by W E Johns
“How about an ice-cream with Mr. Lucius Landerville?” suggested Biggles.
“That suits me,” answered Ginger promptly.
They sat down on an outside bench. A girl brought the ices. Biggles asked her what dogs they had for sale.
“I’ll send Mr. Landerville to see you,” she said.
Presently Mr. Landerville came. He was a man of nearly sixty, bearded, keen-eyed, dressed country-fashion.
“I noticed a nice-looking French poodle in your kennels,” opened Biggles. “Is he for sale?”
“Ah, no. That one has been sold,” was the answer. “I’ve some very nice puppies.”
“What sort?”
“Mostly poodles.”
“Actually, I’m not quite ready to take on a pup, but I’ll certainly bear it in mind,” replied Biggles. “Thanks all the same.”
The man went off.
Biggles finished his ice and got up. “I think that’ll do,” he told Ginger. “We’ll see about getting along home.”
“Aren’t you going to call on Stokes?”
“There’s no point in it.”
“Does this fellow Landerville come into the picture?”
“I think so—unless we’ve run into a coincidence. His name rings a bell in my memory. I can’t recall in exactly what connexion, but when I get back I’ll go into it. I fancy I know where I can look him up.”
“Where?”
“At the Royal Aero Club.” Biggles walked on to the car. “I’m afraid we didn’t have much luck with the mushrooms, but it’s been a very pleasant afternoon,” he remarked. “Quite an interesting one, too.”
III
A week after the excursion to the Sussex Downs, at about six o’clock in the evening, Biggles sent Flight-Sergeant Smyth to find Ginger Algy and Bertie, who were somewhere on the tarmac to ask them to join him in the Ops Room. When they came requesting to be told why he was staying late, Biggles informed them that they would not be going home at all that night. They would, he said, have something to eat in the airport canteen, and stand by until midnight. If a message he was expecting had not arrived by then they would go home, and the same procedure would be repeated the following night. He thought it was likely, he concluded, that they might be in for a busy time.
“Doing what, old boy? Doing what?” inquired Bertie.
“Spook-hunting,” answered Biggles, gravely. “For the first time in a week the weather conditions are precisely those that prevailed on the occasions when Mr. Stokes heard uncanny noises over his head. I shall therefore be disappointed if the airborne prowler doesn’t turn up.”
“But how are we going to catch the blighter, that’s what I want to know?” demanded Bertie, rubbing his eyeglass briskly. “Do we beetle about in the atmosphere and grab him by the tail, or what?”
“Nothing like it,” answered Biggles. “I have an idea that if he comes he’ll drop right into our hands.”
“And then what?” asked Bertie. “How can one grab a spook when there’s nothing to get hold of?”
“In this case,” returned Biggles, “unless I’ve missed my guess there will be plenty to get hold of. In fact, it may need all four of us to hold him down. That’s why we’re all going. If he doesn’t show up tonight we’ll try again tomorrow, provided the weather conditions persist. This is my plan. When we get to the haunted area I shall divide it mto four sections, one for each of us. Everyone will carry a whistle. The first man to spot the ghost will blow his whistle. The others will converge on the spot at the double.”
“In what form are you expecting this spectre to appear?” inquired Algy cynically.
“As a large round monster carrying a basket,” replied Biggles seriously. “He may be armed with a large hook so watch you don’t get an eye knocked out.”
“Suppose you stop talking rot and give us the pukka gen,” said Ginger sarcastically. “Exactly what is it you’re expecting?”
Biggles thought for a moment. “I’m not absolutely sure, so I’d rather not say. But I’ll tell you this much, and you can draw your own conclusions. From the moment I saw Stokes I worked on the assumption that he was telling the truth, and that he did in fact hear strange noises over his head at night. When I say strange, I mean they were not the sort of noises made by ordinary night birds. Something was up there, something real enough to put the wind up him and send him to Scotland Yard. Don’t laugh at Stokes on that account. Having been a soldier he isn’t the sort of fellow to be easily frightened. It’s all very well to discuss this sort of thing in broad daylight. Alone, on a dark night, one is apt to feel altogether different. But let’s go over to the canteen and get a bite to eat.”
“Tell me one thing,” pleaded Bertie. “Is this ghastly visitor likely to be solid, or hollow?”
“Hollow,” answered Biggles, grinning. “Come on.”
An hour later, the meal over, Biggles was just getting up from the table when the Flight-Sergeant came in with a signal slip. He glanced at it, took out his fountain-pen, and made some quick calculations on the back of the paper. “Good,” he said. “I’ve just had a message over the air to say that our nocturnal rambler is on the way. I am also able to announce that it will arrive over the Sussex Downs at a quarter-past two. As we don’t want to be late for the appointment it’s time we were on our way.”
IV
When Ginger found himself sitting alone on the sombre downs, Biggles’ remark about the difference between discussing the ghost in broad daylight and on the spot, at night, returned with some force. There was, in fact, no comparison.
The time by his watch was two o’clock. At any moment now, Biggles had just said, the thing might appear. He hoped it wouldn’t be long, because his enthusiasm for the adventure was beginning to wane.
The night was fair enough under a cloudless sky; but there was no moon, and the light provided by the stars was not sufficient to enable him to see anything clearly.
Before him stretched a wide, open, treeless expanse of downs, the ground falling away gently into the valley where Stokes lived. Immediately behind him the line of trees that marked the course of the old road rose up like a hlack cliff. The only sound was the gentle murmur of their leaves as they were caressed by a soft breeze from the south. The only light in view was on the skyline, at or near the roadside establishment belonging to Mr. Lucius Landerville. Without giving the matter any serious thought Ginger supposed that it was one of those places that keep open all night to supply refreshments to long-distance lorry drivers.
Twiddling his whistle, he gazed into the starry sky. As an occupation he found it more than somewhat boring, but there was nothing else to do. If the truth must be told, he was sceptical about the whole business, and did not seriously expect to see anything.
He heard it before he saw it. At any rate, he heard a sound that brought him to his feet, tense and alert. It was a strange sound, impossible to identify. First there was a loud bump. This was followed by a harsh scraping, with occasional lesser bumps, as if something was galloping up the hill towards him.
For a few seconds he saw nothing. Then, suddenly, it was almost upon him, a spidery object that rolled and twisted as it appeared to skate over the short turf. Darting to one side to let it go past, a movement overhead caught his eye. Looking up, he saw what appeared to be a round black cloud drifting by. Then something crashed into the trees. The cloud stopped abruptly, swaying and hissing.
Startled almost to the point of panic, Ginger remembered his whistle. Its shrill blast shattered the silence.
The next minute was a period of alarm and confusion. A great basket, twice the size of a barrel, appeared from nowhere, as the saying is. From it leapt a man. He started to run, but Ginger tackled him low and brought him down. While they were struggling, a torch flashed and Biggles’ voice cut into the picture.
“All right, Landerville,” be said. “Fighting won’t help. The game’s up.”
The man broke away from Ginger but stood his ground.
“Who
are you?” he asked, in a surprisingly calm tone of voice.
“Police.”
“I see. It’s a fair catch. I’m no bruiser. Mind my dogs.”
By this time Algy and Bertie were on the scene. The balloon had settled down and the mystery was solved.
Landerville himself helped them to unload the basket. There were two hampers. One contained a dog; the other a litter of puppies. Biggles satisfied himself that there was nothing else.
“I happen to be very fond of dogs,” volunteered Landerville.
“I doubt if many dog-owners in this country would agree with you,” answered Biggles coldly. “It was a pilot playing this selfish game who introduced the epidemic of hard-pad that’s killing hundreds of dogs up and down the land. But you can make your excuses in court.”
“What do you want me to do with these dogs?” asked Landerville.
“They’d better go into your kennels for the time being. You’ll get instructions about them.”
“What about me?”
“If I let you go home can I trust you to stay there?”
“Oh yes. I shan’t run away.”
“All right,” agreed Biggles. “Do you want us to help you with these hampers?”
“No, thanks. Normally I bring my car down the old road and take everything up.”
“You’d better do that,” said Biggles. “I’ll leave you to it.”
Later the same day, discussing the matter in the Ops Room, Biggles explained.
“It wasn’t very difficult,” he asserted. “When I saw the torn-up grass and the damaged trees I had a good idea of what was going on. Ginger said the marks might have been caused by an agricultural implement, and he was right. He thought aircraft could be ruled out. There he was wrong.
Naturally, he was thinking in terms of modern aircraft; but there’s an obsolete form of aircraft that most people have forgotten, and it is, incidentally, the only method of air transportation that can claim to he absolutely silent. I mean the free balloon, which for more than a hundred years was the only way of getting into the air at all. Their operators, called aeronauts, became skilful in the handling of them.” Biggles reached for a cigarette. “Forty years ago ballooning was still a popular sport. There were aviation meetings, and races in which trained aeronauts took part. Some of those men are still alive. When Mr. Stokes told his story, I was forced, in the absence of any possible explanation, to conclude that someone was using a balloon. A balloon is a fairly simple thing to make, and there would be no difficulty in buying commercial hydrogen to fill it. The question arose, for what purpose would a balloon be used? One would hardly make an ascent in the middle of the night for pleasure. The landing was made near the house of Mr. Stokes, and there is probably no better place in the country. A balloon lands by releasing its gas and throwing out an anchor. The scars in the turf were the result of that. One night the anchor must have caught one of the chicken-coops and dragged it some distance. Actually, of course, the anchor was bound to hook up in the trees, and broken twigs showed that that did happen. Where did the aircraft start from? With the sea near at hand, and the wind south or south-west, the answer stuck out like a sore finger—from France. The long line of trees, with a light behind them, made a good landmark. It was reasonable to suppose that our aeronaut did not live far from his anchorage. Looking round, we found the nearest establishment was run by a man named Lucius Landerville. I vaguely recalled the name. At the Aero Club, where aeronauts’ certificates were issued as pilots’ licences are today, I found that forty years ago two of our leading balloonists were brothers named Landerville. The trail was getting hot.” Biggles stubbed his cigarette. “Where was the other brother? France was a pretty safe guess. I rang up Captain Joudrier in Paris. He was soon able to inform me that an Englishman named Oscar Landerville, a dog breeder in a big way, was living on the coast of Normandy. It then became plain that the ballooning brothers were running a shuttle-service across the Channel. For what purpose? Well, both were dog-breeders. Dogs were the cargo. It seemed silly, but not so silly as one might think. No one can import a dog into this country without leaving it for six months in quarantine, to prevent the introduction of that killing disease rabies. It upsets a lot of people to lose their pets, and some would, no doubt, be prepared to pay handsomely to avoid the regulation. That was the racket. The animal-sounds Mr. Stokes heard were made by muzzled dogs. On one occasion Stokes heard a voice say ‘Lie down!’ The order was not addressed to him, but to the dogs, which may have been fractious. That’s all there was to it.”
“But how did you know exactly when the balloon was due to arrive?” asked Ginger.
“I tipped Joudrier off as to what was happening, asked him to watch the Landerville establishment on his side, and send me a radio signal when the balloon went up. The Met. people gave me the speed of the wind, so it was a matter of simple arithmetic to work out the estimated time of arrival. On this occasion we had a reception-committee waiting. Landerville must now be feeling pretty silly, particularly as he was taking big risks for comparatively small profits. Of course, the profit angle may not have been everything. Once an airman always an airman is an old saying; and one of the curious facts of aviation is the contempt the lighter-than-air aviator has for powered machines. It is the story of the sailing-ship and the steamboat over again. The Landervilles may have got a kick out of doing a spot of illegal aviating in their own fashion—just to prove that the modem jet-pilot doesn’t yet own the atmosphere.” Biggles smiled. “There’s no telling what an airman will do when he gets a bee in his bonnet.”
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE TOO SUCCESSFUL COMPANY
“Goon morning, Bigglesworth.”
“Morning, sir.” Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth leached for a cigarette from the box which Air-Commodore Raymond, head of the Air Section at Scotland Yard, pushed towards him.
“What’s on your mind?” inquired the Air-Commodore, flicking his lighter.
“Nothing terrific,” answered Biggles. “As a matter of fact, things have been so quiet lately that I’ve had a chance to bring my records up to date. In doing it I came upon an item that strikes me as a trifle odd. It concerns a small charter company, registered in the name of Air Mobility Enterprises Limited. It operates from Gatton Airport.”
“What’s odd about it?”
“Merely that although it seldom does any business it manages to show a profit.”
“How do you know?”
“Because in the first place it continues to carry on when more than one company has had to close down. Obviously it must be doing all right or it would have packed up. Furthermore, Wing-Commander Kellack, the proprietor, apparently makes enough out of it to be able to go to work in a Rolls-Royce.”
The Air-Commodore smiled. “Aren’t you developing a rather suspicious nature?”
“Surely it’s a policeman’s job to be suspicious of a thing that doesn’t add up to make sense.”
“Have you anything against the company?”
“Not a thing. On the contrary, it is most careful to comply with the regulations. Everything is on the top line.”
“Then why worry?”
“I’m not worrying. I’m just curious to know how the apparently impossible is achieved. According to its bookings, the company can’t possibly pay its way. Its takings would hardly pay the insurance on the two machines it owns.”
“Maybe the company is run more efficiently than most of them.”
“That’s just it. It’s too efficient. It has never had an accident, never had an argument with the Customs officials or the Air Ministry. In a word, this company is too good to be true.”
The Air-Commodore laughed. “That’s pretty good. When a company gets slack, you jump on it. When it is run well, you still aren’t satisfied.”
“I’m bound to be suspicious of a company that doesn’t seem to care two hoots whether it gets business or not. This one doesn’t even trouble to advertise.”
; “Yet it gets clients?”
“Occasionally.”
“Where do they go?”
“Paris mostly. Sometimes to Le Touquet. Anyway, usually to France. And that raises another point. Why should anyone hire a special machine to go to Paris when British European Airways have machines going there every hour or so?”
The Air-Commodore nodded. “That’s true,” he said, “What do you suggest doing about it?”
“I want permission to spend a little money. To be precise, I want your authority to book a passage to Paris or Le Touquet by Air Mobility.”
“You’ll take the trip yourself?”
“No. At this juncture I shall send one of my fellows—probably Ginger. He’s quite able to check up that all formalities are properly observed by the machine, passengers and crew.”
The Air-Commodore’s eyes probed Biggles’ face. “What do you suspect—smuggling?”
Biggles shrugged. “I wouldn’t say that. But I can’t help feeling that there’s something phony somewhere. Somehow I don’t think it can be orthodox smuggling. The people who run the company must know better than most that you can’t keep on diddling the Customs officers and get away with it.”
“Who are the directors of the company?”
“One is an ex-wing commander named Oscar Kellack, and the other is a chap named Julius Quick. I’ve had a look at Kellack’s service record. There’s nothing wrong with it. I know nothing about Quick. A fellow at the Club told me that at one time he used to run a popular bar in Paris. That may be where Kellack met him, because before he left the service he was there for some time as Assistant Air Attaché. I don’t know about that. Anyway, these two run the show with a small staff of mechanics. That’s all I know. It is just an idea. If the show turns out to be fair, square and above board, so well and good. We shall do no harm by having a look at it.”