by W E Johns
‘I think bad things have happened here,’ Marcel said. ‘From what little talk I heard in the village the place has a sinister reputation. People keep away from it.’
‘What sort of bad things?’ asked Algy.
‘Fighting, murder, I don’t know. Things happened here in the last war during the German occupation, but the local people will not talk of them.’ Marcel smiled wanly. ‘Perhaps they did some of the murders. They only say the place is haunted by the ghosts of the people who died here.’
‘If we have nothing worse to face than ghosts, we have nothing to worry about,’ Biggles said dryly. They were still standing inside the wood.
‘Why do we stop?’ asked Marcel. ‘I thought we go to the house to ask questions.’
‘What will you say?’
‘I shall ask about the plane.’
‘And I can tell you what the answer will be,’ predicted Biggles. ‘They will look surprised and say they know nothing of a plane.’
‘But you think your friends are inside?’
‘I’m pretty sure of it.’
‘Then I can get a search warrant and we will find them.’
‘Listen, Marcel,’ Biggles said seriously, ‘In that house there must be nearly a hundred rooms. Could we search them all? Prisoners could be moved from one room to another while we searched. And the house being old there may be secret rooms which we would never find. The men who own this place are clever. Why let them know we suspect them? I say let us do nothing in a hurry.’
‘Then what shall we do?’ Marcel threw out his hands in a typical French gesture.
‘Did I see a little restaurant in the village?’
Marcel looked surprised by the question. ‘But yes. Perhaps it is not very good.’
‘No matter. I suggest we have some lunch and think about this affair. No doubt madame has some eggs. An omelette. That and some of your excellent French bread and butter, a little cheese and a glass of wine will be enough for me.’
Marcel shrugged. ‘As you wish. It is your friends who are lost, not mine.’
‘You needn’t remind me; but I can think better when I am not hungry.’
Talking over the problem they made their way back to the village, and at the one small estaminet, still discussing the matter, had a simple but excellent meal. Lingering over their coffee, it was well into the afternoon by the time they were ready to leave. Nothing definite had been decided. Marcel was still in favour of making direct inquiries, but Biggles opposed this, feeling sure they would learn nothing, and by putting the occupants of the chateau on their guard were likely to do more harm than good. By this time, to Biggles, the original investigation had become a matter of secondary importance. He was more concerned with the safety of Bertie and Ginger. A false move now, he averred, and they might never see them again.
At the finish the argument ended in a compromise. Marcel, in his official capacity, would go openly to the main entrance of the chateau and merely say there had been a report of a plane landing in the district. Biggles and Algy could watch the proceedings, without showing themselves, from the cover of the wood. Being of course in uniform, with a pistol in its holster on the belt round his waist, he was confident that no harm could come to him.
With this in mind they made their way back to the wood. As they paused by the abandoned Auster for a second look at it, they were startled by the sound of an aero engine being started not far away. A minute later they caught a glimpse of a helicopter through the trees. It went off in a northerly direction.
‘Now what?’ muttered Marcel, looking at Biggles.
‘I can only guess, but I’d say it’s on its way back to England,’ surmised Biggles.
‘Who flies it?’
‘How would I know? Unless they have a spare pilot, probably Clarence.’
‘Now I must go to the house,’ declared Marcel. ‘This is France and I have a duty to do. Planes cannot come and go as they please, ignoring regulations.’
‘As you say, we are in your country, so the decision of what to do rests with you,’ agreed Biggles. ‘We will wait here.’
‘À bientôt,’ was Marcel’s last word. He strode off.
‘I only hope he’s doing the right thing,’ Biggles murmured, moving a little farther into the trees and finding a seat on a fallen tree with the house still in view. He lit a cigarette. Algy joined him. They waited, watching, and presently saw Marcel cross the bridge over the moat. He pulled a chain that hung outside. An old-fashioned bell clanged.
Their wait was shorter than might have been expected. Within minutes they saw Marcel coming back. He looked anything but pleased. Finding Biggles and Algy under the trees he said: ‘Always you are right.’
Biggles looked slightly amused. ‘I do my best to make it a habit, although it doesn’t always come off. What did they say?’
‘They looked astonished. They know nothing of a plane landing near here.’
‘Without committing themselves, what else could they say? Who answered the door?’
‘A man.’
‘Describe him.’
‘He was fat, ugly and had a beard.’
‘Then it couldn’t have been Clarence or his brother. Didn’t they ask you in and offer you some hospitality?’
‘No.’
‘I’ll bet they didn’t.’
‘The man filled the door. I saw no one else. What will you do now? I must go back to Paris. I have work to do there. I left everything to meet you.’
‘I shall stay here,’ Biggles said.
‘How can you do that?’
‘I see no reason why we shouldn’t stay here.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘I shall see anyone who comes or leaves the house. I may see other things. Later we shall take it in turns to have some food in the village. In that way someone will always be watching.’
‘You may find yourself in trouble. Have you a pistol?’
‘No. I do not carry firearms in France without permission.’
‘You may need one. I can lend you this and get another.’ Marcel took his pistol from its holster and offered it.
‘Thanks.’ Biggles put it in his jacket pocket. ‘There is one other thing,’ he went on. ‘If you leave us we shall be without transport and unable to get back to Berck aerodrome should that be necessary.’
‘I have not finished with this place,’ declared Marcel. ‘I shall come back.’
‘When?’
Marcel frowned. ‘That is difficult to say. As soon as possible. I will leave you my car outside the estaminet. Someone in the village will have a car. I will get him to drive me to the railway station. It is only a few kilometres.’
‘If you could do that it would suit us fine, thanks,’ acknowledged Biggles.
‘Now I must go,’ continued Marcel. After a few paces he turned. ‘Be careful,’ he warned.
‘You can trust me for that,’ answered Biggles. ‘You know I never take risks.’
Marcel threw him a peculiar smile and went on his way.
CHAPTER 13
LORD MALBOISE MAKES AN OFFER
While the events recorded in the preceding chapter were taking place, Bertie and Ginger remained incarcerated in their lofty prison cell, for that, clearly, was the purpose for which the turret chamber was being used. They were not badly treated, and as the weather was warm, even though the window had no glass in it, they passed a reasonably comfortable night. Naturally, they did a lot of talking, discussing the situation in which they found themselves; and although this was considered from every angle, they could see no hope of escape unless they were rescued. What their captor would eventually do with them was a matter for surmise, and here again the prospects were gloomy if not alarming.
Knowing what they knew, they could hardly expect to be set free, yet on the other hand it seemed impossible that they would be held prisoner indefinitely. The alternative was not pleasant to contemplate, although remembering what Clarence had said about people disappearing in the
moat, they had to face up to the possibility of sharing their fate. That, all too obviously, would be an easy way of disposing of them. Ginger said he could not believe that a man of Clarence’s breeding and education would stoop to sheer cold-blooded murder, but Bertie was not so sure of it. ‘History shows that when murder is the answer to a problem, class has nothing to do with it,’ he claimed. ‘Some of the most brutal murders have been committed by men, and women, who one would have said wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
‘That’s a comforting thought,’ growled Ginger. ‘Well, we got ourselves into this mess, so I suppose we shall have to get ourselves out of it.’
‘That’s how it looks to me, dear boy,’ agreed Bertie. ‘But how? Tell me that? Frankly, I’m stumped, if you see what I mean.’
‘I can see what you mean all right,’ returned Ginger caustically. ‘But remember, it’s one of Biggles’ axioms that there’s always an answer to any problem if you can find it.’
‘Well, you find it and I’m with you,’ Bertie said.
‘I shall think about it,’ promised Ginger, and after that they fell silent.
As already stated they passed a reasonably comfortable night. Once Bertie awoke to find the candle alight and Ginger standing at the window making as it were a windmill of his arms. ‘What the dickens are you doing?’ he demanded.
‘Signalling.’
‘To whom?’
‘Nobody, as far as I know. Anybody. I’m sending out an S.O.S. Somebody might notice it. It’s possible somebody might spot it, even a poacher.’
‘And you’re assuming he’ll be able to read the Morse Code? What a hope!’
‘It’s better than no hope at all,’ retorted Ginger. ‘At least I’m doing something. Besides, Biggles may have come over.’
‘You can forget Biggles,’ declared Bertie. ‘I’ll tell you where he is. At home and nicely tucked up in bed. If you can’t sleep yourself, you might let me get some.’
Ginger accepted the advice. ‘It was just an idea.’
‘Think of another,’ Bertie said shortly.
‘I shall try,’ answered Ginger.
Soon after dawn they were awakened by footsteps on the stone flags outside the door. The big iron key grated. The door was opened and the same two gunmen entered, one carrying a tray. It was breakfast, the customary French breakfast of rolls, butter, jam and a pot of coffee. They did not speak as the tray was put on the table.
‘How long is this going on?’ demanded Ginger.
No answer.
‘Where’s Clarence?’ asked Bertie.
The men withdrew without speaking.
‘Nice cheerful fellers, I must say,’ grumbled Bertie.
They took their time over breakfast, having nothing else to do. After a while Ginger said, cheerfully: ‘Biggles should soon be on his way here.’
‘How do you work that out?’ Bertie wanted to know.
‘Perfectly simple,’ answered Ginger. ‘When no report comes through of an Auster on the carpet somewhere he’ll go to Brindon Hall to look for it. When he finds it isn’t there he’ll come on here.’ Ginger spoke confidently, although he would have been more surprised than anyone had he known that Biggles was already on the way, although not for the reason he had put forward.
‘Even if Biggles did come over I’m dashed if I can see what he could do,’ opined Bertie. ‘If he came to the door asking for us the people here would deny all knowledge of us. Unless he has a magic wand he could hardly be expected to break in even if he tried.’
‘You are a nice comforting partner,’ grumbled Ginger. ‘We shall have to let him know we’re here and exactly where we are, that’s all there is about it,’ he asserted.
‘And just how do you propose to do that, if I may ask? Start howling from the window?’ inquired Bertie with a touch of sarcasm.
Ginger brought his fist down smartly on the table. ‘No. I’ve got a better scheme than that. It could be the answer we’ve been looking for. Have you got those nail scissors on you, those you usually carry?’
‘Of course.’ Bertie took a small pair of folding scissors from his waistcoat pocket. ‘What are you going to do with them? If you’re thinking of trying to cut a hole through that door, I can tell you right away that they won’t stand up to that sort of exercise.’ He passed the scissors.
‘Nothing like it,’ Ginger answered, with a tinge of enthusiasm in his voice. ‘Watch me. I reckon if Biggles comes here he won’t march straight up to the front door. I know him. He’s too canny for that. He’ll approach slowly, probably through the wood, to have a good look at the place. I aim to plant a message for him.’
‘How?’
‘I’ll show you.’
Then Ginger got busy on a game he had often played in more frivolous moments, a pastime, sometimes a competition, frequently enjoyed by junior R.A.F. officers to relieve boredom. In fact, in the earlier days of flying instruction it was sometimes used to demonstrate the theory of flight. With practice it can be made to produce remarkable results. Taking some letters from his pocket he selected one, and having tested the paper for quality went to work.
By this time Bertie had realized what he was doing, as the slow smile that spread over his face testified. ‘Jolly good,’ he chuckled. ‘Top marks. Go to the top of the form.’ Then the smile faded. ‘The big question is, will Biggles be there?’
‘That’s something I can’t guarantee,’ replied Ginger.
‘And if he comes will he find it?’
‘I can’t guarantee that either, but there’s a fair chance.’
What in fact Ginger was doing was cutting out a miniature paper aeroplane. One that would glide. It is quite simple, if one has any knowledge of aerodynamics. In the ordinary way a piece of paper dropped from a height, with no inherent stability merely flutters to the ground; but once stability is applied, with a little practice the same piece of paper — the size is not important — can be made to travel a long way provided there is no wind. The greater the height from which the model is dropped the farther it will go. By bending the paper an expert can make it perform aerobatics. Even a fragile slip like a cigarette paper will glide the length of a fair-sized room.
Using the table as a rest Ginger folded the paper double. Then cutting it double to make sure both sides were equal, he cut out a piece of the required shape; that is, the shape of an orthodox aeroplane, wings, fuselage, and elevators. These were bent into shape. Ginger then took a match, cut it in half and using the heavier end made a slit in it so that it could be slipped on the model to provide the necessary weight which, in a full-sized machine would be provided by the engine. The weight of course produces the forward momentum.
‘As there’s no wind, from this height, this should go far beyond the moat,’ declared Ginger, studying his model to make sure it was evenly balanced. ‘Biggles has only to find this to know we are here.’
‘What’s written on the paper?’
‘Nothing — yet. It’s a plain piece of the office notepaper I carry for emergencies. If Biggles finds it he’ll recognize it. To make sure I’ll put our initials on it and say where we are. You carry on making some more while I test this one. We’ll make as many as we can because they won’t all land in the same place, and the more there are the better will be his chance of finding one.’ So saying Ginger stood on the table, and holding the model by the tail, dropped it. It floated slowly across the room.
‘Great work,’ congratulated Bertie.
Ginger recovered the model, and accompanied by Bertie took it to the window. Putting an arm between the bars he held it nose down for a moment and then released it. The piece of paper at once took up flying position and sailed away hardly losing any height. It crossed the moat and floated on, finally to disappear in the trees beyond.
‘How’s that!’ exclaimed Ginger.
‘Jolly good.’
‘If I warp the port wing a fraction in the next one it should land near the track through the wood. Let’s carry on. We might as well use al
l the paper we have.’
Bertie grinned. ‘They’ll think there’s been a bally paper-chase.’
‘So much the better.’
The work went on for some time and several models were launched, some with the messages printed on them; but the exercise was brought to an end by the sound of voices and footsteps outside the door. Ginger just had time to scrape together the discarded scraps of paper and stuff them in his pocket when the door was opened and Clarence, followed by his brother, walked in.
‘Well — well, so here we are,’ greeted Lord Malboise affably. ‘Good day to you, gentlemen. I trust you have been well looked after and found everything to your liking?’
‘Never mind about that,’ returned Bertie, stiffly. ‘How long are you going to keep us here?’
‘That’s really up to you,’ was the reply, spoken without a trace of malice or hostility. ‘In fact, that’s really what I’ve come to talk to you about.’
‘What are we to take that to mean?’
‘I’m going to put a proposition to you.’
‘We’re listening,’ Ginger said coldly.
‘Well, let me put it like this,’ went on Lord Malboise, smoothly. ‘My instinct tells me you are both gentlemen of honour who, having given their word would not break it. To put it plainly, I am prepared to trust you. Will you promise, if I set you free with my blessing, that you will go away, never return, and say nothing of what you know to your superiors.’
‘You can’t be serious,’ Bertie said, with affected incredulity.
‘But of course. I was never more serious in my life.’
‘Then your instinct has failed you. Your offer is an insult.’
Lord Malboise shook his head sadly. ‘Believe me I’m sincere when I say I am grieved that you should take that attitude. You realize you are putting me in an awkward position.’