by W E Johns
Biggles sprang at him like a tiger, but the boy bolted, so he went back to the wall, fighting to recover his composure, for he wanted to think.
This was not easy, but when he had recovered somewhat his first reaction was alarm. He was alarmed by the knowledge of what he knew. That he knew who the murderer was he never for a moment doubted. In his mind’s eye he could still see the picture of Dunnage’s brutal face in the moonlight; could still see him beating the brains out of the luckless pheasant, could see him folding the gun, and his stealthy departure. Slowly Biggles’ grief turned to anger. Not for an instant had he any doubts as to what he should do.
As soon as dinner was over, without speaking to anybody, he went out through the school gates and walked straight to the Police Station.
There he found Marshall, the police sergeant, Grimble, the local constable, and an inspector whom he did not know. They broke off talking when he walked in and looked at him inquiringly.
“Yes, sonny, what is it?” asked the sergeant. “We’re busy.”
“I know you must be,” answered Biggles. “But I’ve come to tell you who shot Sam Barnes.”
“Yes, and who was it?” asked the sergeant, smiling condescendingly. “Make haste.”
“It was Mick Dunnage,” stated Biggles.
“That’s what we all thought at first, but I’m afraid you’ve guessed wrong, laddie,” said the inspector, and turned away.
“But I’m not guessing,” replied Biggles. “I know Dunnage did it.”
“Oh, and how do you know?”
“I was there,” asserted Biggles.
“You mean—you saw Dunnage shoot Barnes?”
“Well, no, I didn’t exactly see him shoot him, but—”
“Now you run along and play, there’s a good boy,” said the sergeant patronisingly.
“But I tell you I was in Foxley Wood yesterday and I saw Dunnage there!” cried Biggles in an exasperated voice, for this was a very different reception from what he had expected.
“What time was this?” asked the inspector.
“I hadn’t a watch, but it must have been about five.”
The inspector shook his head. “It wasn’t Dunnage you saw. Dunnage was in Hayford from three o’clock until after midnight. He’s got a stone cold alibi—if you know what that means?”
“Who says he was in Hayford?”
“Fred Chapman, who keeps the Horse and Hounds public-house. Jeremiah Siggins was there, too. They were all drinking together—got drunk together, from what I can make out. Afterwards Siggins drove Dunnage home in his dogcart.”
“Somebody’s telling lies!” declared Biggles hotly.
“Dunnage hasn’t got a rifle, or a gun, if it comes to that. He’s no licence.”
Biggles laughed scornfully. “That wouldn’t stop him from carrying one. In fact, he was carrying one last night, because I saw him.”
The sergeant shook his head. “I’m sorry, sonny, your story won’t wash. What we want is facts.”
Biggles nearly choked. “If you’ll come with me I’ll show you Dunnage’s tracks,” he offered.
“In the wood?”
“Of course not. How could there be tracks on dead leaves? I mean on the path to Hayford.”
“I said he was in Hayford,” answered the sergeant. “He walked there, by the footpath. Now you trot along and play, like a good boy.”
Biggles saw that he was wasting his time. Swallowing his anger, he said: “Will you please tell me this. Have you got the bullet that killed Mr. Barnes?”
“Yes, we have.”
“What calibre was it?”
“What’s that to you?”
“I have a reason for wanting to know.”
“It was a ·44. Now stop asking questions before I get angry.”
“I’m sorry I troubled you,” said Biggles simply. “One day you’ll be sorry you didn’t listen to me.” He went out into the street.
He walked along to the next corner and then stopped, brooding. “Trot along, sonny,” the policeman had said, as if he were a fool. For a little while he lingered, wondering if he should go to the Squire and tell him the story. Perhaps he would be reasonable enough to listen to it.
As he stood there he saw the two very men uppermost in his mind, Dunnage and Siggins, come out of the White Hart tavern. They made a nice pair, he thought bitterly. Siggins, he knew, was lying, to provide Dunnage with an alibi. That could only mean they were partners in crime. Remembering how he had seen Hervey and Brickwell dispose of a pheasant to Siggins, the thought struck him that Dunnage probably sold his poached pheasants to the same man.
The two men had now parted company, Dunnage walking on towards the house where he lived, and Siggins cutting across the street towards his shop, or the lane that gave access to his back door. Watching the man, Biggles had what he thought was an inspiration. Dunnage had killed a pheasant the previous evening, when he had, Biggles did not doubt, been caught in the act by Barnes. Dunnage had shot Barnes and then gone on to Hayford. Siggins had driven him home. The chances were, therefore, that the pheasant was now in Siggin’s house. Dunnage would not like the idea of throwing it away, and knowing that he might expect a visit from the police would hardly be likely to take it home. The simplest way of disposing of it would be to give it, or sell it, to Siggins, who would be under no suspicion.
Siggins was just opening his back door when Biggles ran after him. “Just a minute, Mr. Siggins; can I have a word with you?” he requested.
The man half turned. “What is it?” he asked gruffly.
Biggles glanced furtively up and down the lane for effect. “Have you by any chance got a pheasant you could sell me?” he whispered.
“What makes you think I sell pheasants?” asked Siggins suspiciously.
“One of the boys at school—Hervey—gave me the tip that you sometimes have one or two.”
“Then he must be a young fool to talk about it,” growled Siggins angrily. “He knows I haven’t got a game licence. What do you want a pheasant for, anyhow?”
“I want to send one to a friend, as a present,” dissembled Biggles.
The man hesitated, which told Biggles that whether he got one or not there was one in the house. “Can you keep your mouth shut if I let you have one?” inquired Siggins.
“Of course. Do you think I want to be locked up?” answered Biggles.
“It’ll cost you half a crown.”
“That’s about what I thought,” agreed Biggles, who had such a coin in his pocket—the same one, as a matter of detail, that he had won at the fair. He had been keeping it for luck.
“Wait a minute.”
The man went in and was away a little while. He came back with a brown-paper parcel which he thrust into Biggles’ hands as if he were glad to be rid of it.
Biggles passed over the half-crown.
Siggins went in and shut the door.
Biggles went back to the street, with difficulty steadying his pace to a casual walk. Such was his impatience that he wanted to run. He made straight back for school.
He could not wait until he got there to see what every fibre of his body was aching to see.
Had he the bird, or had he wasted his half-crown on one of the snared ones? Choosing a quiet spot in the churchyard, behind some yews, with fingers that trembled from impatience, he tore the string off the parcel, and unfolding the paper looked at the contents.
It was a pheasant. He looked at its head, and a glance told him all he wanted to know.
The bird’s head was a mass of congealed blood. Swiftly he rewrapped the parcel and went on to the school.
There he met Smith, who looked at him curiously. “What’s the matter with you?” asked Smith. “You look as if you’d seen a ghost,” he added.
“Come upstairs to the dorm.,” whispered Biggles.
“What’s in the parcel?”
“Come on and I’ll tell you,” replied Biggles. He felt that he had to tell somebody or burst.
&n
bsp; In the dormitory, which was deserted, Biggles went to his bed, pulled his cricket bag from under it, stuffed the parcel in and pushed it back.
“What is all this fag about?” asked Smith wonderingly.
“Sit down and I’ll tell you,” replied Biggles. “I’m pretty sure I know who killed poor old Barnes.”
Smith’s eyebrows went up. “Then if I were you I’d keep my mouth shut, for fear I got shot myself,” he said in a scared voice.
“And let the murderer go free? Not likely!”
“What’s in the parcel—a piece of the body or something?”
“No, a pheasant.”
“What’s that got to do with it?”
“Listen, and I’ll tell you,” replied Biggles eagerly. “Barnes was out after poachers when he was shot.”
“Well?”
“He was killed by a bullet from a .44 rifle. I know who’s got a rifle about that size. This pheasant I’ve got was poached. If it was shot we ought to find a bullet in it. If it’s a .44 bullet I shall know for certain that the man who shot the bird also shot Barnes. The police can then compare the bullets. All we have to do then is find the rifle, and the owner of it.”
“Did you work all that out yourself?” inquired Smith, admiringly.
“Yes.”
“Jolly good. Have you got the bullet?”
“Not yet.”
“Then let’s have a look.”
“Not now. The feathers would get all over the place, and somebody might come in. We’ll cut it up in the lav., when everyone is asleep—say, when the clock strikes midnight.”
“That’s a good idea,” congratulated Smith, entering into the spirit of the thing. “I’ll help you. I remember reading a story once called The Ghastly Ghost of Golden Gulch where the murderer—”
“Cave! Here comes Page. Not a word. Midnight, remember. If you’re asleep, I’ll wake you. If I’m asleep, you wake me.”
Biggles was in little danger of sleeping. His brain was racing, and he could hardly wait for the hour to strike. When at long last it struck twelve he crept out of bed, put a jacket over his pyjamas, drew out the cricket bag, and going to Smith’s bed, found him asleep.
He shook him awake, and on tip-toe they made their way to the place appointed for the operation. This had been selected by Biggles chiefly on account of the oilcloth on the floor, which could, he thought, be cleaned easily afterwards.
Spreading the paper on the floor Biggles laid the bird in the middle of it and took out his penknife. Smith also knelt down and held the pheasant by the legs to prevent it from moving.
“Watch the feathers,” said Biggles, as he began pulling them out. He put them down carefully, and Smith kept them on the paper.
Biggles’ first discovery was the hole in the bird’s breast where the bullet had entered.
This was soon found because the feathers at that spot were damp and matted. Quickly he turned the bird over and searched its back, afraid that the bullet might have gone right through, which would of course have defeated his object. There was no second hole, so he started to dig with his knife, finding the business a good deal more difficult than he expected. However, he continued to dig and probe with the point of the blade, and after a little while had the satisfaction of striking something solid. Tearing the hole wider with his fingers, he inserted a finger and thumb and extracted the bullet.
“That’s it,” he declared, trembling with excitement. “That’s about a .44.”
At that moment a voice behind them said: “What are you boys doing?”
After the first horrible start of surprise Biggles shifted his body to conceal the corpse, and looking round saw the Head standing in the doorway.
“I happened to be checking some examination papers, and seeing this light on—I can see it from my study—came up thinking that perhaps a boy was sick,” explained the Head. “What are you fellows doing on the floor? What is it you are trying to hide?” He stepped aside so that he could see, and, of course, he saw. “Do I see a pheasant?” he asked in a curious voice, somewhat unnecessarily.
“Yes, sir,” answered Biggles miserably.
“Bigglesworth!” There was an inflection in the Head’s voice that sent cold shivers down Biggles’ back.
Biggles did not answer. He tried to muster the strength to stand up, but failed.
“I thought you told me that you never poached game?” said the Head, in the same strange voice.
“I told you the truth, sir,” croaked Biggles. “I didn’t poach this bird. I bought it.”
“You bought it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
“No, sir.”
“What, may I ask, are you doing with it?”
“I’m dissecting it, sir.”
“For what purpose?”
“I was looking for the bullet that killed it.”
“Why choose this hour?”
“Because I couldn’t wait any longer,” answered Biggles truthfully.
“Was there so much hurry?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Biggles. “You see, sir, I’m trying to prove that Dunnage the poacher shot Mr. Barnes.”
The Head stared for so long that Biggles hung his head. At last he said: “Have you reason to suppose that Dunnage killed Mr. Barnes?”
“I’m sure he did,” said Biggles desperately.
“What makes you think that?”
“I was there at the time, sir.”
“Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“I did, sir, but they wouldn’t believe me. They laughed at me,” said Biggles, with a catch in his voice.
“Pick up that horrible mess—don’t spill the feathers all over the place—and come to my room,” ordered the Head.
“Yes, sir.”
In the study the mutilated carcass of the bird was put on the floor near the desk. The Head sat down. The boys remained standing beside their gruesome trophy.
“Now, Bigglesworth,” said the Head quietly, “let’s have the truth of this. I imagine it has something to do with the poaching that has been going on?”
“Yes, sir. Apart from snaring, a man was shooting the pheasants. That man, I’m sure, shot Mr. Barnes. The bullet they took out of Mr. Barnes was a .44 calibre rifle bullet. The police told me that. The bullet I have just taken out of this pheasant is about a .44. Here it is, sir.” Biggles stepped forward and dropped it, a small but significant object, on the desk.
The Head picked it up, peeled off a small feather that was sticking to it and looked at it closely. “Yes,” he said, “I should say that’s a .44. You say you bought this bird, Bigglesworth?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where?”
“At Siggins’, the butcher, sir.”
“But Siggins hasn’t a licence to buy or sell game.”
“I know that, sir. But I happened to know that he did.”
“Indeed ? Be very careful what you say, boy. What led you to think that Siggins bought poached pheasants?”
Biggles moistened his lips. “I discovered by accident that the boys who ran away in Foxley Wood, when there was all that trouble, sold their pheasants to Siggins. I saw them.”
The Head drew a deep breath and putting his fingers together leaned back in his chair. “I think, Bigglesworth, you had better tell me all you know about this business,” he said gravely. “This is no ordinary matter. It is my considered opinion that the question of sneaking does not arise.”
“Very well, sir,” said Biggles in a dull voice. “On the Saturday afternoon when I was nearly caught I saw two boys in the wood. I admitted that. They had a sack with something in it. On my way home I overtook them, but they didn’t see me. They turned into Siggins’ lane. As I passed I saw Siggins at the door and heard money jingle. When the boys went on they no longer had the sack. I thought it better not to say anything about that at the time. The next afternoon I went as Sir Colin told me and apologised to Mr. Barnes. He was very nice abo
ut it and we discussed the birds. He asked me to keep an eye on Foxley Wood and tell him if I saw anything suspicious. I wasn’t thinking of a real poacher. I was thinking of the boys. I told them that if they ever went into the wood again I should report them to you. I’m pretty sure they haven’t been. They’ve told me since that they didn’t set the snares, but only took pheasants out of them. Yesterday afternoon I went to Foxley Wood to count the birds, just to make sure there had been no more poaching. Five had gone. I was standing there when I heard a rifle shot in the wood. I heard a pheasant drop out of a tree. A little while afterwards there was another shot. This time no bird fell—or if it did, I didn’t hear it. I kept still. Soon afterwards, out of the wood, breathing hard, came Dunnage. I saw him distinctly in the moonlight. In his hand he had a folding gun, and a pheasant. That’s the pheasant, sir, on the floor.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because the bird that Dunnage held was not quite dead, and he beat its head brutally on a post to kill it.” Biggles pointed to the floor. “As you can see, sir, the head of that bird has been beaten to pulp. Also, it had the bullet in it. Dunnage only shot one. I’m sure that’s it. There were only two shots. I believe now that it was the second shot that killed Mr. Barnes.”
“Go on.”
“Well, sir, it struck me that if Siggins bought pheasants from the boys, as I knew he did, it was pretty certain that he would buy those Dunnage killed. The two men were friendly. Today I saw Dunnage and Siggins together. I followed Siggins to his house and bought a pheasant from him. That’s the one on the floor, sir.”
“Did you tell the police this?”
“Not the last part, sir. When I told them I’d seen Dunnage in the wood they told me it was impossible, because Dunnage could prove that he had spent the afternoon and evening with Siggins in the public house at Hayford. It was after I had seen the police that I bought the pheasant.”
“I see. And what did you intend to do next?”
“Find the rifle, sir.”
“Oh, do you think you could?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The police haven’t found a weapon, I take it?”
“No, sir. They say Dunnage hasn’t got a rifle or a gun.”
“Where do you think this rifle is?”