Biggles Flies to Work

by W E Johns

  “In that case,” said Biggles, “we won’t hold you up. We’ll drift along. Thanks for your hospitality. See you again some time.” With a parting wave he and Ginger returned to the Proctor and took off.

  “Well, what did you see?” asked Biggles, as soon as they were in the air on a course for home.

  “Three Austers. None wore the letters I was looking for. They carry the letters shown in our files. But I can tell you this. Kleiner is a liar, if nothing else. He said he hadn’t been in the air today. The engine of the machine standing outside is still warm, so if he didn’t fly it somebody else did. She’s still dripping oil.”

  “Ah,” breathed Biggles. “What was that mechanic doing?”

  “I’m not quite sure about that. He looked as if was giving the machine a wash down.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Could be, except that he was using petrol or, from the stink, some sort of spirit. That seemed a dangerous game to me. One spark and the thing would have gone up in flames. I’ll tell you something else. Kleiner’s father must have oodles of money. Parked beside the hangar there’s a practically new Rolls Bentley. You don’t buy those with chicken-feed. At a couple of quid or so an hour for flying instruction Kleiner’s going to be a long time paying for that. If he’s so keen on flying why not run a small car and buy a man-sized aircraft with a few more horses under the engine cowling?”

  “I think you’ve got something there,” agreed Biggles.

  “What are you going to do? Watch him from up topsides?”

  “I doubt if we’d get far doing that. We might hang about for weeks without seeing anything. Aside from that, Kleiner has done seven years in the R.A.F.. That means he can really fly. He told me he’d spent some time as a blind-flying instructor, which means that clouds won’t worry him. But they’d worry us if we were trying to follow him. If he’s up to mischief it’s my guess he’d choose a day with plenty of cloud about, just the sort of conditions you struck this morning when you were out on patrol. We’ll get back and see if Gaskin has been able to gather any gen about Mr. Kleiner senior, or, for that matter, his son.”

  * * *

  As soon as he was back in his office Biggles buzzed Inspector Gaskin on the intercom telephone. The Inspector said he would come up.

  His first words, when he walked in, were: “Why did you want to know about Kleiner?”

  “Call it curiosity. What do you know about him?”

  “Not as much as we’d like to know.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “We’ve cast an eye on him once or twice. He runs one of those lush restaurant night-clubs in Mayfair and lives at a rate that doesn’t tally with what he tells the tax collector. He’s smart enough to keep proper books, but what does that mean when most of his business is ready money? Some queer types go to the place but it seems that unknown customers aren’t encouraged. We’ve had one or two complaints.”

  “About what?”

  “Overcharging for one thing. Do that and people don’t go back. But what we’ve heard doesn’t justify a police raid.”

  “He has a son I believe.”

  “He has two. One does something in Paris. I f don’t know about the other.”

  ‘I saw him an hour ago. He’s running a flying club in Sussex.”

  The Inspector nodded thoughtfully. “Ah! So that’s where you come in.”

  “It is. Just now you mentioned some of Kleiner’s regular clients are queer types. What exactly do you mean by queer?”

  “Well, four of ‘em at least are known to us as dope addicts. Two have been to gaol for it. Came out swearing they were cured; but in our experience where drug addicts go regularly there’s usually dope not far away. Of course, we wouldn’t find anything of that sort if we raided the place. Kleiner wouldn’t be mug enough to leave the stuff lying about.”

  “Thanks, Gaskin. That’s enough for me to work on,” acknowledged Biggles.

  “You think the stuff may be coming from France?” queried the Inspector, shrewdly.

  “If it is it shouldn’t be too difficult to grab it in transit.”

  After the Inspector had gone Biggles turned to Ginger. “This begins to line up,” he averred. “One brother in France in touch with the dope traffickers and the other flying it to England in a machine with fake registration letters. How simple! Well, we’ll see.”

  “You’ve still no clue as to when the flying takes place,” reminded Ginger. “We can’t watch all the sky all the time.”

  “But Marcel Brissac can watch the brother in Paris. Some time he’ll keep an appointment with the other brother to hand over the stuff the old man is selling in his night-club—whatever that may be. If Marcel doesn’t nab them over his side of the Ditch he has only to ring us here. When David lands he’ll find us waiting. All we shall have to do is watch the landing field at Listern and jump in when he touches down.”

  Ginger nodded. “I get it. I’ll have the Proctor alerted ready for action at quick notice.”

  * * *

  It was a week later, early one morning, when the telephone beside Biggles’ bed jerked him from sleep. Having listened for a few seconds he moved swiftly.

  “That was Marcel,” he told Ginger tersely. “He called the Yard and they put him through to me here. David and his brother met in a field near Evreux. Marcel just missed the machine but grabbed the brother. The machine is now on its way back. We should just be in time to meet it. Get cracking.”

  In ten minutes, without stopping even for as much as a cup of tea, Biggles’ car was racing to the operations hangar. Half an hour later the Proctor was in the air, climbing for height as it headed for Listern. By the time the objective was in sight the Proctor was at ten thousand feet, circling, and quietly losing height on half throttle.

  “I think we’re in time,” observed Biggles, looking down. “No machine on the ground and the hangar doors closed. You watch the sky to the south. That’s the way the Auster should come. I’ll watch the ground in case it slips in low. I don’t think they’ll put the machine under cover until they’ve washed off the fake letters. That, I fancy, is what that fellow was doing when we landed here last week.”

  The Proctor continued to circle, not going too close to the landing field.

  “I can see the Rolls by the hangar so Kleiner can’t be far away,” said Ginger. He went on quickly, “Here he comes. I saw a machine show for a moment against that front coming in from the Channel.”

  “It’s an Auster, anyway,” replied Biggles. “It’s losing height fast. I think it must be coming in here. Watch him.”

  The distant aircraft grew quickly in size as it approached. From a dive it went suddenly into a steep sideslip.

  “Aren’t you going down?” Ginger asked Biggles. He looked surprised at the delay.

  “Plenty of time. If he spots us he’ll be off like a scalded cat for the nearest cloud cover, where we may lose him. I want to see him in a position from which it wouldn’t be easy for him to get off again should he hear us. He won’t while his own engine is running.”

  “He’s going in,” said Ginger.

  “Then let’s go down,” returned Biggles, crisply, and cutting the engine went down in an almost vertical sideslip.

  By the time he had straightened out and was making his approach the Auster had stopped close in front of the hangar. Ginger saw the airscrew stop. “He’s switched off,” he said. “He’s getting out. He’s heard us. He’s looking this way.”

  “We’ve got him,” replied Biggles confidently. “He won’t dare risk a take-off from the position he’s in, particularly as he has no reason to suppose we are what we are.”

  This prediction proved correct. Kleiner stood by his machine, watching, while the Proctor landed and taxied on, tail-up, to the hangar. Having switched off Biggles jumped down, closely followed by Ginger.

  Kleiner’s first words made it clear that he suspected nothing. “So it’s you again,” he said. “You seem to be in the deuce of a hurr
y.”

  “We were, but we’re not now,” answered Biggles, evenly. “I’m an air police officer and I have information that you landed in France early this morning without the customary formalities. I also have reason to believe that, having been abroad, you have just landed here without getting clearance at a Customs airport.”

  While Biggles had been speaking the colour had faded slowly from Kleiner’s face, leaving it curiously white. But he kept his composure. “What are you going to do about it?” he asked, coldly.

  “I’m putting this machine under arrest and I shall now search it for contraband. If you have no dutiable articles on board your offence may, I say may, be regarded by the authorities as a technical one. France may take a different view. If, on the other hand, this machine is carrying contraband your position will be much more serious. You are not compelled to say anything unless you wish to.”

  Kleiner lit a cigarette with a hand that shook slightly. “That’s fair enough,” he said. “I told my old man this couldn’t go on indefinitely. I’m prepared to take my share of the blame but it was his idea.”

  “That’s why he put up the money for the club?”

  “He wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Just as a matter of interest how did you get wise to this? Somebody tip you off?”

  “No.” Biggles walked round to the side of the Auster’s fuselage. “These fake registration letters gave you away. No aircraft licensed in this country carries this set of letters. How did you manage it?”

  Kleiner walked up close to the fuselage, and taking a small loose piece of fabric between finger and thumb ripped off a whole sheet, revealing the original letters underneath.

  “I thought it might be something like that,” said Biggles, quietly. “Now, do I have to search the machine or are you going to save me the trouble by showing me what you went to France this morning to fetch?”

  “As you’ll find it I might as well cut the agony,” said Kleiner. He climbed into the cockpit and came out carrying in his hand a small carefully sealed canvas bag. He handed it to Biggles, who judged it to weigh about half-a-pound.

  “What’s inside?” asked Biggles.

  “Heroin.”

  Biggles drew a deep breath. “Well, Kleiner,” he said, “I won’t tell you what I think of you for murdering people by inches with this infernal muck. But I will tell you this. You’ll deserve the sentence the court gives you for this sort of racket.”

  Kleiner may have remembered these words when, a few weeks later, he and his father received long prison sentences.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE TRICK THAT FAILED

  GINGER stepped down from the cockpit of the Auster aircraft used for daily patrol work, and after a brief “She’s okay” to the senior maintenance mechanic, who was standing by, strode briskly to the Operations Room.

  Biggles looked up from the desk at which he was working, and after a glance at the clock remarked: “You’re back early. Engine trouble?”

  “No, the machine’s all right, but I’ve seen something you should know about. It may turn out to be nothing irregular so I didn’t feel like handling it on my own.”

  “Tell me,” requested Biggles, putting down his pen and reaching for a cigarette.

  “At six-five I was cruising on a course due west, keeping an eye towards the coast on the routine Kent to Devon run, when I heard London Airport Control in a proper flap. There was a fair amount of cloud drifting up so I’d tuned in to keep clear of cross-Channel traffic. I gathered some fool was barging about in a light machine right across the course of a Viscount coming in from Nice with a full load of passengers. They could see him on the screen but they couldn’t make contact to tell him to get out of the way. Either the fellow at the stick wasn’t fitted with radio, or wasn’t listening, or maybe his equipment was out of order. I don’t know about that, but the Control Officer was nearly in hysterics.”

  “So was the Captain of the Viscount, I’ll bet,” put in Biggles, sympathetically.

  Ginger grinned. “Probably a good thing his passengers couldn’t hear his language. The Viscount— I couldn’t see it myself—was at four thousand, so having climbed to six thousand to make sure I was well clear I started looking for the intruder. Five minutes later I got a glimpse of him as he dodged from one cloud to another, bearing west, at about four thousand.”

  “What do you mean—dodged?”

  “What I say. There were plenty of breaks in the overcast had he wanted to keep in the clear, but I saw him deliberately change course from one cloud to another as if he was trying not to be spotted by anyone on the ground. Having some altitude to spare I went downhill after him for a closer look. And I may tell you it wasn’t easy to keep in touch with this cloud-hunter.”

  “What was the machine?”

  “It was a low-wing cabin monoplane painted grey. Side-by-side seating.”

  “What nationality?”

  “Playing hide-and-seek I never got a fair look at his registration but the aircraft looked to me like a Jodel D 2.”

  “French, eh. Forty-five horse Salmson radial engine.”

  “That’s it. One of the type the makers sell in complete kits for amateur construction.”

  “What was he doing on our side of the Ditch, I wonder?”

  “Naturally, I tried to find out. Still popping in and out of clouds I tailed him, always heading west, but jinking as if he knew where he was going but wasn’t quite sure of where he was.”

  “You don’t think he might have been lost?”

  “If he was lost, all I can say is, he was going a queer way to get his bearings. Why stay in the murk? Anyway, when we got to the New Forest he began to lose height.”

  “Sure he didn’t see you?”

  “Not unless he had eyes in the back of his head. I was always in his blind spot under the elevators.”

  “Go on.”

  “Over the Forest he circled once or twice as if he was looking for some place to get down. At the finish he landed on a grassy patch with big timber on both sides. Having got his wheels on the carpet he didn’t stop, but carried on, nearly running into some ponies that were grazing there, and ended up under the trees. He must have tucked himself well under them, too, because after a bit, when I waffled back, I couldn’t see a sign of him from up topsides. That in itself struck me as suspicious behaviour for a pilot who had nothing on his mind.”

  “I agree. Did you see the pilot?”

  “No. I couldn’t see a sign of him. I considered going down to ask him why he had landed outside a Customs airport, but on second thoughts I decided to slip home to report.”

  “He didn’t take off again?”

  “Not when I was there. I hung about for a little while, keeping a fair distance away, but he didn’t appear. Actually, I didn’t expect him to take off again, because had that been his intention he would have left his machine in the open. It was the thought that he looked like staying there for a while that decided me to come home. I reckon he’s still there.”

  “Were you ever able to check if this pilot had a passenger?”

  “I wouldn’t swear to it but I think he was flying solo. I didn’t see him get out because he was under the trees and I didn’t like to go too close.”

  Biggles stood up. “We’d better have a look at this to see what’s going on. There may be nothing to it, but it’s time someone told this fellow there are other people in the air besides himself. We’ll take your machine.” He pulled open a drawer and taking out an automatic pistol slipped it into his pocket.

  Ginger looked askance. “Do you think you’ll need that?”

  “I hope not, but if that Jodel has come from the Continent, as seems highly probable, the man in it could be anybody, or anything, from a smuggler to a criminal on the run. I can’t imagine any British club pilot risking the loss of his ticket for playing the fool on the traffic lines. You’d better bring a gun, too, just in case....”

  They went out, and were soon on their way to Hampshir
e in the Auster. The cloud front had gone through and the sky was now not more than three tenths covered.

  “Keep your eyes open. He may be in the air again,” advised Biggles.

  “There is this about it; he won’t get away from us if he tries to bolt,” said Ginger. “The top speed of the Jodel is only a trifle more than a hundred miles an hour. If I remember rightly, according to the book it needs a hundred and seventy-five yards to get off in still air.”

  “I was thinking more about its endurance range,” returned Biggles. “With a limit of three hundred and seventy miles without refuelling it can’t have come from very far away. By the same token it can’t have much farther to go whichever way it travels, because from what you saw yourself the tank can’t be full.”

  “He might intend to top it up.”

  “He’ll have a job to get aviation spirit in the New Forest—unless...”

  “Unless what?”

  “Somebody brings him some. But that’s guessing. We shall know more about it presently.”

  “That’s the place where he touched down,” observed Ginger, pointing. “Half left—between those trees. Watch out for the ponies. I see they’re back.”

  “Nice spot for a picnic,” remarked Biggles, cynically. “I don’t see the machine.”

  “That was the idea, or it wouldn’t have been put so far under the trees.”

  Biggles lined the Auster for its approach, scattering the ponies, and without difficulty put it down on the rough turf. From ground level the other machine could be seen standing in the deep shade of the trees, although had they not thought it was there it could easily have been overlooked.

  “It’s still there, anyway,” said Biggles, as with a short burst of throttle he ran on to get as near as possible. “The pilot isn’t about or he’d have been out by now to have a look at us.”

  The Auster came to a stop. Biggles switched off, jumped down, and followed closely by Ginger walked purposefully towards what could now be identified unmistakably as a Jodel. It carried on the side of the fuselage the French nationality letter F. They halted when they reached it and looked around. Apart from the twittering of a few birds silence reigned.