Biggles Sets a Trap

by W E Johns

  “Sounds like a powerful car,” muttered Leo.

  “Let’s go up to the chest room to see what he was doing,” suggested Biggles. “We’d better shut the window, too. It’s wide open. Tomorrow, as soon as it’s light enough to see I’ll have a look outside under the window to see if he dropped anything.”

  They made their way to the chest room. Leo shut the window and came back to Biggles who was looking at an object on the ground near the chest. Leo would have stooped to pick it up but Biggles stopped him. “Don’t touch it,” he said sharply. “There may be finger-prints on it; that is, if the fellow wasn’t wearing gloves.”

  “It’s a hacksaw,” observed Leo.

  “Yes. A fine one. Apparently he intended to saw through the padlocks. Yes, you can see where he had started on one. He hadn’t got far when I interrupted the proceedings. That tells us he wasn’t a professional burglar. Had he been he would have picked the locks.”

  “What do you suppose he was after?”

  “The only thing I can think of is the Charter which is your title to the property.”

  “He carried a gun?”

  “Yes, and he was prepared to use it. The shot must have come pretty close to me. We’ll see where it struck in the morning, in daylight. No use looking now. That seems to be about all we can do for the time being. The chap isn’t likely to come back tonight so we might as well go back to bed.”

  They were walking down the corridor when the bell that hung outside the front door clanged.

  Leo looked at Biggles, his eyes saucering. “Who the devil can that be at this hour of night?”

  “We’d better go and see,” answered Biggles.

  Using Biggles’ torch for light they went down to the hall.

  Leo opened the door.

  Bertie, streaming rain-water, stepped inside. “Sorry to get you up, chaps, but I had a bit of a job getting here. Trees blown down across the roads all over the bally place. I had to go half-way round the country to get here.” Bertie took off a streaming cap and mackintosh and spread them on the chest. “By the way, have you had a visitor?”

  “Too true we have,” returned Biggles grimly. “Why do you ask?”

  “I saw him at the gate. Or rather, I saw a car parked there.”

  “Come in and tell us about it,” requested Biggles.

  CHAPTER XII

  BIGGLES EXPLAINS

  IT was in the great dining-room under the dispassionate eyes of Leo’s ancestors that Bertie narrated in detail what had happened to him.

  “By the time I’d done all the things you’d asked me to do it was getting rather late, but I thought I might as well come back,” he told Biggles. “I reckoned to get here not later than nine o’clock, but I didn’t take the storm into account. That in itself slowed me down considerably. At times the rain was so heavy that the windscreen wipers couldn’t cope with it. However, having started I thought I might as well keep on. What really held me up were the fallen trees across the road. Once it was the police who had made a diversion that sent me miles off course. I had no sooner got my bearings again than an A.A. man stopped me to say I couldn’t get through on the road I was on. The result of all this was I only got here about half an hour ago.

  “Half an hour?” put in Biggles. “What have you been doing since?”

  “That’s what I’m about to tell you, old boy, if you’ll give me half a chance. When I got to the drive I turned in and nearly rammed another car that was standing there, just inside, facing the road. The lights had been switched off and naturally I came to the conclusion that it belonged to some bloke who had developed mechanical trouble and had parked there rather than leave the car on the road for somebody to run into.”

  “That was a reasonable supposition,” conceded Biggles. “What did you do?”

  “As I couldn’t get past I backed out on to the road and walked forward to investigate. For all I knew the chap was still in his car. I hoped he was, because had he been there I would have asked him if he needed any help, reckoning that between us we might have done something. What I really wanted of course was to shift his car so that I could get in. I didn’t want to leave our car on the road all night. That would have meant leaving the lights on and running the battery flat.”

  “Did you leave your lights on when you went to investigate?” asked Biggles.

  “I switched off the headlights so as not to dazzle the driver of another car that might be coming up the road. I left her on the sidelights only. That was enough. Then, as I say, I went to the other car. There was no one in it.”

  “What make of car was it?”

  “What with the rain and the pitch darkness it wasn’t easy to see; I couldn’t swear to it but I think it was a black Mercedes. You see, I hadn’t a torch. I’d left it here with you.”

  “Did you get its number?”

  “Yes. I saw that in my headlights when I first turned in. I made a note of it on the back of the A. A. book before I left our car. I thought the chap might want a witness if he put in an insurance claim. Well, there I was, in a proper jam. It seemed that all I could do was walk the rest of the way to the house. Before doing that I went back to my own car to put it on the verge and lock the doors. While I was doing that I heard the other car start up. I ran forward into the drive to see what was happening and was nearly blinded by the lights as they came on. The fellow must have seen me. He had just started to move. Instead of stopping he put his foot down. I managed to jump clear, but it was a near thing. By the time I’d recovered he was on the road going flat out. It was only then that I realized what he might have been up to. I went after him but I hadn’t a hope. By the time I’d got going he’d got too much of a start. I could see the reflection of his headlights on the trees and all I can say is he was going at a lick I didn’t feel like risking in those conditions. So I soon gave up and came back. And here I am. That’s all.”

  “I suppose you can guess what’s happened here.”

  “You’ve had the burglar.”

  “You’ve got it in one. I made a mess of things by knocking over a lump of armour and he managed to get clear. You can go back to bed, Leo, if you feel like it. After all this fuss I don’t feel like sleep. I’m too anxious to have the answers to one or two questions. Bertie, where’s the stuff you brought back with you?”

  “Still in the car.”

  “You might fetch it, and the A.A. book with the number of that car on it. Here’s the torch. Take it.”

  Bertie went off.

  “What are you going to do, Leo?” asked Biggles. “Stay here or go back to bed?”

  “If it’s all the same to you I’ll stay here. Like you, I wouldn’t sleep if I went to bed.”

  “All right. Then you can make yourself useful. Take a clean handkerchief and fetch that tool the burglar left lying by the chest. Don’t pick it up by the handle. Use the other end, and try not to brush it against your clothes or anything.”

  Leo picked up a candle and departed on his errand. He returned at the same moment as Bertie, carrying a police bag and the yellow A.A. Guide. Everything was put on the table and Bertie opened the bag.

  Biggles picked up the A.A. book and read aloud the number Bertie had written on it. “WY4782.”

  “You must have misread it,” Leo told Bertie.

  “Why?” asked Biggles.

  “I know that car. I’ve often seen it on the road.”

  “Why should he be mistaken?”

  “It belongs to Warren, the man who keeps the pub in the village. He wouldn’t be out at this hour and he certainly wouldn’t park his car on my drive.”

  Bertie opened his mouth to speak, but Biggles kicked him under the table and he closed it again.

  “No matter,” said Biggles. “We shall know in due course who owns the car.” He looked at the enlarged photographs of finger-prints Bertie had handed to him.

  “Those were on the glass,” said Bertie.

  “Beautiful,” murmured Biggles. “Couldn’t be better. Now
let’s see what sort of luck we have with this.” He pulled the hacksaw towards him, and reaching for the finger-print outfit Bertie had opened went to work. It did not take long. Blowing the surplus powder off the handle of the tool he studied the thumb print it had revealed and then compared it with one of the photographic prints. “Perfect,” he said softly, pushing the hacksaw to one side and covering it with the handkerchief. “Don’t touch that, anybody,” he said.

  Looking up at Bertie he went on: “Did the chief let you have that warrant?”

  “I have it here. He was a bit doubtful about it and told me to ask you to be very careful—not to execute it unless you were absolutely sure of your ground.”

  “I think we’re nearly ready,” said Biggles softly. “What about the firearm certificate?”

  “No trace.”

  “No application made?”

  “There’s no record of one.”

  Biggles was silent for some seconds, tapping a cigarette pensively on the back of his hand. “We could get him on that as a minor charge if we could be sure of finding a firearm in the house.”

  “Where else would it be?”

  “There’s just a chance that it might be here. He used it tonight, against me. He left in a deuce of a hurry and it sounded to me as if he fell. If he did, using both hands to grab the wistaria to break his fall, he might have dropped it. If he did he wouldn’t be able to find it because the moon went in and it was as black as pitch. In fact, I know he didn’t stop because I heard him running. I wonder... I intended to have a look in the bushes as soon as it got light to see if he did leave anything behind, if only a shred of cloth, or a button. In view of what we have here I feel like having a look right away. One more piece of evidence should just about clinch things.” Biggles reached for the torch. “If we find nothing now we’ll have another look in daylight.” He got up.

  The others followed as he made his way out of the front door to the bushes below the window of the chest room. First, he turned the beam of the torch upwards, moving it slowly up the wistaria. “Yes, he fell all right,” he said. “Look at that hanging branch, torn clean off the wall. Either it wasn’t strong enough to carry his weight or he didn’t get a proper grip on it. Let’s have a look here.” He directed the torch to the ground. “Be careful where you’re putting your feet,” he requested.

  Fortunately the rain had stopped and a little misty moonlight made the task easier; but the rhododendron bush was still dripping with water which streamed off when a branch was touched. Biggles was on his hands and knees feeling the ground, so it was Leo, who was holding the torch, who spotted the revolver, and announced its discovery with a cry of “Look at this!” It had not fallen to the ground but had lodged about three feet up in a tangle of twigs.

  “Capital,” said Biggles, as he withdrew it carefully by the muzzle. “A twenty-two revolver. This should be about all we need. Anything else can wait. Let’s go back indoors.”

  They returned to the dining-room, where Biggles, having ascertained that only one cartridge had been fired, applied the finger-print test to the butt.

  “I didn’t know they made a twenty-two revolver,” remarked Leo.

  “You can buy them at any gunsmith’s shop in France,” informed Biggles without looking up. He was comparing the prints that had appeared with the others on the table. “Not too clear, but clear enough,” he said. “A bit smudged —but the rain would account for that.” He looked at Bertie. “Well, now we know where we are.”

  “You may, but I don’t,” muttered Leo, tartly. “Isn’t it about time you told me what all this is about ? Why keep me in the dark? What’s this talk about a warrant?”

  “A search warrant.”

  “To search who—what?”

  “The Spurs public house. I don’t think we need keep you in the dark any longer. But don’t attempt to do anything on your own account.”

  “What the devil do you expect to find at The Spurs?” asked Leo, looking astonished.

  “For one thing I expected to find a twenty-two calibre firearm held without a certificate. As it happens we already have it here. There should also be a raven which sometimes travels about the countryside in what looks like a large camera case.”

  “Do you mean a live raven?”

  “That is my belief.”

  “Have you seen it?”

  “No, but I’m pretty sure I’ve heard it.”

  “Do you mean—you’ve been in The Spurs?”

  “I have.”

  “Why did you go?”

  “To have a look at Mr. Warren. I not only saw him but I managed to get his finger-prints. I tried to tell you I hadn’t wasted my time.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m the impatient sort.”

  “Forget it. Another thing I’d expect to find could be a small shield or similar object emblazoned with the arms of the De Warines, with charges showing three five-pointed mullets which at a glance might be mistaken for three stars. Now do you begin to understand?”

  Leo did not answer. He could only stare.

  “Did Charles know Warren by sight?” asked Biggles.

  “I don’t know. If he ever saw him, or if he ever went into the pub, he never mentioned it to me.”

  “It looks as if either he didn’t know Warren, or else on the day he was killed Warren took care not to let his face be seen.”

  Leo was blinking. “Do you mean this gun belongs to Warren?”

  “It did. That’s the name he’s known by now. But I believe we shall find his real name is De Warine. It’s near enough.”

  Leo, who had been standing up, dropped heavily into a chair. “Let me think—let me think...” he faltered, in a sort of strangled voice. “My brain’s spinning.”

  “I thought the truth would come as a bit of a shock,” said Biggles evenly. “That’s why I kept you in the dark. I’m sorry, but I decided that was a necessary precaution. Now you know you can start putting two and two together, and work out how it adds up to twenty-two, a twenty-two gun.”

  Leo swallowed. He still looked shaken. “And all the time it was Warren who wanted to kill me,” he blurted. “A man practically on my doorstep.”

  “Not all the time. He was only carrying on the family tradition. They’ve been in the village nearly as long as you’ve been here. You’d forgotten the past, but they hadn’t. Their chief purpose in life has been to keep The Curse alive. You’re sitting in the seat they regard as theirs.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense!”

  “Not to you, perhaps, but it does to them.”

  “Them?”

  “The family, which at present, as far as I know, consists of De Warine and his sister.”

  “Is she in this too?”

  “I think she must know what’s going on. I don’t see how it can be otherwise. But that’s not to say she agrees with what her brother is doing. She may see the thing from a different angle.”

  “What different angle could there be?”

  “She may have been against seeing you murdered. She may have had a different plan for recovering the property.”

  “How?”

  “By marrying you.”

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  “I admit it does sound a bit far fetched, and I doubt if I’d have thought of it had not Diana put the idea in my head.”

  “Diana!” Leo looked thunderstruck.

  “She was suspicious of her intentions. That may have been female instinct which spots a rival, or due to the fact that Julia spent a lot of time riding near the Hall where you might see her. There could be something in it. Had Julia got you to marry her she could have become mistress of Ringlesby Hall, and that would have brought The Curse to an end. She may have believed in history repeating itself. I may be romancing, but remember where all this business started.”

  “Bosworth.”

  “After which the winner, a member of the House of Lancaster, brought the Wars of the Roses to an end by marrying into the enemy camp—Eliza
beth of York. As Julia’s ancestors were involved, as were yours, you can bet she knows all about that. I’m only guessing, but she may have thought marriage preferable to murder.”

  Leo rested his head in his hands. “This kills me. Why didn’t I think of it?”

  “You didn’t dig deeply enough, or far enough back.”

  “When did you first get on to it?”

  “I think it was Charles’ last words that sowed the first seed. When I saw that coat of arms in your chest it began to grow. When I saw the De Warine cognizance in the church, and heard the parson refer to the mullets as stars, a mistake easily made, it really sprouted. I told you there was a limit as to how far I was prepared to trust coincidence. This was going too far. There were other factors, one leading to the other: the name of the pub; the name of the owner, and so on. I got this finger-print in the pub. It’s Warren’s. The same print is on the hacksaw. It’s also on the revolver. Warren smokes a brand of cork-tipped cigarettes called Nestorian, and being a heavy smoker he leaves a trail of short ends wherever he goes. Which shows how careless a man too self-confident can get. I picked up the remains of one of those cigarettes in the spinney. Another at the place where Diana was shot at. This, to me, was pretty conclusive.”

  “Does this mean you’re ready to arrest Warren?” asked Leo.

  “That will be for my headquarters to decide. We have a tricky problem on our hands.”

  “Tricky? Why, it’s a plain case of murder.”

  “It may look like that to you, but that doesn’t mean you could convince a jury. The big question would be the motive. Gould you seriously expect any ordinary man in the street to accept that a sufficient motive for murder was to pay off a score for something that happened nearly 500 years ago? No, of course you couldn’t. Anyway, that isn’t for me to decide. My next move must be to ring up my chief and ask for instructions. I’ll do that from the village when the post office opens. Strictly speaking this isn’t really in my line, and the Yard may feel the whole thing should be handed over to the county police.”

  “But surely you’ll search The Spurs now you have a warrant?”