by Terry Deary
Sally’s heels were sparking off the cobbles as she struggled to get free and rush at the woman. It was like trying to hold on to an eel. ‘It wasn’t us,’ I said firmly. ‘And I can prove it.’
‘How?’ Mrs Grimley asked, a little surprised.
My mouth opened and closed like a goldfish out of water. ‘Er … er … I can prove it by … finding the real thief!’ I finally managed to say.
Sally stopped struggling. ‘Can you?’ she asked.
‘Dad’s a policeman,’ I said. ‘If he can track down thieves, then anyone can,’ I laughed, though I wasn’t as confident as I sounded. ‘I’ll get your money back, Mrs Grimley, don’t you worry.’
‘It’s not me pound note I worry about,’ she said. ‘It’s me fortune that’s hidden where you scallywags can’t find it.’
I sighed. ‘I’ll catch the thief and stop him before he does,’ I promised.
Mrs Grimley looked sour. ‘I’ll believe it when I see it. But my Paul will be back soon. He’ll take you up in one of his aeroplanes and throw you out. That’ll teach you to go robbing an honest woman.’ She shut the back gate firmly.
‘Where do we start looking for a burglar?’ Sally asked.
‘What do you mean “we”?’ I asked her.
‘Every detective needs someone to help them.’ Sally’s eyes glowed. ‘I’ll be Sherlock Holmes and you can be Dr Watson.’
‘Hang on,’ I argued. ‘I should be Sherlock Holmes.’
‘You should,’ she agreed, ‘but I bagged Sherlock first.’ She ran down the alley. ‘Come on, Dr Watson. We’ll call Dad and get him to help.’
‘I’m Sexton Blake and you’re Paula Dane – his helper,’ I shouted after her. But Sally was racing for home.
As I reached the kitchen door, I heard Sally call, ‘What’s for dinner, Ma?’
‘Lamb,’ Mum told her.
‘Lamb! That must have taken every coupon in our ration books,’ Sally sighed. ‘Did you hear that, Billy? We’re having a leg of lamb for Sunday dinner.’
I picked up two slimy balls that sat on the kitchen table and clutched one in each hand. ‘I don’t think so, our Sally,’ I said. ‘See what I have here?’ I opened my hands.
‘Urrrrgh! They’re disgusting. They look like eyes!’
‘Well done, Mr Holmes – that’s just what they are. Sheep’s eyes. And they’re your dinner.’
Sally pulled a face and turned to Mum. ‘Aw, Ma! Tell him to stop! Tell him! He says he’s got sheep’s eyes.’
Mum shrugged. ‘He has. I got a sheep’s head at the butcher and I’m boiling it up for dinner. I took the eyes out first because I didn’t think you’d want them staring up at you from the plate.’
I closed and opened my right hand a couple of times. ‘Look, Sherlock – this one’s winking at you.’
Sally stamped out of the kitchen, disgusted.
‘I’d have liked a leg of lamb, but I’m a bit short of money right now.’ Mum took the biscuit tin where she kept her housekeeping money off the mantelpiece. ‘I was sure I had three pounds in here at the start of the week.’
‘Before the air-raid siren on Monday?’ I asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘And you left the door unlocked when you went to the shelter?’ I asked.
‘Of course. You’re not going to get burglars going round in the blackout are you?’
‘Aren’t you?’ I murmured.
‘I must have taken it out to do a bit of shopping and dropped it in the street,’ she said.
Half an hour later we were in the dining room eating a sort of stew with bits of lamb, carrot and rice. It tasted better than it looked, but I was that hungry I could have eaten the head raw, tongue and all.
‘Mum, can I talk to Dad?’ I asked.
‘They won’t let you into Firbeck air base. Why do you want to talk to him? He’ll have a bit time off before Christmas, he reckons.’
Sally was just about to answer and give away our plan, so I cut in, ‘I want to ask him about the police. I want to write about the police for a project in school,’ I said.
‘You find somebody that’ll let you use their telephone and I’ll give you the number to call,’ Mum said.
Sally grinned. ‘I know where there’s a phone. I know.’
‘Where?’ I asked.
She looked out of the window. ‘Am I Sherlock Holmes or Dr Watson?’
‘Holmes,’ I said.
‘Am I Sexton Blake or Paula Dane?’
‘Sexton Blake,’ I said through my teeth.
‘Does that make you Paula Dane?’ my sister asked.
‘If you like.’
‘Then I’ll tell you after tea tonight… Ma? What’s for tea?’
‘Sheep’s-head soup, of course.’
Chapter 12
Over the English Channel 1 September 1940
Ernst Weiss sat at the controls of the Heinkel He 111 as it flew west towards the English Channel. There was no moon but enough starlight for them to see the coast and the water below as they crossed it.
The sky was empty. After a cloudless day and almost five hundred German bombers over England, the island sat in silence.
Ernst pushed his control stick forward. The plane headed for the dull, flat sea. It was low enough for the crew to see fishing boats being shaken and rocked as they passed over it. It was low enough to avoid the radar beams from the English coast.
‘We are invisible,’ Ernst chuckled, as white cliffs appeared five miles ahead. ‘The English have a song, you know,’ he said into his microphone. He began to sing quietly:
‘There’ll be bluebirds over
The white cliffs of Dover
Tomorrow, just you wait and see.
There’ll be love and laughter
And peace ever after
Tomorrow, when the world is free.’
‘What does it mean?’ the gunner asked.
‘It means there will be peace and freedom as soon as we have won the war,’ he said.
At the last moment, he tugged back on the controls and the Heinkel soared over the white cliffs. ‘Turn west twenty degrees,’ the navigator said.
‘I don’t think we’ll need you and the X-Gerat beam to find Biggin Hill airfield tonight,’ Ernst laughed. ‘After all the bombs that have fallen on it today, you’ll be able to see it from the moon!’ The pilot turned to the man who sat behind him in the cockpit. ‘Ready? We’ll be there in ten minutes.’
The man nodded. He tightened the straps on his parachute and picked up a suitcase. ‘I’ve got the radio. Hope I don’t smash the valves when I land.’
‘Pistol?’
The passenger patted his jacket pocket, ‘Yes, loaded and ready.’
‘Passport?’
He patted another pocket. ‘Tonight I am Swedish, but with a British Identity Card.’
The Heinkel skimmed over villages and farms, woods and railway lines. ‘Some fine targets down there,’ Ernst sighed. ‘I wish we had a few bombs on board.’
On the horizon, he saw the orange glow of fires and a tall column of smoke in the calm evening air.
He lifted the nose of the plane and climbed. ‘Get yourself back to the bomb bay. The bomb-aimer will tell you when it’s time to jump.’
The passenger nodded, patted Ernst Weiss on the shoulder and walked to the rear door of the cabin.
‘Passenger ready!’ came a voice in the pilot’s earphones.
‘Fifty seconds to Biggin Hill,’ the navigator’s voice added.
‘Bomb doors open,’ Ernst said and felt the plane jerk as they did.
‘Five seconds…’
‘Best of luck … and jump!’
The pilot circled the plane and saw the parachute open as the German spy fell towards the flame-lit fields by the side of the airfield.
As the Heinkel passed back over the landing strip, they saw buildings burning and fighter planes smashed, deep craters in the runways and white arcs of water from a dozen fire engines.
Biggin Hill airfield, Ke
nt, England 1 September 1940
The weary firefighters on the ground looked up in horror as they heard the engines of the Heinkel He 111 above them.
One of them looked up and shook his fist. ‘There’s nothing left to bomb, Jerry!’ he cried. He waited for the explosion. There was the crackle of burning huts and the hiss of fire hoses. The men fell silent.
Another raised an arm and pointed. ‘Parachute! They’re sending in the paratroops.’
In the glare of the light, the firefighters strained their eyes. ‘I can’t see anything. How many were there?’
‘Just one.’
‘Can’t be paratroops. It’ll be a spy. They’ve dropped him to send back a report of the damage. If he radios back to say our airfield is finished, then they’ll know they’re winning. They can send the bombers again tomorrow and there won’t be any Spitfires to welcome them.’
One of the airmen was struggling with his mechanics to pull his Spitfire away from the fuel tank in case the fire reached it and destroyed a good fighter plane. ‘We’ll have to get him then. Phone the Home Guard at Addington.’
‘No phones, sir,’ a mechanic said. ‘They’ve all been wrecked.’
The pilot ran to the only hut that wasn’t burning and came out with a pistol. ‘One of you men, come with me,’ he ordered.
‘I’ll come, Sergeant Henderson,’ a young RAF driver said. ‘We can take the supply wagon.’
‘The group captain’s car would be faster.’
‘But some of the roads are damaged. The car would be wrecked if it hit one of those craters, sir. The supply wagon’s got bigger wheels.’
‘You’re right,’ Sergeant Henderson said as they headed towards the lorry. Take the masks off the headlamps,’ he ordered.
The lorry’s front lights had metal disks over them with just a narrow slot to let out the light.
‘It’s against the blackout laws, sir,’ the driver argued.
‘Oh, McCready,’ the pilot laughed. ‘The place is lit up like a bonfire beacon. One extra pair of headlamps isn’t going to make any difference to the blackout – but it will help us see the spy.’
‘We don’t know where he landed, sir,’ the driver said as he climbed into the cab and started the engine.
‘The fireman was pointing to the west. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to drop him too close, or we’d all have seen him – Jerry was just unlucky someone looked up and spotted him from Biggin Hill. And if they dropped him too far west they’d see him in Addington. No, he’s somewhere between here and Addington. And what’s between here and Addington?’
‘Jewel’s Wood, sir.’
‘And if you were a spy landing in a strange country, where would you want to be dropped?’
‘Near a wood, sir. I could hide the parachute and nobody would find it for weeks,’ the driver said as he swung through the shattered gates of the airfield and turned west.
‘Exactly. Mind the craters, but get there as fast as you can before Jerry has time to get his brain in gear. He won’t be expecting us.’
The driver pressed his foot to the floor and the engine roared. The lorry bumped forward. ‘He could head in any direction,’ the driver said.
‘No, he couldn’t,’ Sergeant Henderson said. ‘He’s come to report on the damage to Biggin Hill so he’ll be coming this way. It would be too hard crossing the fields and the fences, dodging cattle. He’ll be heading up this road, over Saltbox Hill.’
The lorry reached the top of the hill and the valley stretched out ahead of them. Three miles away, the village of Addington gave a glow in spite of the blackout. Jewel’s Wood, just ahead of them, was black as a cave.
‘Stop here,’ Sergeant Henderson ordered.
‘Shall I switch the engine and lights off so he doesn’t see us?’ the driver asked.
‘No. If he’s where I think he is, he’ll have seen and heard us by now. Let him know we’re after him. He’ll be scared … and scared men make mistakes.’
They sat for a while with the only noise the clatter of the old engine. Moths fluttered around the headlamps and owls swooped over the fields. The hedges were thick enough to hide a man. The trees of Jewel’s Wood could hide a small army.
Sergeant Henderson looked at his watch. ‘Ten minutes since he landed. Enough time to hide the parachute. Now he’s in the wood. He’s looking at us and wondering how long we’re going to stay here. He will have forged identity papers – probably speak good English. Good enough to think he might get away if Home Guard patrols stop him.’
‘How long do we wait?’
‘Thirty seconds, McCready. He’s just moved from the edge of the wood and onto the road.’
‘I saw nothing! You have sharp eyes, sir.’
‘That’s why I’m a pilot, McCready. A pilot with bad eyes is a dead pilot. Now, he’ll walk up to us, bold as brass, and try to bluff his way to Biggin Hill. He’ll have a gun, so make sure you stay behind the headlamps at all times. The light will blind him, but step in front of the lamps and you’ll make a perfect target.’
‘Yes, sir,’ McCready said, and there was a tremble in his voice.
Chapter 13
The man walked up the road towards them, wearing a raincoat and a felt hat. He stopped and smiled when he reached the wagon. Sergeant Henderson and McCready stepped out, slammed the doors but stayed behind the headlamps. ‘Halt!’ the pilot shouted.
The man in the raincoat stopped and smiled. ‘Good evening … well, not a good evening, I think.’ He looked past the lorry to where the sky glowed orange behind the hilltop. ‘Biggin Hill has taken a battering, I think.’ He spoke good English, but with an accent.
Henderson shouted towards the rear of the vehicle. ‘Ready, men? Keep your rifles aimed at his head.’
‘Yes, sir,’ McCready shouted back, playing the game. ‘Keep that rifle up, Smith!’ Then he changed his voice to answer his own order. ‘Yes, sir.’
Henderson spoke firmly. ‘Place the suitcase on the ground very carefully – we don’t want to damage it.’
‘Just a few clothes and some catalogues – I sell farm implements, to help England win the war,’ the man explained. ‘Dig for Victory.’
‘We don’t need German ploughs, thanks,’ Henderson laughed.
‘Not German. I am from Sweden, and Sweden is not in the war. Here, I can show you my papers,’ the stranger cried and reached inside his coat.
‘Stop!’ the pilot shouted. ‘I have six men with rifles aimed at you. You may be able to shoot me, but you will be dead two seconds later. Reach slowly into your pocket and pull out the pistol you have hidden there. Hold it in your finger and thumb so I can see it.’
The man sighed and did as he was told. He held up a Luger pistol in the light of the headlamps.
‘You use that to threaten the farmers who don’t want your ploughs, do you, Fritz? Put it on the ground and take two steps back.’
The German spy obeyed. McCready stepped forward and gathered the gun from the road.
‘So?’ the spy asked. ‘Now what? You shoot me?’
The pilot stepped forward and walked towards the German. ‘No, Fritz, we do not shoot you. That is the Gestapo way. You are in Britain now. You will be given a fair trial. But first you will come to the Home Guard base at Addington with me. I have a little job for you.’
‘If I refuse?’
‘Ah, if you refuse, then I will shoot you.’
An hour later, McCready and Henderson were sitting in a chilly school hall that served as Addington’s Home Guard base. The mix of ancient and boyish guards stared at the stranger the way you’d stare at a new type of poisonous toad – partly in fear, and partly in wonder. They kept their hands wrapped tightly around their old rifles.
‘Now,’ the pilot explained. ‘This is the way it works. Tomorrow, officers from Special Operations will come from London to talk to you. They will offer you a deal, I expect – to send messages to Germany as if you have avoided capture. Special Operations will feed you lies, and you wi
ll pass on those lies to Mr Hitler and his friends.’
The German nodded wearily. ‘And if I do that they will let me live?’
‘I’ll say! You’ll be far too valuable to shoot!’
The spy took a deep breath. ‘I am a loyal German, but I do not like Mr Hitler and his Nazi thugs. They are not worth dying for, my friend.’
Henderson nodded. ‘That’s good, because you can help me with a small problem tonight, my friend.’
Again the spy nodded. ‘My spy masters will be expecting me to send a message. If I don’t, they will get suspicious.’
‘Exactly. So, you’ll send them a message. You’ll tell them that today’s raid damaged two aircraft hangars, but they were empty as the Spitfires were on patrol. You’ll tell them that one runway was damaged, but the other runway has been patched up. No fuel tanks were hit and telephone lines to the radar stations are working well. If they attack again tomorrow, then the squadron at Biggin Hill will blow them out of the sky.’
The German smiled. ‘I can add that there will be a brass band waiting to welcome them if you like.’
Henderson shook his head. ‘I hear the Nazis aren’t very good at understanding jokes. Just send the message. Young McCready is fluent in German so if you try to trick us by sending anything else he will know. And old Bert over there – the one with a shotgun and a beard – is an expert on codes. He was head of the secret services for his army battalion in the last war. He will check your codes. Come here, Bert. Watch as our Jerry friend sends his message.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the old man said and hobbled across the dusty wooden floor.
The spy switched on the radio and after a series of whistles and screeches, he found the right waveband for sending a message. He wrote it out in English, then in German and then in code.
‘All right, McCready?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All right, Bert?’
‘All correct, sir.’
‘Then send it.’
An hour later, the driver was grinding his way back up Saltbox Hill towards the ruined aerodrome. ‘I can’t speak German, you know, sergeant.’
Henderson laughed. ‘I didn’t think you could, and old Bert couldn’t read a code book if you sent him back to school for twenty years. But our Jerry friend didn’t know that.’