Biggles Investigates

by W E Johns

  A long, uncomfortable pause. Then Pennington, frowning, went on: ‘Have you been interfering with our lobster pots?’

  ‘What would I do with raw lobsters? I like my lobsters cooked.’

  ‘How long are you staying here?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought about it. Never mind us. We shan’t get in your way.’

  A piece of rock came clattering down from above to fall with a splash in the water.

  This, naturally, caused everyone to look up; but it was too dark for anything to be seen.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Trelawny, looking at Biggles. ‘Is somebody up there?’

  ‘Yes. A friend of mine.’

  ‘What the devil’s he doing?’

  ‘Taking a short cut home. He had some urgent business to attend to. We were in no hurry.’

  The four men, two on the boat, two standing at the lip of the cavern into which water was now trickling, looked at each other. Their predicament was obvious. They couldn’t proceed in front of witnesses with what they had come to do; nor could they for the same reason discuss openly a situation for which they must have been unprepared. As for Biggles, he was simply playing for time; to give Ginger as long as possible to do what was required of him. At this stage Biggles and Bertie might perhaps have gone. In fact, this would probably have suited the gold thieves, who could then have got on with their business — until they discovered the gold had gone, which would not have taken more than a minute. Then anything might have happened. Wherefore Biggles pursued his delaying tactics.

  ‘I take it these are your lobster pots,’ he resumed, flicking the ash off his cigarette.

  ‘They are.’

  ‘I suppose you know the local people take a poor view of tourists butting in on what they regard as their private preserves?’

  ‘I couldn’t care less what they think,’ growled Pennington.

  ‘After all, it’s their livelihood,’ Biggles pointed out, wondering how far Ginger had got. At least he hadn’t fallen.

  ‘So what? Sea-fishing is free for all.’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘I’m not disputing that. Have it your own way.’

  It looked as if this futile conversation might go on for some time; but it seemed that Pennington became suddenly impatient, or suspicious, for he moved his boat to the nearest lobster float, which happened to be one of those that had contained some of the gold bars. He reached down to the float.

  ‘This is where the balloon goes up,’ breathed Bertie in Biggles’ ear.

  Pennington pulled on the rope. Took the strain. Lifted. His expression changed abruptly as the weight told him the truth. He looked up. ‘There’s nothing here,’ he said, in a thin, tense voice. He did not say what he expected to find.

  ‘Are you sure it’s the right one?’ said Trelawny, from the cave. ‘Try another.’

  Pennington tested the next pot. He didn’t bother to pull it up. The weight must have told him all he needed to know. ‘Empty,’ he rasped.

  This information was received with a shocked silence. It lasted for the best part of a minute, the men looking at each other as if uncertain about what to do next. Then Pennington, without haste, took an automatic from his pocket and pointed it at Biggles. ‘Come on. What have you done with it?’ he grated, tight-lipped.

  Biggles affected surprised innocence. ‘What’s all this about? Done with what? How many lobsters did you expect to find?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘How should I?’

  ‘Don’t give me that! You poached our pots and took what you found in ‘em.’

  The atmosphere was now taut.

  Biggles, still playing for time, continued to pretend ignorance. ‘You’re making a hell of a fuss over a few perishing lobsters. If you think we pinched ‘em you’re wrong. You’re welcome to all the lobsters, crabs, or any other fish you can find in this boat. Look for yourself if you don’t believe me; but don’t be too long about it. It’s time I was taking the boat back.’

  Pennington didn’t answer. He brought the Scamperer alongside the Puffin and, gun in hand, jumped aboard. He searched, examining the locker, turning over the cushions and odd gear. Of course he did not find what he was looking for. ‘It isn’t here,’ he informed his associates.

  ‘It must be somewhere handy,’ declared Trelawny.

  ‘What have you done with it?’ demanded Pennington harshly, glaring at Biggles.

  To which Biggles replied, calmly: ‘If you’ll tell me what you’re looking for I might be able to help you. I thought it was lobsters you were after.’

  In his frustration Pennington looked ready to commit murder. ‘No, it wasn’t lobsters.’

  ‘Then what was it?’

  ‘You know damn well what it was. Gold.’

  Biggles smiled broadly. ‘Gold! In lobster pots? Is this some kind of a game ? Treasure island stuff. You’ve come to the wrong place. You should try the Caribbean.’

  In an atmosphere that was now explosive Bertie chipped in. ‘I remember when I was a kid—’

  ‘Shut up,’ snapped Trelawny. He looked at the faces of his companions. ‘Well, what are we going to do?’

  Biggles answered. ‘You can do what you like, but I’m going home. The chap at Poltruan from whom we hired this boat is likely to raise an alarm, supposing we’re in trouble.’

  Deep dusk had in fact dimmed the scene. Ginger had been gone a good half-hour, and as nothing had been seen or heard of him he had presumably got away. The position was unchanged, Trelawny and one man standing at the mouth of the cave, the water level at their feet, the two boats touching, with engines silent, rocking slightly in a gentle swell.

  ‘You’re not going anywhere till you tell us what you’ve done with it,’ swore Pennington, venomously.

  ‘Maybe someone put it in the cave,’ suggested Biggles, hopefully.

  ‘That’s an idea. We’ll soon settle that.’ Pennington and his companion jumped ashore to join the others.

  Biggles was amazed. This of course was what he wanted, but he could hardly believe his ruse, to get them all ashore, had worked so easily. He could only suppose that anxiety had made them careless. Or it may have been they had been deceived by his inconsequential manner. However that may be, in the light of the torch they began looking about them for the lost treasure.

  To appreciate what followed, the position of the two boats must be explained. The Puffin, being first on the spot was lying almost flush with the entrance to the cave. The Scamperer, almost touching her on the seaward side, was practically holding her there. This was probably accidental rather than deliberate, since there had been no hostilities when these positions were taken up.

  Biggles caught Bertie’s eye. He winked a warning to stand by. Then, very quietly he picked up the boat-hook and pushed it hard against the face of the rock. The Puffin moved out, slowly, taking her heavier consort with her. A yard of water appeared between the Puffin and the cave. Biggles rose and put all his weight on the pole. The distance widened to two yards... three. Biggles’ eyes never left the dark figures in the cave, silhouetted in the light of the torch. He murmured to Bertie: ‘Be ready to duck.’ He was no longer able to reach the cliff with the boat-hook, but the way on the boats had taken them out to five or six yards when the end came.

  Trelawny, happening to look round, realized what Biggles had done. He let out a cry of alarm. ‘Here, you, come back,’ he shouted.

  Biggles’ answer was to hand the boat-hook to Bertie with a crisp: ‘Hang on to the yacht and crank the Puffin’s engine.’ As it came to life, and the propeller churned the water into foam, Trelawny, seeing what was intended, took a desperate chance. He jumped for the stern of the Puffin as it moved slowly away. He fell short. There was a mighty splash. When he came up he still struggled to reach the Puffin, but when Bertie pointed the boat-hook at him he changed his mind and made back for the cave. In gum boots and woollen clothes it took him all his time to reach it. His friends dragged him in.

  ‘Now
for the fireworks,’ said Biggles, jockeying the two boats farther away.

  Hardly had he said the words than a gun flashed. Nothing else could be seen. There was no torch. Trelawny, who had been holding it, had apparently dropped it in the sea. More shots were fired, although what the bandits hoped to achieve by this was not clear, since killing or wounding the men handling the boats would have served no useful purpose. Perhaps they didn’t think of this. Perhaps they hoped to frighten them into returning.

  The boats made a target too big to miss and several shots struck them. Splinters flew. No harm was done. Biggles, working the tiller, was flat on the floor. So was Bertie, still hanging on to the boat-hook, the business end of which was still engaged with the Scamperer’s bowsprit. The distance between the boats and the land increased. The shooting stopped. From the direction of the cave came sounds of a furious argument.

  ‘Jolly good,’ remarked Bertie cheerfully. ‘That’s queered their bally pitch. What next, old boy?’

  ‘You get on the Scamperer and throw me a line. I’ll make fast and tow her away with us. Watch how you go. We’re still in range.’

  This was done, while ashore, threats turned to pleadings for rescue as the water was rising in the cave.

  ‘We can’t leave ‘em to drown,’ said Bertie with some concern when he returned to the Puffin.

  ‘They won’t drown, don’t worry,’ replied Biggles. ‘They may get their feet wet, that’s all. The high water mark in the cave is never more than a couple of feet up the wall. Having got them where we want them, we’ll leave them there for a bit to cool off. Trelawny, if he knows his way about, may get them to higher ground inside the caves, although if he’s lost his torch that won’t be easy. We’ll tow the yacht round the Head to see if there’s anything coming this way. Ginger should have done something by this time.’

  When the Puffin turned the end of the cliff it was clear that something was happening. A cutter, showing lights and travelling fast, was coming towards them. When it was within hailing distance a stern voice ordered them to stop.

  Biggles cut his engine. ‘Police here,’ he called.

  The cutter drew alongside. Aboard were several men, police and coastguards in uniform, others in plain clothes.

  ‘What’s happened?’ questioned a uniformed inspector.

  Biggles explained in as few words as possible. He described the cave in which the crooks had been marooned.

  ‘I know the one,’ stated a coastguard. ‘The only way they could get out would be by going back through the Head to where some of ‘em got in. It’d be a tricky business with the water at this level.’

  ‘They haven’t a torch. I think they lost it in the sea.’

  ‘Then they’d be mad to move. They’re safe where they are, but farther in there are places where high water comes up to the roof. I know. I was once nearly caught that way, when I was watching the caves during the war in case any Nazis tried to land.’

  ‘Still, to be sure we ought to cover both sides of the Head,’ decided the inspector. ‘But we can’t do that with only one boat.’

  ‘Take this one. We don’t want it.’ Biggles indicated the Scamperer.

  ‘That’s an idea. How many are there of ‘em, did you say?’

  ‘Four. Some, if not all, carry guns.’

  ‘If I know anything they’ll be glad to see us,’ asserted an old coastguard. ‘Those caves are no joke at high water after dark.’

  Said the inspector to Biggles: ‘You coming back with us?’

  ‘Not unless you want me to. I’ll leave the rest to you. You’ll find the gold about ten yards in, on the left. We ought to get back to Poltruan. Mr Trevethin will be getting worried about his boat.’

  ‘All right, then. We’ll see you later.’

  Two men from the cutter went aboard the Scamperer and took over. Biggles cast off and the Puffin chugged on its way towards the harbour lights of Poltruan.

  Waiting for them was not only the owner of the boat, but Ginger, who said he’d only just got there. ‘Everything all right?’ he inquired. ‘I missed the boat.’

  ‘All finished and buttoned up,’ reported Biggles. ‘When I’ve settled with Mr Trevethin for his boat I’ll tell you about it.’

  That really concludes the case of the amateur yachtsmen who, it was revealed subsequently, were originally just that and nothing more; but having engaged in a little quiet smuggling on their own account, they became involved with an international gang who operated on a more ambitious scale. It was the old story of petty pilfering leading to serious crime.

  The affair of the stolen gold needs little explanation. Having got away with it in France, the crooks wanted it out of the country as quickly as possible. England would do as well as anywhere. Trelawny and Pennington were available with their yacht, so shipment seemed an easy matter. And so no doubt it would have been were it not for eyes watching the Channel from above. Trelawny’s defence was that he and his partner had been blackmailed into doing what they had done; but, as was pointed out by the prosecution, this, if true, would not have been possible had they not already broken the law.

  Why was the gold taken to the caves? The answer is interesting. It turned out that in spite of Ginger’s care to keep well away from the yacht, Trelawny had become suspicious of an aircraft circling in the vicinity for so long and thought it safer not to sail straight into Poltruan for fear of what we know did actually happen. Excise men were waiting. He had known about the caves from boyhood. The lobster pots on board had been used on previous occasions as a cover for contraband. They were now used for the gold, which it was supposed could be picked up later when the coast was clear — literally.

  Of the four men who came to collect it under cover of darkness, two were members of the big gang. They had been waiting at Poltruan for the Scamperer to come in with the gold on board. From the two yachtsmen they learned where the gold had been hidden, and why. Not trusting each other overmuch, they had gone to fetch it in two parties, one by sea and the other through the caves, in this way keeping Trelawny and Pennington apart in case they contemplated a double-cross.

  Actually, their scheme had come unstuck largely through this distrust and the impatience of the gold bandits to recover their loot; and, of course, they reckoned without the Air Police who, incidentally, were given full credit for the way they had handled the affair.

  It only remains to be said that all four men received long terms of imprisonment. The Scamperer was confiscated, and the gold returned to its rightful owners.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE BOY WHO WATCHED THE PLANES GO BY

  Biggles sat at his desk, a little smile on his face as he perused three pieces of paper, pinned together, which had just been delivered from the head office.

  ‘Something funny?’ queried Ginger, happening to look up from where he was working.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then why laugh?’

  ‘I’m not laughing, although I must admit to some amusement at the way the writer of this letter, apparently a budding detective, expresses himself. Straight to the point. No words wasted.’

  ‘What’s worrying him?’

  ‘He doesn’t say; but he must have something on his mind or he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of writing this letter and spending threepence of his pocket-money on a stamp. The Chief has sent it up with a covering note asking us to look into it if we think it worth while. Here, read it for yourself. Note the address on the envelope.’

  Ginger took the papers and he, too, smiled as he read aloud: ‘“Air Detective Bigglesworth, Scotland Yard, London.”’ Turning to the letter he continued: ‘“Dear Biggles, I have read about the things you do and I reckon something is going on here you ought to know about. Yours respectfully, Robin Stone. Aged thirteen.”’

  Ginger tossed the papers back on the desk. ‘I wouldn’t waste much time on that.’

  ‘You wouldn’t?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

 
; ‘It can’t amount to anything. What could a kid of that age know?’

  ‘The answer might surprise you. It’s time you caught up with the new generation. The modern boy goes about with his eyes and ears wide open — and there’s plenty for him to see and hear that didn’t arise when we were his age. We don’t know what this lad may have seen, but he has obviously spotted something to make him suspicious or he wouldn’t have made the effort to write this letter. At his age one doesn’t write letters for the fun of it, particularly as they cost money to post. This boy has done what he thinks is the right thing to do. If he’s prepared to go to that trouble and expense it would be a poor return to throw the letter in the waste paper basket.’

  Ginger nodded. ‘I see what you mean. Pity he didn’t say in his letter what it was all about.’

  ‘There could be reasons for that. In the first place it might be a long story, too involved for him to put down in writing. It might not sound very convincing, and a boy thinks twice before perhaps making a fool of himself. This one is a country lad. You see where he writes from. Marsh Cottage, Shingleton, Suffolk. I’ve never heard of the place. Must be a village, in which case we may suppose Robin goes to the village school.’

  ‘All right. What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Unless we ignore the letter, and I shall certainly not do that, there’s only one thing we can do. It’s no use writing a letter asking for an explanation. This boy has seen something, or he thinks he has, and the easiest way to find out just what that was is to go and see him.’

  ‘So you’re going to Shingleton?’

  ‘Right away. Why not? It isn’t far. I should be there by lunchtime, having had a bite of something to eat on the way. Do you feel like coming?’

  ‘Of course. There’s nothing much on at the moment.’

  ‘All right. Look up Shingleton in the AA Guide and bring the car round while I scribble a note to the others to let them know, when they come in, where we’ve gone.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ said Ginger.

  It turned out that Biggles had underestimated the time it would take to get to the address from which the boy had written, although admittedly they stopped on the way for lunch. The task of finding the house, Marsh Cottage, was not made easier by the fact that there was no actual village of Shingleton, as had been supposed. The name covered a district of cottages, mostly the homes of farm workers, scattered over an area as rural as could be found even in thinly populated regions of East Anglia. This meant frequent stops to ask the way.