Biggles Of The Special Air Police

by W E Johns

  To his relief the firing suddenly fizzled out, and this he took to mean that the final charge was about to be launched. Not for a moment did it occur to him that the cloud had anything to do with it. Even when some of the attackers seemed to behave in a curious way, jumping up and pointing to the cloud, he could not think it was because they were afraid of getting wet.

  The unpleasant thought now struck him that should the storm turn out to be one of exceptional violence they might find themselves bogged. Opening a side-window, he yelled a warning to Biggles, and his relief was heartfelt when he saw that he and Wung had at last succeeded in getting the chest out of the ground.

  Biggles was in the act of mopping his face with his handkerchief. On hearing Ginger’s shout he turned and looked at the cloud. He dropped his handkerchief and moved fast. Wung, too, saw it, and his behaviour was even more remarkable. He threw up his hands as if in despair. However, seeing Biggles struggling with the chest, he grabbed it on his side and together they staggered towards the aircraft.

  By this time the cloud had so far advanced that it was no longer possible to see the enemy. Whether the men were still there or not Ginger did not know. Bertie, apparently, thought they were; at any rate he was taking no chances, for his guns continued to pump lead, in short bursts, into the murk.

  Biggles and Wung reached the machine and thrust their burden into the cabin. They scrambled in after it. The door slammed. Biggles came into the cockpit with a rush. At that moment the storm, with a crash and a rattle, hit the aircraft. Suddenly it was dark. But it was the noise that shook Ginger. It was as if the machine was being plastered with bullets. He had never heard anything like it. Staring at the windscreen in consternation as he made room for Biggles, suddenly he understood. It was not rain, or hail, that was battering the machine. It was a swarm of locusts.

  Now, Ginger in his travels had seen odd locusts. He had seen small clouds of them. But not only had he never seen anything like this; it would have been beyond his imagination. It was a situation outside his experience, and what Biggles would do he could not think. It seemed out of the question to do anything, for the windscreen was blacked out with a weaving mass of insects that completely blotted the view forward. The attacking force was now a secondary factor.

  It would be futile to pretend that Ginger’s thoughts were anything like lucid. His brain whirled. He was dazed by the din, and appalled by the beastliness of the whole thing. He could only stare at Biggles helplessly. Even Biggles looked pale, and more than slightly harassed.

  The noise increased as Biggles eased the throttle forward and began a blind turn. Ginger shuddered when be thought of what the airscrews must be doing to the insects. He was glad they were metal, not wood, which would have been frayed, if not shattered, by the impact. Biggles gave the engines more throttle. The noise was indescribable.

  Biggles’ eyes were on his instruments, and Ginger realised, not without qualms, that he was going to make a blind take-off. He shut his eyes and waited, prepared for anything.

  In the event, the take-off turned out to be not as bad as he expected, at least, in the matter of time. For perhaps a minute the noise rose to a deafening crescendo, as if every exposed part of the machine was being torn asunder. Then it stopped, with the abruptness of a radio being switched off. Light flooded the cockpit. More and more blue sky appeared through the windscreen as the locusts on it, dead and alive, were whirled away by the pressure of air. The same thing must have happened everywhere, for when Ginger looked out he saw that most of the aircraft was clear of the pests. Below, a black blanket covered the ground.

  Biggles caught his eyes. He smiled wanly. “Trust a treasure-hunt to produce something out of the ordinary,” he said grimly.

  Five minutes later, well dear of the swarm, Biggles chose a fresh landing-ground and put the machine down. “I’m going to have a look round before I start over the jungle,” he announced.

  Everyone got out while the machine was inspected. As far as could be ascertained, nothing had been seriously affected, although signs of the living bombardment were apparent in many places, mostly in the form of dirty smears all over the wings and fuselage, where insects had been pulverised. But this was all superficial. The windscreen and the gun-turrets were wiped down.

  “You know, old boy, somebody once told me that locusts would eat anything,” remarked Bertie. “I could picture the little rascals gobbling up the fabric, and leaving nothing on the spars—”

  “I had no intention of giving them time,” interposed Biggles. “I’ve never been in such a flap in my life. However, as the machine still seems to be in one piece, and we’ve got what we came for, let’s waffle along home.”

  And there the story of the recovery of the Chinese treasure-chest can end, for the return trip was made with out incident and need not be described. Later on, Doctor Wung Ling received a token payment for his works of art from the authorities at the British Museum, where they may now be seen, and this enabled him to complete his studies.

  [Back to Contents]

  THE CASE OF THE LOST SOULS

  “A GENTLEMAN to see you, sir. Says he’s come from the Yard.” Flight-Sergeant Smyth, having said his piece, stepped back.

  Turning from the bench in the Operations Room where he had been studying a set of blueprints, Air Detective Inspector Bigglesworth looked at the visitor Smyth had brought in. He was a smart, clean-shaven, elderly man, in a blue serge suit that somehow did not harmonise with a weather-tanned complexion.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Biggles.

  “I’ve just come from Scotland Yard, sir. I saw a gentleman there named Raymond. He asked me to give you this.” The man stepped forward and held out a letter.

  Biggles took it, opened it, took out a buff slip, and read:

  This introduces Mr. John Stokes, of Downside Cottage, Penthorpe, Sussex. He has a strange tale to tell. I’d like you to hear it at first hand.

  The letter was signed by Air-Commodore Raymond.

  Biggles glanced round to where Ginger was tiling some newspaper clippings. “Get this gentleman a chair,” he requested. Then, turning back: “Sit down, Mr. Stokes. I understand from my Chief that you’ve something on your mind?”

  The man sat, smiling a trifle apologetically. “That’s right, sir. But somehow, now I’m here, it all seems so daft I feel I’m only making a fool of myself.”

  “Forget how you feel now,” suggested Biggles. “Go back to how you felt when you started off for Scotland Yard. You’ve come from Sussex, I gather?”

  “That’s where I live now. I served my time as a soldier, and when I retired on pension about six months ago I bought a little place on the downs to start a poultry-farm. It’s a lonely sort of place, but it suits me and the missus. At least, it did until this business started.”

  “What business?”

  “Ghosts.”

  Biggles smiled tolerantly. “What form do these undesirable visitors take?”

  “To tell the truth, sir, I’ve never seen ‘em. I’ve only heard ‘em.”

  “Where?”

  “Up in the air, over my head.”

  “What sort of noise do they make?”

  ‘Well, the first time I heard it, it sounded a bit like a pig squealing, only not so loud. The next time I heard the thing sneeze. The last time— and I ain’t the nervy sort, mind you—I thought I should have passed out. I was half asleep when a voice just over my head sort of hissed at me. ‘Lie down!’ it said.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Do? I just broke into a sweat and made for home at the double. I was outside, you understand.”

  Biggles’ face was expressionless. “You’re sure these noises came from the air?”

  “Right over my head.”

  “How far over your head?”

  “Well, it was dark, so it’s hard to say; but it wasn’t far.”

  “You looked up, naturally?”

  “Too true I did; but I couldn’t see a thing.”
/>   “Was it a moonlight night?”

  “No, There were just the stars.”

  “You’re quite sure it wasn’t an owl you heard, or a night bird of some sort?”

  “I’ve heard plenty of owls, but I’ve never heard one talk or sneeze.”

  “You’ve heard the thing three times altogether?”

  “Yes. But it’s been there other times as well.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because once, when I was in bed, it picked up a chicken coop, dragged it up the hill and then dropped it in the middle of a field.”

  “Were there any chickens in the coop?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were they still in it afterwards?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you’ve heard the thing has it always been about the same hour?”

  “Yes.”

  “At about what time?”

  “Between two and three in the morning.”

  “What were you doing out at that hour?”

  “I was watching my hens. As you may have heard, gangs come out from London to raid the countryside for poultry, eggs, and even sheep. We have to keep our eyes open.”

  “When these sounds occurred was there any other sound —such as might have been made by an aeroplane, for instance?”

  “Nothing of the sort. It was dead quiet.”

  “No wind?”

  “Nothing to speak of. Just a suspicion of a breeze such as we get in fine weather.”

  “The conditions were about the same each time, eh?”

  “Yes. It was because the weather was fine that I went out. Of course, I’m not worried myself, but my wife has fair got the wind up. Maybe I shouldn’t have told her, but I was so upset at the time that I had to tell someone. She reckons there are lost souls floating about in space.”

  Biggles smiled faintly as he picked up a pencil. “Can you give me the dates on which these lost souls were adrift?”

  “Yes. I remember the first time because it was rent-day, and I’d been to pay it. It was May 28th. The second time was June 20th. It was only last night that the ghost told me to lie down. As soon as it was light I started off for Scotland Yard.”

  Biggles made a note. “As an old soldier, Mr. Stokes, I take it you can read a map?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Ginger, get out the six-inch Ordnance Survey sheets of Sussex.”

  Ginger opened a cabinet, found the appropriate sheet, and laid it flat on the desk.

  “Just point out your home to me, Mr. Stokes,” requested Biggles.

  The man pored over the map. “Here you are, sir. This is it, standing by itself. It’s only a cottage. This is the track I use to get to it. We’re about half a mile from the road.”

  Biggles looked at the situation. “Judging from the contours you’re on a south slope?”

  “That’s right. It’s all open downs around us. The ground slopes up behind to that line of trees. That’s my boundary.”

  “It looks an unusually long line of trees,” observed Biggles.

  “It is. But that’s because the trees follow the old road. It isn’t used now. When they made the new arterial road they straightened it and this piece was left out, so to speak. There’s a local legend that years ago, when people got the wind up about Napoleon, trees were planted right along the old road so that it couldn’t be seen from the sea.”

  Biggles straightened his back. “Very well, Mr. Stokes. We’ll see if we can lay this ghost of yours. I shall probably run down and have a look round.”

  Stokes shook his head. “You won’t find anything.”

  “Well, we shan’t find anything here, shall we?” answered Biggles, smiling.

  “No, that’s right enough,” admitted Stokes.

  “By the way, are there any mushrooms in your part of the world?” inquired Biggles.

  The man started. “Mushrooms?” he echoed. “Why, yes! What’s that got to do with it?”

  Biggles smiled. “I’ll take a basket. We might find a few mushrooms if nothing else. You’ll know what I’m doing if you see me about. Let me know at once if you see or hear anything more of your visitor in the small hours. Just one other thing—have you told anyone else about this?”

  “Not a soul. I don’t want people to think I’m either a liar or a lunatic.”

  “Good. Keep it to yourself.” Biggles held out a hand. “Goodbye for the present, Mr. Stokes. Tell your wife not to worry. It shouldn’t take us long to nail down this rowdy visitor of yours.”

  After the old soldier had gone Ginger looked at Biggles questioningly. “What do you make of all that?”

  “You heard as much as I did.”

  “It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “Why not?”

  “Pigs don’t fly. I’d say Mr. Stokes went to market and had a drink too many.”

  Biggles looked dubious. “He didn’t strike me as that sort. I’d say he’s a steady, level-headed fellow. Something out of the ordinary is going on where he lives. I’m pretty sure of that, because no incident with a reasonable explanation would alarm a man to the point of going to Scotland Yard. We’ll go down and have a look round.”

  “Are you going to fly down?”

  “No. The place isn’t far. The car will be more useful for running round the district. You might bring it round while I have a word with the Met. people at the Ministry. I want to know just what the local weather conditions were on the nights Mr. Stokes heard his ghost. Remember to buy a basket on the way down.”

  Ginger stared. “What d’you want a basket for?”

  Biggles grinned. “To put the mushrooms in, of course.”

  II

  It was three o’clock, and a fine summer afternoon, when Biggles brought the car to a stop just inside the overgrown track which was all that remained of the original main road. The new road, a broad expanse of macadam, ran on, as straight as a ruler, following the high ground. From the junction, where the old road branched off to the left, the trees that Biggles had remarked on the map made a pleasant, shady break across a bare, rolling expanse of open downland, consisting entirely of close-cropped grass. Here and there an ancient quarry appeared as a patch of snow where it exposed the underlying chalk.

  “The car should be all right here,” said Biggles, taking from it the basket which he had bought on the way down.

  Ginger looked askance at it. “Are you really going to look for mushrooms?” he inquired.

  “I am, for two reasons,” answered Biggles. “In the first place, I like mushrooms, and in the second, as I shall be looking mostly at the ground, it might satisfy possible spectators as to my real purpose.” He advanced to the front of the trees so that the open landscape fell away before him. He pointed. “That must be the little house where Stokes lives, down there in the valley. Yes, you can see the chickens. Now let’s see if we can find some mushrooms.”

  He went on to the open grassland for some distance, and then, turning to the right, began to walk across the gentle slope, keeping roughly parallel with the trees.

  “Isn’t it time you told me what you’re really looking for?” complained Ginger.

  Biggles smiled a trifle sheepishly. “To tell the truth, I’m not quite sure what I am looking for,” he answered. “I feel that the Stokes’ ghost must have come to earth somewhere hereabouts.”

  They walked on. One or two mushrooms were put into the basket. But when they had covered perhaps three hundred yards Biggles suddenly quickened his stride. “Ah ha! What have we here?” he murmured. “Don’t stop! There’s a chance we may be watched.”

  Ginger could see what Biggles was looking at, but found little in it to provide enlightenment. Across their path—that is to say, from a point about halfway down the slope from the top—was a rough scratch, or scar.

  In some places it was a single scratch, sometimes double. In places it was so faint as to be hardly noticeable, but in others it was deep enough to reveal the chalk. It was obvious that something had been
dragged across the ground, occasionally tearing up tufts of turf. Ginger saw nothing remarkable about it. Almost any farm-implement could have caused it, he thought. He said so.

  Biggles agreed.

  Ginger went on. “Had there heen only one line it might have been made by the tailskid of an aircraft,” he observed. “The double line rules that out, though. Besides, an aircraft wouldn’t land straight into the trees.”

  “That’s a reasonable line of argument,” admitted Biggles. He did not stop, but walked on a little way and then turned to the right towards the trees. “We’ve done enough mushrooming, I think,” he said. “Let’s have a look at the trees, particularly where this scratch runs into them.”

  The objective reached, Biggles looked at Ginger with twinkling eyes. “Can you see what I see?” he asked softly.

  “I can see some leaves and broken twigs lying about, if that’s what you mean,” answered Ginger.

  “Yes; but look where they came from,” continued Biggles. “Farm-implements don’t climb trees. Doesn’t it strike you as odd that the only place where the trees have suffered is in a direct line with the torn-up turf? No matter. We’re doing fine. Let’s extend the line from the cottage to where we are standing now and see what’s at the end of it.”

  They made their way to the middle of a double line of trees. “We’re now on the old road,” said Biggles. “Someone still uses it, I notice.” He went on through the second line of trees and paused to look ahead. Ginger also looked, but could see nothing except an upward-sloping sweep of short turf, without a blemish. This continued right on to the crest of the hill, where the position of the main road was marked by occasional telegraph-poles and traffic. An isolated building, too, was outlined against the sky.

  Biggles strolled towards it.

  It turned out to be one of those modern establishments often to be seen on main roads, where sundry notices call attention to a wonderful variety of commodities offered for sale. There was a petrol-pump. A notice proclaimed that teas and ices were available. Over the door a board announced that Mr. Lucius Landerville was licensed to sell tobacco, wines and spirits. A basket of eggs spoke for itself, as did a row of beehives adorned with the word “Honey”. A fingerpost offered tents for hire; and yet another notice, near some kennels, informed the public that dogs were boarded and puppies were for sale.