Biggles Flies to Work

by W E Johns

  “Nobody here,” said Biggles. “No use trying to guess where the owner has gone. All we can do is wait a while to see if he comes back.” He stepped up to examine the cockpit. Two minutes later he stepped down again. “Nothing,” he told Ginger quietly. “No log. No papers of any sort. No radio. Tank half full. One of these home-made jobs, I imagine, but that’s no excuse for not carrying identification papers. Make a note of the registration letters. If all else fails they should tell us who owns the machine.”

  “Unless he’s got the log-book and his passport in his pocket we can assume he had no intention of landing at an airport, where they would have been needed,” stated Ginger. “Queer business.”

  “If it’s as queer as I’m beginning to suspect, the pilot will take fright if he comes back and sees the Auster here,” opined Biggles. “You’d better take it away. Park it somewhere handy and walk back to me. You shouldn’t have far to go. There’s plenty of open country about.”

  Ginger walked over to the Auster, got in, started up, turned it and took off. After circling he put it down on a pasture about half a mile away. Having run it close to the hedge he set off cross-country to rejoin Biggles. When he reached him, twenty minutes or so later, he found him seated on a fallen tree just inside the forest smoking a cigarette.

  “Nothing doing?” he queried.

  “Not a sign.”

  “It begins to look as if he may not be coming back.”

  “He’ll come,” asserted Biggles, confidently. “Planes cost money. The problem is to know what to do when he does show up. He’ll have a tale ready to account for his being here, you may be sure. With no evidence to disprove it all we can do is take his particulars and warn him he’ll be reported to the French Aero Club for technical offences, such as landing outside a Customs airport.”

  “He could say it was a forced landing.”

  “We know differently. While you were away I ran up the engine. It’s giving its full revs.”

  “If he’d collided with that Viscount there would have been a nasty mess.”

  Biggles shrugged. “Had he done that he would by now be beyond the jurisdiction of any court. He wasn’t carrying a parachute. There isn’t one here, and he would hardly have taken it with him wherever he’s gone.”

  An hour passed. Two hours. Three hours.

  “I’m going to run out of cigarettes,” remarked Biggles. “I didn’t expect to be away all day.”

  “I haven’t had my breakfast yet, never mind lunch,” lamented Ginger. “Could he have gone for petrol?”

  “How could he get it here? There’s no road, and he couldn’t carry enough to make any difference. Had he wanted petrol he wouldn’t have parked at an off-the-map place like this. No, that isn’t the answer.”

  It was after three o’clock before the silence was at last broken, and then by a sound which Ginger did not associate with the mystery machine. A woman laughed. Then a man’s voice spoke.

  “Bird watchers or a picnic party,” muttered Ginger, disgustedly.

  “They’re coming this way,” replied Biggles, softly.

  Presently two people could be seen approaching through the trees. A man and a young woman; the man about thirty and the girl in her late teens. They seemed to be in high spirits.

  “Here we are,” said the man cheerfully, as they walked up to the aircraft on the far side. “Did I keep my promise when I said I’d fetch you?”

  “You did,” agreed the girl. “But I wasn’t expecting anything as romantic as this. A plane. How wonderful!”

  The man’s face appeared above the fuselage. He was good-looking in a florid sort of way, with an outsize blonde moustache.

  Biggles caught his breath. His hand closed on Ginger’s arm. “Now I get it,” he whispered. “You know who that is?”

  “No, but vaguely—”

  “It’s Rosten, the R.A.F. accountant officer who skipped about three months ago with his station payroll. About £12,000. He must have got to France.”

  “And has come back to fetch his girl-friend.”

  “That’s what it looks like. I seem to know that girl’s face, too. Well, this is it. Watch me in case he turns nasty.”

  Biggles got up and walked to the machine as the pilot and his companion came round to the near side with the apparent intention of getting into the cabin. The girl saw Biggles first, but, curiously, Ginger thought, far from showing alarm she flashed him a smile.

  “Just a minute,” said Biggles.

  The man spun round, the colour draining from his face. “What is it?” he asked, harshly.

  “Does this machine belong to you?”

  “What has that to do with you?”

  “Does it?”

  “Yes. It’s mine. What of it?”

  “Where have you come from?”

  “What business is that of yours?”

  “I’m a police officer,” stated Biggles evenly. “I have reason to believe you’ve come from overseas and landed here without getting clearance at Customs.”

  “I can explain that if—”

  “You’ll have to, but not here. Do you want me to say any more now?”

  The pilot’s face was ashen. “What—what are you talking about?” he blustered.

  “You know what I’m talking about, Rosten,” answered Biggles. “You’re not getting into that aircraft. I was hoping you’d refrain from distressing the lady more than is unavoidable. Need I say more?”

  Rosten started, his tongue flicking nervously over his lips. He drew a deep breath. “Perhaps you’re right,” he said slowly. Turning to the girl he went on. “I’m sorry, darling, but would you mind leaving me alone with this man for a few minutes?”

  “I think you’d do better to go home,” Biggles advised her.

  “But what’s all this about?” cried the girl, looking from one to the other. “We’re going to Paris to get married.”

  “Flight Lieutenant Rosten already has a wife,” said Biggles.

  For a moment the girl looked as if she was going to faint. Then, recovering, she ran off through the trees.

  The moment she was out of sight Rosten whipped a revolver from his pocket. “I’m going to kill you for that,” he rasped.

  “Don’t be a fool,” retorted Biggles. “What sort of a skunk are you? That girl’s going to take a crack when she learns the truth about you. Why make matters worse by getting yourself hanged?”

  “Drop that gun, Rosten,” ordered Ginger, who, seeing what was happening, had come up behind him.

  Rosten threw his revolver on the ground. “Okay, you win,” he said savagely. “I must have been out of my mind to come back to England, but—”

  “You weren’t satisfied with the money you stole. You wanted to ruin an innocent girl as well. Who is she?”

  “Diana Fulvers.”

  “The oil millionaire’s daughter?”

  “That’s right. I rang her from a call-box and told her if she’d come down I’d meet her and we’d elope. She’s in love with me,” boasted Rosten.

  Biggles nodded. “Now I understand why you risked coming back here,” he said coldly. “More easy money. Where did you get this machine?”

  “I bought it in France, second-hand. How did you know I was here?”

  “You should have studied regulations before you crossed the Channel. Machines don’t just come and go as they like any more. You might have crashed a Viscount carrying a full load. Where’s the money you stole?”

  “In France, what’s left of it.”

  “Turn it in and you may get a reduced sentence,” advised Biggles. “But we can talk about that later. Let’s get along.”

  * * *

  Rosten took Biggles’ advice and revealed the whereabouts of the stolen money, for which reason he was sentenced to only three years’ imprisonment.

  A week after the trial Biggles received two visitors at his office, Otto Fulvers and his daughter Diana. Their purpose was to thank Biggles for saving them from a painful experience, for
the girl now knew the truth about the man with whom she had imagined she was in love, and with whom she might have left the country with tragic results to her future.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE CASE OF THE EARLY BOY

  CHIEF INSPECTOR GASKIN, C.I.D., pipe in mouth, walked up to Biggles’ desk in the Air Police office and without a word laid on it a necklace that flashed with all the colours of a rainbow.

  Biggles picked it up and allowed it to dangle from his fingers. “Very pretty,” he said dryly. “Is this a little present from you to me?”

  Gaskin shook his head sadly. “Sorry, but my pay doesn’t run to this sort of frivolity.”

  “Then why bring it here?”

  “I thought mebbe you’d be interested to know where it was found.”

  “Where was that?”

  “It was hanging from one of the top branches of an oak tree in Ashdown Forest. As diamonds don’t climb trees they must have arrived there by air. That’s why I’m here. Thought you ought to know.”

  “You seem very certain the thing was flown here.”

  “Couldn’t have got here any other way. Not in the time. Less than twenty-four hours ago this little fortune was at a ball in Monte Carlo, hanging round the neck of a princess. In the early hours of the morning someone lifted it, with a few similar trifles, from the bedroom of her villa. We had a call from Paris to be on the look-out for them in case they came our way.”

  “As apparently they have, but not as one would expect. Who found the necklace?”

  “A boy of fourteen. Son of a farmer who lives nearby.”

  “When was this?”

  “This morning, just before six o’clock.”

  “What was he doing in the top of a tree at that hour?”

  “Birdnesting.”

  Biggles smiled. “Boys will be boys. He must be a keen egg hunter.”

  “He had the sense to take the necklace to the police station in East Grinstead. They came through to me to ask if we knew anything about it. I sent a car to collect it. Thinking a plane might be involved I decided to come to you for expert advice.”

  “Where’s this boy now?”

  “In my office.”

  “I’d like a word with him.”

  “His name’s Tommy Scrimshaw. I’ll bring him up.” The Inspector went out to return a minute later with the young birdsnester. He looked somewhat dishevelled, but his eyes were bright and his expression one of supreme self-confidence.

  “Tell me, Tommy,” began Biggles. “This tree where you found the necklace. How far is it from your house—well, your father’s house?”

  “About half a mile, sir. Do I get the reward if there is one?”

  Biggles’ lip twitched. “We’ll come to that later. Did you by any chance hear a plane during the night?”

  “We hear planes all the time. Last night I didn’t hear any because I was asleep.”

  “What were you doing out so early?”

  “After the rain yesterday I thought there might be some mushrooms in our big pasture; but when I got there I found a man had beaten me to it.”

  “You mean, he was mushrooming?”

  “Yes.”

  “How do you know what he was doing?”

  “What else could he be doing? He was walking up and down, up and down, looking at the ground. He must have been there for some time.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The dew was still on the grass and there were tracks everywhere.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I walked towards the man to tell him he was trespassing on our land; but when he saw me coming he shouted at me to get to hell out of it.”

  Biggles looked amused. “So you went?”

  “Too true I did. He was a big man—too big for me to take on. Anyway, as the field had been well gone over I could see it was no use looking for mushrooms; so I decided to go to try to find the nest of a pair of jackdaws I’d noticed working in an old oak on the edge of the field. Jackdaws pinch the eggs of our hens that lay away from the farm. I expected to find a hole in the tree. Instead, I saw that.” Tommy pointed at the necklace. “It was hanging on a twig.”

  “Did you find the nest?”

  “No. I didn’t stop. I went home and showed my father what I’d found. He told me to get on my bike and take it to the police. Which I did.”

  “Like a sensible chap. Was the man still mushrooming?”

  “Yes. I looked at the field on my way to East Grinstead. He was still there then. I can’t imagine why because he must have got any mushrooms that may have been there.”

  Biggles nodded. “He may have been looking for something else, perhaps something a friend of his had dropped. We shall have to find out.” Turning to Gaskin he went on: “We’d better run down and have a look at the general layout.”

  “Can I give you a lift?”

  “No thanks. I’ll fly down and meet you on the field.”

  “I’d have thought it was hardly worth getting a plane out.”

  “From the air I shall be able to judge the aviation aspect.” Biggles turned back to Tommy. “How big is this field you call the big pasture?”

  “We call it the Twelve-Acre. That should tell you.”

  “It should be big enough for a plane to land in if there’s nothing in the way.”

  “There’s no stock on it at present.”

  “Good. Then you go along with Inspector Gaskin, show him the field, then stand in the middle of it and wave your handkerchief when you see me come over in the plane. Right?”

  Tommy nodded. “I get it.”

  “Come on, laddie,” said Gaskin.

  * * *

  After they had left the room Biggles said to Ginger, who had been a silent witness of the interview: “Call the ops room and tell them to have the Auster ready.”

  “What do you reckon happened?” asked Ginger, when they were on their way to the airfield.

  “I can see only one answer to that. An aircraft flew over but it didn’t land. Had it landed the necklace wouldn’t have got into the tree. No. The pilot dropped the jewels to a man who was on the field waiting to pick them up. At least, that, I think, was the idea; but something went wrong.”

  “But a man in a plane would hardly be such a fool as to throw a handful of jewels overboard.”

  “Of course he wouldn’t. Not loose. They must have been in some sort of packet or container. There’s no doubt the field was the rendezvous, but, as I say, something went wrong. I can think of several possibilities. It isn’t as easy as some people may think to throw an object clear of an aircraft, much less to hit a target, particularly at night when this job must have been done. The packet could have got caught in the slipstream and broken open by being bashed against some part of the aircraft, probably the tail unit. Again, if the pilot misjudged his height, the slipstream or a gust of wind might have carried the packet into the trees where it was torn open as it fell through the branches. If the machine wasn’t flying dead level, or turned too quickly, the thing might even have been sliced open by the airscrew. Long ago I remember getting a twenty-pound Cooper bomb stuck in the V of the undercarriage struts of a Sopwith Camel through being in too much of a hurry—and I wasn’t the only one to do that. Even if the packet hit the field, unless there was some sort of check on it, say a miniature parachute, it would bounce and perhaps break open.”

  “But surely in that case the man waiting in the field would have found the stuff,” argued Ginger.

  “No doubt he would have found the container, but obviously he didn’t find the jewels, or not all of them, or he wouldn’t have been marching up and down when Tommy arrived on the scene shortly after daybreak. One thing is certain. The plan for a plane to drop the stolen jewels in this country came unstuck. So did the parcel, or the necklace couldn’t have got caught up in a tree. We know the man on the ground didn’t find it because we’ve got it. As that piece alone is worth a small fortune it’s a safe bet that if the man isn’t there at
this moment, still looking for it, he’ll be back to go over the ground again. But here we are,” concluded Biggles, as he brought the car to a halt beside an Auster with its airscrew ticking over.

  In a few minutes the aircraft was heading for Ashdown Forest, such a short distance away that Biggles did not climb to any great altitude but levelled out at a thousand feet. There was no difficulty in finding the right field because Gaskin, two police officers and Tommy were already there, standing in the middle of it, waving.

  To land, however, was not so easy, because the pasture, apart from being nearly surrounded by trees, was dead square, and offered no long run in any direction. However, after making a couple of circuits to check his drift in the slight breeze that had sprung up, Biggles sideslipped in and taxied on to a corner of the field where he switched off under the spreading branches of a tree. As he remarked to Ginger as they got out, it was no field for a night landing, and probably explained why the jewels had been dropped.

  They joined Gaskin, who told them there was no one in the field when they had arrived. He and his men had paced it for a few minutes without finding anything. Tommy pointed out the tree in which he had found the necklace and they all walked towards it.

  On the way Gaskin said: “I wonder why these smart guys chose this particular field?”

  Biggles answered. “I’d say it’s just the job. With trees all round, it can’t be overlooked and it would be fairly safe for the man on the ground to show light signals to his pal up above.”

  Reaching the tree Tommy pointed to the branch on which he had found the necklace. They spent some minutes searching, without result, the grass and dead leaves under it.

  Biggles studied the tree, an oak, obviously very old. To Tommy he said: “You say you didn’t find the jackdaws’ nest?”

  “I didn’t trouble to look for it after I’d got the necklace,” explained Tommy.

  “How would you like to find it now?”