreadful morning!”

  “We have a right to enjoy ourselves after such a morning,” I assured her. “But first . . . do you know where Marling General Hospital is? I’d like to call in—see how Simon Gale is getting on.”

  We learned that Gale was in intensive care and unable to receive visitors, but that he was in a stable condition and we ought to be able to visit him tomorrow.

  We found a small restaurant close by and chose a table tucked away in a dimly lit corner, where my dishevelled appearance wouldn’t be so obvious to other diners. We both had chicken and mushroom vol-au-vent, with a butter and wine sauce, accompanied by a bottle of Chablis.

  “This is delicious!” Zoe popped another piece of vol-au-vent into her mouth. She looked at me, her impish face broke into a warm smile, and those dimples . . . she was not just referring to the taste of the food when she said: “I’m really enjoying this.”

  “So am I!” I squeezed her hand briefly. “I hope nothing else happens today to spoil it.”

  She nodded. “I have to ask; what do you think will happen to Ursula?”

  “She’s been arrested as an accessory after the fact. She may not have actually taken part in any of the murders, but she colluded in them by not going to the police and telling them what she knew.”

  Zoe winced. “Do you think they will be able to prove that?”

  “It depends what evidence they can find. You’ve known Ursula a lot longer than I have. Do you think she’s capable of cold blooded murder?”