by W E Johns
However, eventually they found themselves in a lane, little more than a track, which they were assured by a man cleaning out a ditch would take them to the house they sought.
It was well named, for it stood alone on the marginal ground that lay between cultivated farm land and a broad expanse of flat, reed-covered salt marsh that ended on a bleak foreshore of the North Sea. It was in fact a landscape typical of many remote areas of the East Coast. There was little to break the drab monotony of coarse, tussocky grass, and rushes. The tower of some distant church stood stark on the horizon. A derelict windmill raised a gaunt and tattered arm to heaven. A small herd of black cattle grazed near a straggling wood of dwarf, wind-bent trees.
‘Our young friend would certainly get a wide view from here, if this is where he lives,’ observed Biggles as he brought the car to a stop at a short path leading to an old thatched cottage. The track, treeless, wandered on a little way to lose itself in the saltings.
They got out, the slam of the car doors bringing from the back of the house a middle-aged woman whose expression of surprise suggested that visitors were an unusual event.
Biggles raised his hat. ‘Good afternoon, ma’am. Is this Marsh Cottage?’
‘It is,’ was the reply, given somewhat curtly.
‘Would you be Mrs Stone?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is Robin at home?’
The boy’s mother frowned, planting her hands firmly on her hips. ‘What’s he been up to now?’ she demanded.
‘Nothing to worry about,’ Biggles hastened to assure her. ‘You speak as if he was in the habit of getting into mischief,’ he prompted.
‘He wastes too much time over things that don’t concern him.’
‘I see. Well, we’re police officers. He wrote a letter to us hinting that he had something to report.’
‘So that’s it. I knew he was up to something. I told him to mind his own business.’
‘I wouldn’t talk like that, Mrs Stone,’ reproved Biggles gently. ‘I’m sure you have an intelligent son, in which case you should encourage him in what he thinks is the right thing to do. Is your husband at home?’
‘No. He’s cutting reeds on the marsh. That’s his job.’
‘And where’s Robin?’
‘Gone to school. He should be on his way home by now.’
‘Have you any idea why he wrote to us?’
‘No; unless it’s something to do with planes. He’s got planes on the brain.’
Biggles smiled faintly. ‘He might do worse than that. Which way does he come home?’
‘Up the lane.’ The woman pointed. ‘As you go back you should meet him. He has a two-mile walk.’
‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘We’ll do that. By the way, I hope you won’t scold him for writing to us. Whatever he may or may not have seen, I’m sure he acted for the best; and our job would be easier if there were more boys like him to keep an eye on things. We can’t be everywhere.’
Mrs Stone relaxed a little. ‘Well, I suppose there ain’t much here for him to do except watch for planes going over. It used to be birds he watched. Now it’s planes. He knows ‘em all. Keeps ‘em all written down in a book.’
‘Does he though? I must ask him to show me that book some time. We’ll go to meet him. You won’t mind if we keep him talking a little while?’
‘He comes home any time he likes. Stands staring at the sky half the time.’
‘Good. Thank you, Mrs Stone. Good afternoon.’
The woman retired. Biggles turned the car and drove slowly back along the track.
They hadn’t far to go. They had covered perhaps half a mile when they saw a rather small boy coming towards them, a satchel over his shoulder, swinging his cap. He stopped when the car, drawing level with him, pulled up. Two bright eyes in a freckled face regarded the occupants with frank surprise and perhaps a little suspicion.
‘Is your name Robin Stone?’ inquired Biggles, getting out.
‘Er — yes, sir,’ was the answer, after a brief hesitation.
‘The very chap I want to see. My name’s Bigglesworth. I’m a detective. You wrote me a letter — remember?’
Robin flushed — a natural reaction to surprise and excitement. ‘Of course I remember. Have you come all the way from London to see me?’
‘Of course. Now sit down on the running-board beside me and tell me all about it.’
‘It’s about a plane.’
‘Yes, I understood from your mother you take an interest in planes.’
‘That’s right,’ confirmed Robin. ‘I used to go in for bird watching. That’s how I began to notice the planes going over. Where I live there’s nothing much else to look at.’
‘I can believe that,’ agreed Biggles.
‘Now I know all the regular planes that go over. I reckoned to tell the time by them, but you can’t always do that because sometimes they’re later on account of the weather. I know when they’re likely to be late. I can’t always see ‘em, but I can hear ‘em; and I can tell most of ‘em by the noise the engines make.’
‘Splendid. I call that an interesting hobby. Do you know the names of the planes?’
‘Some. Not all. A boy at school lent me a book on how to tell planes by the shapes and the marks they have on them. I write them down — that is, any new ones I see.’
‘Was it one particular plane that made you write to me?’
‘Yes. That’s right.’
‘Tell me about it. Was it one of the regulars?’
‘No. It was a new one to me.’
‘Is that why you noticed it ?’
‘Partly. But really because it was flying so low.’
‘Which way did it come from?’
Robin stood up and pointed towards the sea. ‘That way. It came in over that hump, which is a big heap of shingle. It kept straight on and disappeared over there.’ Again he pointed. ‘Straight towards the old windmill.’
‘Could you see any marks on it?’
‘No. It was only just getting daylight, and a bit misty, but I would have seen marks if there had been any because it was so low. I was dressing when I heard it coming. I ran out to the back of the house and watched it go past. Its wheels were down and I thought for a minute it was going to land; but if it did I didn’t see it.’
‘Could you describe this plane?’
‘Not really. It was a high-wing monoplane. It had a thick cockpit with two engines, one on each side; but I can tell you this: it wasn’t a jet. I can always tell a jet. Oh yes, and it seemed to have two tails.’
‘Did you see it come back?’
‘No. But it might have done when I was in school. That was the first time I saw it.’
‘Do you mean you’ve seen it again since?’
‘Yes. The same time on Tuesday morning, flying in the same direction. It was what it did then that made me write to you. I posted the letter to you the next morning on my way to school.’
‘What did it do?’
‘As it went over the wood it dropped something. Either that or a piece fell off it.’
Biggles threw Ginger a significant glance and went on: ‘What did this thing look like?’
‘It looked like a bundle, a pretty large one.’
‘Did you go to see what it was?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because of the bull.’
‘What bull?’
‘There’s been a bull out there with the cows. He’s fierce and won’t let you go near ‘em. He’s chased me more than once. They usually keep near the trees.’
‘Who do the cattle belong to?’
‘A farmer named Mr Werner. He has grazing rights. His place is about two miles past the wood.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘No, but I’ve heard talk of him.’
‘What sort of talk?’
‘Well, the boys say he’s a bad-tempered man and carries a stick. He won’t let anyone on his land.’
‘I see. Tell me this, Robin. Was the plane flying low when this bundle fell off it?’
‘Only just over the trees.’
‘And you thought I ought to know about it?’
‘Well, I thought there was something not right about a plane flying so low and dropping things off it.’
‘Did you see the plane go back?’
‘No. I haven’t seen it since.’
‘Did you notice anyone near the wood when this happened?’
‘No. But I can’t think of anyone who would be likely to go near the wood. There’s nothing to go for. Boys keep away on account of the bull. Some time ago I used to go there bird watching, but it’s so boggy I always got my feet wet.’
‘Do you happen to know if the bull is still there?’
‘I looked this morning on my way to school, but I couldn’t see him. But of course he might be inside the wood.’
‘Did you tell your mother about this strange plane?’
‘Yes.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She told me to mind my own business and get on with my lessons. She isn’t interested in planes.’
‘Did you tell the local policeman?’
‘No. I haven’t seen him lately. He comes round on a bike once in a while. I don’t suppose he knows much about planes, anyway.’
Again Biggles smiled. He got up. ‘I wonder if the bull is still there. If he isn’t we might have a look to see if we can find this thing the plane dropped. Can you spot him, Ginger?’
They all stood on the running-board of the car apd explored the marsh with their eyes. ‘I can’t see him,’ said Robin. ‘He doesn’t go far from the cows and they’re some way from the wood now.’
‘Can you remember the spot where the thing fell?’ asked Biggles.
‘I could go straight to it. It was towards this end nearest to us.’
‘Then I think I’ll go and have a look round. Robin, you’d better go on home.’
Robin looked disappointed. ‘Can’t I come with you?’
‘What about the bull?’
‘I can run. He doesn’t follow you far.’
Biggles hesitated. ‘All right. But you be ready to run — and don’t tell your mother what you’ve been doing or she’ll be after me.’
‘I know when to keep my mouth shut,’ declared Robin.
Keeping close together, watching for the bull, they set off for the nearest point of the wood, a distance of perhaps a hundred yards. It could soon be seen that the trees were not so much of a wood in the generally accepted meaning of the word as a straggling belt of willows, birch and alder, all of which like to have their roots in water.
The bull did not appear. The cows took no notice of them, so the wood was reached without alarm or interference.
‘The thing fell about here somewhere,’ said Robin, and the hunt began.
It went on for some minutes. Then Biggles stopped suddenly and put a hand on Robin’s shoulder. ‘I think you ought to be getting along home, now,’ he said. ‘Your tea must be ready, and I don’t want your mother to blame us for keeping you out.’
‘All right, sir,’ agreed Robin reluctantly. ‘But you’ll let me know if you find anything?’
‘Of course. We’ll see you again.’ As Robin turned away Biggles went on, speaking seriously: ‘I want you to promise me something.’
Robin’s eyes opened wide. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Don’t tell a soul what you’ve told us, and don’t tell anyone we are here or what we’re doing.’
‘I understand. I promise. I hope I haven’t wasted your time.’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ returned Biggles. ‘You were absolutely right to report what you’d seen, and you deserve full marks for using your head.’
Robin flushed with pleasure and went off.
Biggles watched him until he was clear of danger from the bull, should it be in the vicinity, and then turned to find Ginger looking at him curiously.
‘What’s the idea, sending him off like that?’ asked Ginger.
Biggles answered: ‘There’s something here it would be better for him not to see.’ He took a pace forward and pulled aside a handful of osiers to reveal what lay beyond.
No further explanation was necessary. It was the body of a man, half buried in the soggy ground.
‘So that’s the bundle that fell from the plane,’ breathed Ginger, after his first gasp of horror.
Biggles walked slowly round the dead man. Once he stopped and stooped to examine something closely. He did not touch the body.
It was that of a youngish man, fair and good-looking. He wore a suede jacket with a fur collar, corduroy trousers and sheepskin-lined ankle boots. On his hands were oil-stained gloves, but his head was bare.
Straightening himself, Biggles said: ‘There was one thing wrong with what you just said. He didn’t fall from the plane. He was thrown out.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Because he was already dead. At least, so we may suppose, since a man who has been shot through the back of the head from close range doesn’t live long. This is no accident, Ginger. This is murder. Had it not been for young Robin the body could have lain here for years before it was found. Perhaps never. As it is, it can only have been here for a couple of days. Robin told us he saw something fall from a plane on Tuesday. He posted his letter to us on Wednesday. We got it this morning, Thursday.’
‘Robin also said the plane came in from the sea. Doesn’t that strike you as queer? I mean, why throw out the body here? If someone in the plane was so anxious to be rid of it why didn’t he dump it in the sea?’
Biggles nodded. ‘You make a point there. There must have been a reason for that. Without having had time to give the matter much thought I can think of one possibility. From the way he’s dressed this man was either a pilot or air crew. An ordinary man doesn’t walk about the streets in such clothes. Look at the oil stains on the gloves, and the shoulder of the jacket. There must have been at least one other person in that plane, anyhow, another pilot, or it would have crashed. It flew straight on. After all, no man in his right mind would shoot his pilot unless he was able to take over control himself. I can’t see a man pushing a body out of a plane and at the same time keeping it under control. I’d say there were two other men in that plane.’
‘I don’t get it. If murder was intended, and it must have been, why did they wait till they were here?’
‘Maybe the other pilot didn’t know where they were going. He could have waited to find out. Once over the coast on a straight course was as much as the murderer wanted to know. Fortunately we know from Robin just what that course was. The big heap of shingle, the wood and the windmill would be conspicuous landmarks.’
‘True enough. Another thing that puzzles me is this. This chap was shot from behind. That means the two pilots couldn’t have been sitting side by side, as you’d expect.’
‘It could be that this man, assuming he was a pilot and at the joystick, didn’t know he had another pilot on board. There mast have been enough room in the plane to move about. Pity Robin couldn’t identify the type. The fact that it carried no markings suggests it was up to something illegal. It didn’t want to be recognized.’
‘Then why fly so low?’
‘The obvious answer to that would be to keep under the radar screen. We’ve had no report from radar for weeks of an unidentified plane crossing the coast, so apparently it did that. We know from Robin where it came in, but how far it went inland when it got here is another matter. It might have been only a mile or two; it might have been a hundred. Robin hasn’t seen it go back, so there’s a chance it may still be here. His description of it isn’t very helpful.’
‘A twin-engined high-wing monoplane with a big forward compartment and a double tail sounds like a freight carrier. Does that suggest anything to you?’
‘The only machine I can think of that fits — ruling out home-built aircraft — is the new job being developed at the Wolfs
chmitt Works in East Germany. I’ve never seen one, but I read the preliminary report of the trials. Anyhow, it’s safe to reckon the aircraft came from abroad, from somewhere in Europe.’
‘If you go through this man’s pockets that might tell us something about him.’
Biggles shook his head. ‘You may not have realized it, but we’re on a bit of a spot. If we touch the body the county police may not thank us for interfering. This is a case of murder. The body will have to go to the mortuary for a post-mortem examination. It means an inquest, and that unfortunately will be reported in the newspapers; which is a pity, because the man, or men, responsible for this will learn that the body has been found, and that’ll put them on their guard. I’d rather they didn’t know, but without causing trouble I don’t see how it is to be avoided.’
‘Does that mean we shall have to drop the case?’
‘Not necessarily. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t proceed with what we came here to do, which is track an unidentified plane behaving in a suspicious manner. If we’re to find it now we shall have to be quick about it.’
‘What can we do?’
‘Fly over the course tomorrow morning early looking for anything that might give us a lead.’
‘The plane may have gone home by then.’
‘I realize that. We could ask young Robin to keep his eyes and ears open for it. But we’ll deal with that later. The first thing we must do is report this to the local police. The nearest town is Sandstreet. It’s about twelve miles from here. I’ll wait while you slip along and report to whoever is in charge.’
‘What shall I tell him?’
‘You’ll have to be a bit cagey about that, or he’ll want to know what the devil we’re doing in his district. Don’t say more than is necessary. Tell him who you are. Don’t mention Robin. Say we were following up a clue involving air smuggling — which is true enough — and this is what we found. There’s nothing irregular about that. Say I shall do nothing till he gets here. He can go through the dead man’s pockets, although I doubt if he’ll find much. If, as it seems to me, this was a carefully planned job, the murderer would hardly fail to remove anything by which his victim could be identified.’