Biggles Does Some Homework

by Captain W E Johns

  “Wise man,” said Biggles. “It’s going to get him into trouble one of these days.”

  The little man returned the gun to his pocket. “Well, you have a go at ‘em,” he told his companion with a sneer. “Try it your way.”

  The big man stepped up to Biggles, who was still on his feet with the bag lying where it had been thrown down.

  “What do you think you’re going to do?” inquired Biggles coldly, looking the man in the eyes.

  “I’ll show you.” The man threw off his jacket, rolled up his sleeves and bunched his knuckles.

  Biggles realised what this implied. “You’d better think again,” he warned. “Do you want to bring the policeman along? You’ll be in trouble if I tell him you’re carrying guns.”

  The big man hesitated, scowling. “Policeman? What policeman?”

  “How would I know? I can only tell you there was one here when we arrived.”

  “What the hell would a copper be doing here?”

  “Looking for poachers, maybe. You can ask him yourself if you see him. From the row you’re making that shouldn’t be long.”

  “Bah!” sneered the little man. “Don’t give us that guff.”

  “I’m not giving you anything,” returned Biggles coldly. “I’m simply telling you. As far as I’m concerned you can go to the devil.”

  “What are you supposed to be doing here, anyway?”

  “That’s my business. Why should I tell you? The policeman knows we’re here.”

  “How does he know?”

  “He saw us. In fact he spoke to us,” Biggles said, hoping to gain time. And, it might also be said, hoping the policeman would come, as he had said he might, for the last thing he wanted was a stand-up fight.

  “He’s lying,” spat the little man venomously. “I’m not swallowing that tale.”

  “Please yourself” Biggles said.

  The big man seemed not so sure. Perhaps there was a confidence in the way Biggles spoke that put a doubt in his mind. He put on his jacket. “We’d best get out of this,” he growled.

  “Not me,” rasped the little man, again drawing his gun.

  “You fire that and it will bring him along,” Biggles said, with a confidence he did not feel. Then, hearing footsteps approaching, he added: “This sounds like him coming now. You can argue the toss with him. You’d better put that gun out of sight.”

  Following a swishing of bushes the police constable appeared. He stopped, looking at the assembled men in mild surprise. “What’s going on?” he asked sternly. “What’s all the fuss about?”

  Biggles indicated the two strangers. “You’d better ask them,” he suggested.

  The men did not wait to be questioned. “It’s nothing to do with us,” said the little man. “We were just out for a ramble when this lot started throwing their weight about,” and with that, with a sign to his companion, he turned and walked away.

  The officer looked at Biggles with a puzzled expression.

  “Everything all right, sir?” he asked.

  “It is now, thanks,” answered Biggles.

  “Are you coming along to your car?”

  “Not yet,” Biggles said. “I shall have to wait here for one of my party but there’s no need for you to stay.”

  “Then I’ll be on my way,” said the policeman. And with that he departed.

  Said Algy, seriously, looking at Biggles. “He arrived just in time to save you being well and truly beaten up.”

  “You don’t imagine I would have been so daft as to allow that to happen,” replied Biggles. “At a pinch I still had a trump card to play.”

  “What was it?”

  “I would have told him who I was. That would have pulled him up short. Fortunately the arrival of the gentleman in blue made it I unnecessary. But this is no time to stand talking. Minnie, get after those two toughs to see if Ginger bumps into them. That could lead to more trouble. I’ve never seen a nastier-looking pair of villains.”

  Minnie hurried off. The others waited. Minutes passed. Then Minnie reappeared. “Can’t see a sign of Ginger,” he reported.

  “Did you see those two rascals?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “They went straight to the road and made off in a car. I was the wrong side of the hedge so I couldn’t see it, but I heard it start.”

  “In that case Ginger shouldn’t be long. We shall just have to wait for him, that’s all.” Biggles sat on the kitbag and lit a cigarette. “We haven’t wasted our time,” he went on. “We’ve plenty to think about, and at least we know what the opposition looks like.”

  “Why didn’t you grab them while you had the chance?” Minnie wanted to know.

  “It wasn’t the moment,” Biggles told him. “Given enough rope they’ll hang themselves. We’ll get them when it suits us. The position is a bit unusual. There was a robbery, but the stolen goods have been recovered. But there’s a more important factor. The man they coshed is still in hospital, critically ill. If he dies the case becomes one of murder, and that’s a very different matter. What the dickens can Ginger be doing?”

  They waited, anxiety mounting as time went on. Indeed, it was getting on for an hour later, and Biggles was on his feet to organise a search, when Ginger, somewhat breathless, arrived on the scene.

  “You’ve been a long time,” complained Biggles. “We were getting worried. What have you been doing?”

  “I’ve been for a ride and I had to walk back,” informed Ginger.

  “Did you get the number of their car?”

  “I did. I also saw where it went.”

  “Good work. How did you manage that?”

  “If you’ll stop shooting questions at me I’ll tell you all about it,” Ginger said. “What happened was this. I saw the two men, so I went to the hedge to wait for them to come back to their car, which they’d left on the side of the road. I got its number. Incidentally, it was the taxi. For obvious reasons I daren’t go too close for fear of being seen. When they did come back they arrived in a hurry and didn’t waste any time in pushing off.”

  “So there was nothing more you could do,” put in Biggles.

  “Wait a minute. I haven’t finished yet,” resumed Ginger. “I had a stroke of luck. It came as a young fellow on a motor bike. I stopped him, told him I was a police officer and wanted to check on a car not far in front. He told me to get on behind, which I did, and he roared off doing a ton. Scared me rigid. Having got in sight of the taxi I was just in time to see it turn into a private drive. When we got to it I dropped off; thanked my transport who then went on his way. I saw the drive led to a big modern-looking red brick house. This, it seemed, was where the taxi had gone. This was all I really wanted to know so I didn’t go any closer. Of course, having no transport I had to walk back here. Now you know why I couldn’t get back any sooner.”

  “Good show,” congratulated Biggles. “Sorry if I was a bit short with you. I suppose you didn’t get the name of the house?”

  “It was staring at me, painted on the gate.”

  “What was it?”

  “Lotton Hall.”

  Biggles’ face softened in a faint smile. “Wonderful! According to the constable that’s the nearest house to the spot where we’re standing. That makes it even more interesting. Now we seem to be really getting somewhere.”

  “So now we go and have a look at this house?” conjectured Minnie.

  Biggles shook his head. “Not just yet. We’ve done enough for today. We can afford to take our time now we know what we know. We’ll get along home. I could do with a nice cup of tea.”

  Chapter Seven

  Biggles and his party walked back to the car, still standing where it had been left at the rendezvous with the local police officer who had been detailed to show them where the stolen mail had been found.

  Before getting in Biggles said: “I’ve just had a thought. I’d like another word with our obliging policeman. I’ll take the East
Grinstead road. If he didn’t hurry we might overtake him. That would save us coming back tomorrow.”

  In this they were lucky, for they had not gone far when they saw the policeman in conversation with a motorist; in fact, giving him his best route to somewhere. Biggles waited for the motorist to go on his way then called the officer over.

  “When we were in the wood you said you thought the nearest house would be Lotton Hall,” he reminded. “Can you tell me who lives there?”

  “Certainly. It’s a Mr. Zolton. Mr. Nestor Zolton,” answered the policeman readily.

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Not much. He bought the place about a year ago, paid a lot of money for it so I’ve heard. He must have plenty, for he always seems ready to put his hand in his pocket for local charities.”

  “Unusual name. Is he British?”

  “I don’t know. He might be. If you mean is he a coloured gentleman I’d say no, although he’s dark, as if he might have been born in Cyprus, or somewhere like that. To tell the truth I’ve only seen him once or twice, always in his car, when he comes into the town shopping. His chauffeur goes to the shops. The only time I saw him get out he had to use a stick, as if he suffered from rheumatism or maybe had met with an accident at some time.”

  “I imagine he would have an expensive car,” prompted Biggles.

  “No. It looks like an ordinary taxi with a few extras as if he had had it built for him. He might find it difficult to get in and out of these modem low cars.”

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?” Biggles asked.

  “I don’t think so. Someone told me he’s retired after making a pile of money out of shady gambling joints in London, but how that story got about I don’t know. You can’t believe everything you hear. I also heard he breeds dogs for a hobby. I believe that’s true because I’ve heard ‘em barking as I’ve gone past.”

  “What sort of dogs?”

  “That I can’t tell you, but from the noise they make I think they must be big dogs of some sort. What’s all this about, sir, if you don’t mind me asking? Has he been up to something?”

  “No. Oh no,” returned Biggles quickly. “I’m merely checking up on anyone who lives near the wood. You’ve told me what I wanted to know so I won’t keep you any longer. We’ll press on home.”

  The constable went on his way.

  “Does that tell us anything?” asked Algy, as Biggles having turned the car, headed back up the London road.

  “Not a great deal,” Biggles answered. “The most interesting fact was about the taxi; but it wouldn’t do to jump to conclusions. We’ll have a look at the place from the road as we go past.” As they approached the drive entrance he dropped his speed to ten miles an hour. However, intervening trees made it impossible to see anything of the actual house. He did not stop.

  “Notice anything?” he asked Algy, sitting beside him, as he drove on.

  “One thing struck me.”

  “What was it?”

  “That big meadow on the south side of the place would be plenty big enough to put a small plane down in. There was no stock of any sort that I saw.”

  “You make a point. I can add to it. The elms on the lower side of the field had been topped.”

  “What of it? They’re topping elms everywhere, and taking some down altogether, on account of some disease that’s struck them.”

  “Even so, if we’re both thinking on the same lines, those trees are now less of an obstruction. There may be nothing in it. We must be careful not to let our imaginations run away with us.” Biggles continued on his way towards London.

  Little was said on the way, Biggles from his expression doing some hard thinking. On arrival at Scotland Yard, telling the others that he had decided to report to the chief before taking further steps on his own account, he went down to the Air Commodore’s office.

  There he was greeted with the question: “Well, have you found the answers?” spoken in a way that did not expect an answer in the affirmative.

  “I think we have found one or two of them,” Biggles answered, occupying his usual chair in front of the Air Commodore’s desk.

  “Good,” was the curt reply. “We’ve got to move quickly.”

  “Why the rush?”

  “The case is now one of murder. The unfortunate driver of the van who was coshed defending the mail died this afternoon without recovering consciousness.”

  Biggles made a grimace. “I’m sorry to hear that. What a pity.”

  “We’ve got to get the men who did it,” declared the Air Commodore. “People are getting restless over these murders. There have been too many, fortunately outside our sphere of operations. Now tell me. How did you get on this afternoon? Did you see anyone in the wood?”

  “There were more people than I expected,” Biggles said with grim humour, and then went on to narrate what had transpired in the spinney. This included the discovery that the kitbag had been dropped from the air. The Air Commodore received this information with such astonishment as might have been expected. Not until Biggles had finished did he make any comment. Then he said: “It looks as if this man Zolton might be behind the gang who did this mailbag job.”

  “I don’t say he’s behind the gang, but as his house, and his car, are apparently being used he must know something about it.”

  “What are you going to do about it? Have you made any sort of plan?”

  “Not yet. I haven’t had time. Before doing anything I shall go through our records to see if anything is known about this fellow Zolton. We might have his photograph, or those of the men we saw this afternoon. There shouldn’t be any difficulty in identifying them. What I do next will depend on what I find — if anything. I shall probably come to you for instructions.”

  “You don’t think it would be a good thing to go to Lotton Hall with a search warrant to find out what’s going on there?” suggested the Air Commodore.

  “Biggles shook his head. “Frankly, no. I feel it’s a bit too early for that. If we found nothing, as seems probable if this man Zolton is smart, we should ruin any chances we have of getting our hands on these thugs. The man I’d really like to see, if he wasn’t killed, is this fellow who was shot on the road. If he’s able to talk he should now be in a mood to spill the beans on the gang. He may be in Lotton Hall, but we don’t know that for certain so it would be risky to reckon on it.”

  The Air Commodore sat back in his chair. “Tell me this. What’s your summing up of the affair as you see it now?”

  “Very well, sir. The raid was organised by someone who knew about the movements of registered mail. He didn’t do the dirty work himself. He hired professional crooks to do that. Having got the mail their job was to rush it to some pre-arranged hiding place, possibly Lotton Hall. The head man wouldn’t want to keep it there, so having packed it in a kitbag he put it in an aircraft, which he had laid on for the job, to take it somewhere else; perhaps overseas. The man we saw in the wood wearing an R.A.F. tie may have been the pilot. He took off with the swag on board. What happened after that is a matter of guesswork. The kitbag may have fallen out by accident. Or did he throw it overboard deliberately? If so, why? Knowing what was in the bag he may have dumped it overboard intending to come back in his own time to collect it. That’s why he was in the wood. He hadn’t been able to find the bag, which is understandable. He may have been there before, searching for it.”

  “That sounds reasonable,” conceded the Air Commodore. “Having dropped the bag where he reckoned on finding it again what would he do with the plane? If he started from Lotton Hall he’d hardly have the nerve to go back there and say he’d lost his precious cargo.”

  “True enough,” agreed Biggles. “That’s the weak spot in my theory. Where is the plane now? The one man who must certainly know, if he’s still alive, would be the pilot. Possibly the man we saw wearing an R.A.F. tie. He put the bag overboard. At least, he knew roughly where it fell. That’s why he was in the wood. Why did
he do it? That’s the big question.”

  “If we knew that we could guess the rest,” the Air Commodore said.

  “It shouldn’t be beyond us to work it out,” returned Biggles. “There are still one or two angles to be investigated.”

  “Such as?”

  “The weather conditions on the night the bag was dropped. I assume it was at night because no one but a fool would drop a large object in broad daylight hoping no one would see it fall. I’ll check with the weather men.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. A thought has just occurred to me. Structural failure, or engine failure, might have had something to do with it. In either case the pilot would be desperate to get his wheels on the ground; but with what he had on board he wouldn’t dare to land at an official aerodrome. So what would he do? I’d chuck the bag overboard where I’d be confident of being able to find it again. The spinney, for instance. Of course, he might have aimed for somewhere else; Lotton Hall, for instance, which isn’t far away. But if it was a moonless night, or with cloud about, he could easily have missed his mark. Anything could have happened.”

  “How right you are,” agreed the Air Commodore. “Anyhow, your . supposition is reasonable. The trouble is, how are you going to prove it, or even check on it?”

  Biggles smiled wanly. “I suppose I shall just have to go on flogging my brain. At all events, I have something to work on. I’ll let you know what happens, sir,” he concluded, as he left the room.

  Returning to his own office, where the others were waiting: “The wretched postman those devils coshed is dead,” he announced briefly. “So now it’s a case of murder. Which of those thugs actually struck the old man doesn’t matter. They’re all in the same boat as far as I’m concerned. To kill an old man who is simply doing his job, just for money, is beyond all excuse. Just a minute while I have a word with Inspector Gaskin. He may be able to help us.”

  Having called the Inspector on the intercom telephone all he said was: “I’m interested in a character named Zolton. Nestor Zolton. I don’t know of his nationality but he lives at a place called Lotton Hall, in Surrey. You might let me know if we have anything on him. I’m just going to have a look through our photos. See you later.”