by W E Johns
‘Either that or someone must have told him who I was, and what had been going on. That we had been talking.’
‘Who would do that?’
‘Probably Nestos, the club manager.’
‘Why he?’
‘As far as I know he was the only man in the club who knew who I was; or at any rate, knew me by name. I spoke to no one else.’
The Air Commodore sat at his desk. ‘Tell me all about it.’
Biggles related the incident.
When he had finished the tale of his evening at the club the Air Commodore said: ‘What have you done about this?’
Biggles answered. ‘I’ve sent Bertie to locate this farm in Hampshire, where Caine claims to have an aircraft, and keep an eye on it for a little while. Ginger is watching Caine’s flat in case he’s still in Town. I got the address from the phone book. There was only one Caine with his initials. It’s a mews flat in Kensington. Ginger phoned me to say it’s a cul-de-sac. No garage. So presumably he keeps his car in a hired lock-up garage. I shall have a look at the place myself at the first opportunity. There’s just a chance that the Sheikh may be hiding at the flat or the farm. If he is, and comes out, we should have him.’
The Air Commodore thought for a moment. ‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea if I sent some uniformed police to do a snap raid on both places?’
‘No, sir,’ replied Biggles emphatically. ‘I don’t think that would be a good idea at all.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because if it drew blank the Sheikh would know how much we know and never go near the place again.’
The Air Commodore nodded. ‘You make a point. Then what do you intend?’
‘First I shall go through the files to see if anything is known about this fellow Nestos. Then I shall try R.A.F. records for information about Caine. If, as he claims, he was in the Service, there should be no difficulty about that. He says he left on the expiration of a Short Service Commission. He may have been chucked out for some misdemeanour. Anyway, I’d get his particulars. Meanwhile, Algy is sitting on the phone in case Bertie or Ginger have anything to report. If they have he’ll let me know. I shall keep in touch.’
‘I take it you won’t go near the Icarian Club again?’
‘I don’t see why not.’
‘After what happened last night surely that would be asking for trouble!’
Biggles smiled bleakly. ‘That would be all to the good. Let them show their hand. After all, I’ve spent most of my life asking for trouble, so that would be nothing new. I shall carry on at the club as if nothing had happened. That would lead the man who attacked me to think I didn’t associate his effort with anything that had happened inside the club. If I keep away it will be realized that I think somebody in the club was involved.’
The Air Commodore shrugged. ‘Please yourself.’
‘I’ve had a warning of what can happen. If they try anything like that again I shall be ready.’
‘You don’t think we should pick up Caine and bring him in for questioning? We have a legitimate excuse. From what you tell me he’s contravening Air Traffic Regulations by operating an aircraft without being registered as a private owner.’
‘True enough, sir. But we could charge him with that any time it suited us. I’d rather catch him on the job, to find out what he’s really doing with a plane, rather than risk going off at half cock. For all we know he may not have a plane.’
‘But he told you he had one.’
‘That doesn’t mean he has one. It might be a lie. There are people who flatter their vanity by shooting their mouths about things they haven’t got. All big talk. No, sir. Before we jump on Caine I’d like to make sure he really has a plane. That shouldn’t take long. If it turned out he had nothing of the sort we’d look silly, having shown our hand for nothing. Somehow I have a feeling that this yarn about owning a plane might well be true, although that wouldn’t necessarily mean the machine was bought with his own money. It might be kept at the farm for somebody else, someone who can fly and needs a plane for some crooked business.’
‘The Sheikh, for instance.’
‘You read my thoughts, sir. It might be that he’s using an aircraft to fly stolen property out of the country, and at the same time have a means of making a smart getaway in an emergency. In fact, there may be more to this illegal flying than so far we have any reason to suspect. That, sir, is the reason I suggest we resist the temptation to jump the gun until we know more about the activities of this alleged aircraft.’
‘Very well,’ agreed the Air Commodore. ‘I’ll leave it to you to handle things your own way. Always remember, though, the man we want really is the Sheikh. He’s too dangerous a criminal to have floating about loose.’
‘I’m not likely to forget that, sir. After what he tried to do to me last night I want him, too, for personal reasons. He owes me for a new raincoat. Now I’d better press on. I have plenty to get on with.’
‘Keep me informed.’
‘I’ll do that, sir.’
Leaving the Air Commodore’s office, Biggles first went to the Criminal Record Branch. There was no reference to a B. B. Caine. He also drew a blank at the Rogues’ Gallery of photographs. He then went on to the Air Ministry. What he learned there mildly surprised him, although except in one respect Caine had apparently told the truth. He had said he left the Service on the expiration of a Short Service Commission, whereas it was now revealed that he had been retired before he had finished his time, on medical grounds, his trouble being defective vision, which had resulted in him being ‘grounded’ before he was discharged as medically unfit for flying duties.
Had it not been for this his commission would have probably been made permanent. Far from having a black mark against his name he appeared to have been an exceptionally good officer. His Confidential Report (which is sent in every year by a commanding officer) showed that as a flying officer he had been recommended for promotion. His character was ‘exemplary’. Ability ‘above the average’. He had flown several types of aircraft, including jets. He had taken, and passed out, courses on Radio and Navigation. He had done an overseas tour with 770 Squadron in Aden.
Biggles recalled, from the records he had seen on the case at the Yard, that the Sheikh had once served in the same unit. Was that, he wondered as he left the Ministry, where Caine’s association with the Sheikh had begun?
What struck Biggles as most extraordinary, as he returned to his office in a taxi, was Caine’s disability. Defective vision. How could that have happened? It must have come on him suddenly. His sight must have been perfect at the time of his entry into the R.A.F., or he most certainly would not have passed the searching medical examination.
Equally strange, was why had not Caine told the truth about the manner of his discharge? Why did he say he had been ‘slung out’, to use his own words. Defective vision was nothing to be ashamed of. It can happen to anyone. Again, with defective vision how dare he go on flying? Risking his life. For if there is one thing a pilot must have it is perfect eyesight. How could he have got a civil pilot’s licence, anyway? Was this defective vision the true reason why he had failed to apply for registration as a ‘private owner’? Was he afraid of it being refused on account of his poor sight? Not that Biggles, in the club, had noticed anything wrong with his eyes. Had they been weak, short-sighted or long-sighted, surely like any sensible person, he would wear glasses.
Biggles found there was something very queer about all this; so queer that he felt there must be something wrong somewhere. He had learned a lot as a result of his inquiries, but the information had only tended to fog the picture.
All these investigations had taken a lot of time, and it was late evening, after dark, when he got back to the office to find Algy, rather bored, sitting by the telephone.
Algy reported. From Bertie, who had gone to Hampshire to locate Caine’s alleged farm, there had been no word. Ginger had been on the telephone to say that Caine had left the flat,
carrying a suitcase, and gone off in a car, a red Jaguar, which he had collected from a lock-up garage at the far end of the mews. It had not been possible to follow him, so he was still watching the flat, although as there was no light in any of the windows, it looked as if there was no one there. He would ring up again in about an hour for orders.
‘That should be anytime now,’ Biggles said.
Hardly had the words left his lips than the phone rang.
‘I expect that’ll be him now,’ remarked Algy as he picked up the receiver. He nodded confirmation. ‘What shall I tell him?’
‘He can pack up and come back here,’ decided Biggles. ‘We’ll wait. He can’t stand about watching the flat all night.’
Algy conveyed the message.
‘I see you’ve had your tea,’ observed Biggles. ‘You might ring the canteen for a fresh pot. I could do with a cuppa, and Ginger, too, no doubt.’
‘How did you get on?’ asked Algy, when he had done this.
‘Fairly well,’ answered Biggles. ‘But it’s left me guessing. When Ginger comes in I’ll tell you. I don’t want to go over it twice.’
A little later, almost with the tea, Ginger arrived. When they had settled down he made his report, although he had nothing to add to what he had told Algy over the phone. ‘When I saw Caine come out and collect his car I was in a bit of a flap. I had left my car at the nearest available parking meter, which was a little distance away, so I couldn’t get to it in time to follow him. So I carried on watching the flat. Anyway, I thought if Caine had gone to his farm Bertie would probably be about and see him arrive.’
‘Did you get the number of the Jag?’ asked Biggles.
‘Of course.’
‘Well, it’s something to know his car,’ Biggles said, and went on to relate what his own inquiries had produced. ‘I hardly know what to make of it,’ he admitted at the end. ‘A lot of it sounds queer to me. Why, for instance, didn’t Caine admit he’d been invalided from the Service on account of defective vision instead of saying he’d been “chucked out”, to use his own words? That’s a very different matter. Why deliberately try to give me a wrong impression?’
‘Could it have been a sort of excuse for operating an unregistered aircraft?’ suggested Algy.
‘Possibly,’ conceded Biggles. ‘All I can say is, if his eyes went wrong it must have been sudden, or he’d never have been selected for flying duties. In fact, I doubt if he’d even got into the Service in the first place. There’s something strange about that. However, it gives us something to think about.’ Biggles smiled. ‘If we call ourselves detectives let’s do some detecting.’
‘You’re quite sure Caine is the man who was seen with the Sheikh by that plain-clothes officer — what was his name? — Rigby?’
‘It’d be a mighty queer coincidence if he isn’t. Everything fits. We’ll wait for Bertie to come in, or ring through on the phone, then we’ll knock off.’
They waited. Bertie did not come in. He did not telephone. Time went on. Of course, not knowing where he was they were unable to get in touch with him.
‘What the deuce can he be doing?’ muttered Biggles irritably.
‘Is there any hurry?’ asked Ginger.
‘Not really. But I thought of putting in an hour or so at the Icarian Club later this evening.’
‘I see no reason why you shouldn’t, if you feel like sticking your neck out,’ rejoined Algy. ‘We can hang on here till Bertie shows up. He shouldn’t be long now.’
‘Okay,’ Biggles agreed. ‘We’ll do that. When he comes in you can pack up and I’ll hear anything he has to say when I come home.’ He got up. ‘You’ll know where to find me if there’s anything urgent. I shan’t stay long at the club; not more than a couple of hours. I’m hoping Caine will come in. In view of what I know now I’d like another chat with him. I may be able to draw him out a bit farther. It shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘All I can say is, the sooner we have this routine buttoned up and get on to something more interesting, the better will it suit me,’ grumbled Ginger. ‘Standing around all day in this perishing weather watching somebody’s front door isn’t my idea of an entertaining occupation.’
‘Don’t be in a hurry,’ returned Biggles. ‘Unless I’m off the beam, things’ll warm up presently. When you’ve had someone make a pass at your face with a razor you won’t find it so dull, I promise you.’
‘Mind you don’t get a repeat performance tonight,’ warned Algy, seriously.
Biggles nodded. ‘I’ll watch it doesn’t happen again.’ He went out.
CHAPTER 4
PROBLEMS FOR BERTIE
BERTIE had started early, in one of the official police cars, a Humber, on his mission to locate, and reconnoitre as far as was possible without calling attention to himself, Caine’s alleged farm in Hampshire. The word ‘alleged’ was still being used in connection with it because so far there was no proof that it existed.
As things turned out it was as well that he moved off immediately after breakfast, otherwise in the short November hours of daylight, he might have been compelled to return home with his mission unaccomplished. He had looked in vain for the village of Carthanger on his road map, so he had to trust to sign-posts and local information to find it; but in the event it turned out to be more difficult than he had imagined to find Twotrees Farm, his ultimate objective, the reason being it was a long way from any main road.
It was not a bad sort of day for the time of the year and as he cruised quietly through the New Forest, keeping a wary eye open for the loose ponies that are apt to wander across the road, he was content with the simple task he had been given. It gave him a day in the country instead of the murk of London.
Thinking he had plenty of time at his disposal, he stopped at a wayside inn for a leisurely lunch, and before going on his way asked the landlord if he could direct him to Carthanger. The man said he’d never heard of it.
‘You’re sure you don’t mean Clayhanger?’ he questioned.
‘I was told Carthanger,’ Bertie answered.
The landlord shook his head. ‘There are quite a few “hangers” in this part of the world, but that’s a new one to me.’1
Bertie went on his way, hurrying now, for already it was getting twilight, unaware that this confusion of names was going to give him a lot of trouble. It may be said that he never did find Carthanger, and he could only conclude that Biggles had misunderstood Caine, or Caine had deliberately misled him. Of course, there may have been a ‘slip of the tongue’. At any rate, it was when Bertie found himself in a tangle of Hampshire lanes, often hemmed in by trees that had dropped their leaves to make a slippery carpet, that he realized his job was going to take longer than he had anticipated. More than once he was completely lost. However, he was not worried. Not yet.
He stopped to make inquiries as often as opportunity occurred. He spoke to a roadman, a farm labourer, and the driver of a baker’s van, but none of them had heard of the village he sought. He saw nothing that could be called a village. Even houses, always cottages, were few and far between. He had not thought there was such a rural area left in the country.
It was a postman, doing his round on a bicycle, who finally put him on the track. ‘There’s no Carthanger in these parts,’ the man declared. ‘I’ve lived here all my life, so if there was I’d know of it.’
‘Have you heard of a farm called Twotrees?’ asked Bertie, who was getting desperate.
‘Oh yes, I know Twotrees,’ the man replied readily. ‘That’s at Clayhanger. The place was empty for a while, so I don’t know who’s there now ‘cause I haven’t had to call.’
‘Where is it?’
‘Straight on up the hill. First turning to the left, next to the right, and from the top you’ll see the house staring you in the face across a big pasture.’
‘And where’s the village of Clayhanger?’
‘There ain’t one. That’s only the name of a district.’
‘Thank you,�
� acknowledged Bertie, gratefully, and went on his way relieved that he seemed to be getting somewhere at last.
Following the postman’s instructions he arrived at a spot, on the top of a hill, where the trees ended, and there, at the end of a track that ran for some little distance, stood the house, or a house, not exactly ‘staring him in the face’ but plain enough to see. As there was only one house in sight, there was not much possibility of mistake. It was a plain, red-brick building with sundry outhouses, such as one expects to see at a farm. Close at hand were two wind-bent elms that had probably given the place its name.
Bertie got out of his car and considered the establishment, also to look for landmarks, without which he was by no means sure he would be able to find the place again. It was at once evident that to approach any nearer without being seen by anyone there presented difficulties; for as the postman had said, between him and the farm lay a considerable area of flat grassland without a tree, a bush, or any other sort of cover. Could this be Caine’s private landing ground? Bertie wondered. It looked ready made for such a purpose.
From the narrow sunken lane by which he had approached there was only one entrance to the field. A five-bar gate. It was padlocked. His immediate problem was how to turn the car in order to get away when the time came. The lane with its banks on either side, was too narrow; and he did not relish the idea of backing a quarter of a mile or more. There was no urgency about this, but he would feel happier if the car was facing in the right direction when he was ready to go. There was a possibility that he might want to leave in a hurry.
The lane continued on round a bend, so getting back in his seat he drove on hoping to come to a place where it would be possible to turn. After ploughing through ruts and greasy mud for a hundred yards, in a tricky half light, the lane ended nowhere, as the saying is. It finished in a small area of dead bracken and bleached coarse grass, flattened by the rain, which by the look of it had previously been used by vehicles as a turning place.