Biggles Presses On

by W E Johns

  CONTENTS

  THE CASE OF THE MAN ON A SPOT

  THE CASE OF THE SUBMERGED AIRCRAFT

  THE CASE OF THE SABOTAGED PARACHUTE

  MISSION ORIENTAL

  THE CASE OF THE HAUNTED ISLAND

  THE CASE OF THE AMBITIOUS FISHMONGER

  THE CASE OF THE FATAL RUBY

  FISHY BUSINESS

  BIGGLES LAYS A GHOST

  MISCHIEF BY MOONLIGHT

  THE CASE OF THE STOLEN TRUCK

  THE CASE OF THE MAN ON A SPOT

  Biggles walked into the Air Police operations room, sat down at his desk and lit a cigarette. ‘I’ve just been having a word with the C.O.,’ he explained, in answer to questioning glances from his pilots. ‘He’s involved in some exceptionally dirty jiggery-pokery. Which means we’re in it. And when I say involved I mean that hints have been dropped implying it was inefficiency in our department that allowed the business to come about.’

  ‘In other words,’ put in Algy, ‘certain other departments, having failed to arrive at the right answer, would now like to lump the responsibility on us.’

  ‘That’s about the English of it,’ agreed Biggles.

  ‘What have we done, old boy?’ queried Bertie.

  ‘I gather it’s a matter of what we haven’t done, although the first I knew about the affair was what the Air Commodore has just told me,’ returned Biggles. ‘The thing hasn’t got into the newspapers yet. They’re keeping the soft pedal on it. If it does leak out questions will be asked in the House and someone will have to take the rap. It could be us. I suspect the political people are more concerned with their careers than with the wretched fellow who, unwittingly, has been the cause of the trouble.’

  ‘How do we come into this?’ inquired Ginger.

  ‘It’s being said that secret flights have been made between this country and the Continent.’

  ‘Meaning we should have spotted it and stopped them?’

  ‘Yes. The unfortunate thing about that is, it’s true up to a point. There has been some unofficial night flying. We knew that. You may remember that last month the Control Room at London Airport was thrown into a flap by an aircraft blipping on a radar screen, crossing the course of one of their own machines. If it received signals to get out of the way it didn’t acknowledge them. It could have been a club pupil who had lost his way but, even so, that sort of thing is enough to give the operators of legitimate aircraft the heebie-jeebies, not to mention the pilot of a liner carrying maybe fifty passengers. That wasn’t the only case. It’s all very well to tell us to stop it. How can you stop a plane in the air? If I wanted to snoop into this country after dark who could stop me?’ A slow smile spread over Biggles’ face. ‘In fact, we’ve done a bit of that sort of thing ourselves, and got away with it, in spite of guns and searchlights.’

  ‘What’s happened to cause the present fuss?’ asked Algy.

  ‘The case, as I understand it, is this,’ answered Biggles. ‘As you know, quite a number of political refugees from behind the Iron Curtain have in recent years found sanctuary in this country. Some have been granted British nationality. The people who plan this sort of escape are usually up against one big snag. If they have relatives, and they usually have, the country concerned takes it out of them. In effect, they say to the man who has bolted, unless you come back we shall send your parents, your wife, your brothers and sisters, to a concentration camp and you’ll never see them or hear of them again.’

  ‘What stinkers they must be,’ growled Bertie.

  ‘It’s about the foulest form of blackmail imaginable,’ agreed Biggles. ‘But it goes on. It sometimes happens, however, that the man who has decided to seek freedom can protect himself. For this he needs to be in possession of information which the government concerned would not care to have revealed to the outside world. It might be a document, possibly detrimental to one of the men in power. Such a man can turn the tables by saying, if you leave me and my people alone I’ll keep quiet; but if you start any rough stuff I’ll tell all I know to the press.’

  ‘That has actually been done,’ stated Algy.

  ‘Yes. And it’s being done at this moment, apparently, by a Pole named Ludwig Steffans. He came here five years ago, was granted asylum and settled down. Later he obtained naturalization and married an English girl. Incidentally, he knew England, having served in the Free Polish Air Force during the war. It seems he knew some inside facts which he could support with documentary evidence. Actually, he had no relations to worry about; but he let it be known to the Communist bosses in Poland that he had written his story, although it would remain unpublished while they left him alone. That’s a dangerous game, as Steffans has now discovered.’ Biggles stubbed his cigarette.

  ‘For a while his scheme worked and he was left in peace,’ he continued. ‘Then two things happened to alter the situation. Steffans married a local girl and there were changes in the Polish Communist Party. The documents Steffans holds reveal one of the new rulers to be a crook and a fraud. Naturally, this man could have no peace of mind while Steffans held such incriminating papers. It wouldn’t help him to have Steffans bumped off because the papers had been disposed of in such a way that should Steffans die or disappear they would be handed by a friend of his, who knew where they were, to a British newspaper for publication. What the fellow in Poland has done is grab Steffans’ wife. She is now in Poland, and Steffans has been told that unless he hands over the papers he can say good-bye to her. Question. What does Steffans do about it?’

  ‘I’d say hand over the documents.’

  ‘Steffans, knowing the type of man he’s up against, says that would be fatal. If he parted with those papers he’d be bumped off within a week, and they wouldn’t bring his wife back, anyway. That’s how matters stand at the moment.’

  ‘I still don’t see what that has to do with us,’ said Ginger.

  ‘I’ve told you. How did these scoundrels get Helen Steffans out of the country? She didn’t travel by boat— she couldn’t have got to Poland in the time. She didn’t go by any of the regular air services. The official view is, she was smuggled out in a private plane.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘I couldn’t disprove it. The abduction might have been worked that way.’

  ‘Are we sure Steffans’ wife is in Poland?’

  ‘Steffans has had a letter from her, posted in Warsaw. He swears it’s her handwriting. The object of the letter, of course, was to let Steffans know that his wife was beyond his reach. The wretched man is nearly out of his mind.’

  ‘Where does he live and what’s his job?’ asked Algy.

  ‘He’s a farm worker. He lives in a cottage near the farm, at a little place on the Suffolk coast called Hollesey. I don’t know the place but it’s all flat country so there’d be no difficulty in landing an aircraft. The ground would be studied beforehand by agents in this country, no doubt.’

  ‘How did they get hold of Mrs Steffans?’

  ‘We don’t know. Steffans says she went to the village to do some shopping. It would be dark before she came home. She didn’t come home. When it got late he went to the police. They couldn’t find her, for reasons which became evident when a visitor arrived at Steffans’ house to inform him that she was safe behind the Iron Curtain. He said, in effect, give me the papers and we’ll send her back.’

  ‘What did Steffans say to that?’

  ‘He said bring my wife back and I’ll give you the papers.’

  ‘But didn’t he report the matter officially?’

  ‘Of course he did. He had to do that to account for the disappearance of his wife. He might have been suspected of murdering her.’

  Bertie broke in. ‘But look here, old boy. This
lass is a British subject. Why doesn’t the government demand her return?’

  ‘They did, through diplomatic channels, with exactly the result you’d expect.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘They said they didn’t know what the British government was talking about. They had no knowledge of Mrs Steffans.’

  ‘The rats,’ grated Algy.

  ‘Calling them names won’t get Mrs Steffans back.’

  ‘Are we supposed to do something about this?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And what are we expected to do? Fly to Poland and look for the lady?’

  ‘No. That’s the last thing the government would permit. I’ve been asked to check up on unidentified aircraft operating between the Continent and the Suffolk coast.’

  Algy looked incredulous. They’re out of their minds. How can we do that?’

  ‘We can’t,’ answered Biggles shortly. ‘That is, unless we can catch one on the ground.’

  ‘Then what are you going to do?’

  ‘I thought of running down to Suffolk and having a word with Steffans, and at the same time having a look round the district where he lives for likely landing grounds. Having been an airman he might be able to help us there. Today being Sunday he won’t be at work so we should catch him at home.’ Biggles got up. ‘I must say,’ he remarked grimly, ‘that aside from getting Steffans’ wife back, I’d ask nothing more than to be able to pull a fast one on the unscrupulous devils who play this beastly game.’

  ‘Are you going to fly down?’ asked Ginger.

  Biggles thought for a moment. ‘No,’ he decided. ‘We’ll go by car. It should be handier for what we have to do. We shall have to find out exactly where Steffans lives, for a start, and we couldn’t do that from the air. A couple of hours or so should see us there. Let’s press on.’

  It was a typically quiet Sunday afternoon in autumn when the police car, having stopped at Ipswich to allow those in it to have some lunch, cruised on via Woodbridge to Hollesey, the place nearest to the farm where Steffans worked. The day being what it was there were few people about, and Biggles had some difficulty in finding the house he sought. He made several inquiries without success, and it was, curiously enough, a trio of American service men, out for an afternoon stroll from a maintenance depot where they were stationed, who were able to direct him.

  ‘Steffans? Sure,’ answered the man to whom he spoke, tossing a popcorn into his mouth with the dexterity of long practice. ‘Half a mile on you’ll see a pond on the left. Right opposite there’s a track. That’ll take you to the house in a coupla minutes.’

  Biggles thanked the soldier and went on along a secondary road which was itself little better than a lane and, according to the map, led to nowhere in particular, but merely served the occasional farm on the fringe of the wasteland that formed the foreshore a mile or two ahead.

  Biggles and Ginger got out, leaving Algy and Bertie in the car.

  ‘There’s no need for us to descend on Steffans like an army,’ Biggles told Algy. ‘You two waffle along and have a look at the landscape for possible landing grounds. When you come back wait here for us to join you.’

  The car went on. Biggles and Ginger walked down the track towards the cottage which could be seen at the end of it.

  ‘Queer that that American should know where the Steffans lived,’ remarked Ginger.

  ‘I thought that myself,’ returned Biggles. ‘But I suppose there aren’t many people to know near their camp.’

  The door of the cottage was open, suggesting that the man they had come to see was at home. Indeed, passing the parlour window Ginger could see him, sitting at the table, his head in his hands, a picture of utter dejection. He must have heard them, for he started up and came to the door. He was a good-looking fellow but his face was pale and drawn with anxiety; and his eyes were heavy from lack of sleep.

  ‘Yes. What is it?’ he asked, speaking with a pronounced accent.

  ‘We’re police officers from Scotland Yard,’ announced Biggles, showing his police pass. ‘We know about your trouble. I’d like to have a word with you about it.’

  ‘Come in,’ answered Steffans, wearily. ‘Please to sit down. How did you manage to find me?’

  ‘Some American service men told us where you lived.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ said Steffans. ‘They would know.’

  Biggles looked puzzled. ‘Why should they know?’

  ‘Before we were married, Helen—that’s my wife—used to work in their canteen.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘That explains it.’

  ‘I have said all I know,’ went on Steffans. ‘But if you wish to ask questions I will answer to the best of my ability.’

  ‘First, tell me this,’ requested Biggles. ‘Have you any personal opinion as to how your wife was carried off?’

  ‘I think she was flown away.’

  ‘Have you any particular reason for thinking that?’

  ‘It would be the easiest way to get her to Poland. There is plenty of space here to land. And on the night my wife disappeared I heard a plane, although I thought nothing of it at the time.’

  ‘Did it sound to you, as an airman, as if it was landing or taking off?’

  Steffans thought for a moment. ‘It could have been taking off.’

  ‘Then it must have been on the ground, waiting.’

  ‘Yes. That is what I think because I only heard it once. I wouldn’t hear it land on the marshes if it glided in from the sea.’

  ‘Quite so. What about the men who came to see you?’

  ‘They came by road. They left their car at the top of the track. I heard it go after they left. That is how they will come tonight, I imagine.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘They are coming back tonight for my final answer. Either I give them what they want or it’s good-bye to my wife.’

  ‘Have you decided what you are going to do?’

  ‘Yes. I am going to shoot them.’ Steffans spoke quite calmly.

  Biggles frowned. ‘What with?’

  Steffans indicated a twelve-bore gun standing in a corner. ‘It’s loaded.’

  ‘Where did you get that gun?’

  ‘I borrowed it from my employer to shoot rabbits that were eating the turnips.’

  ‘Now you listen to me, Steffans,’ said Biggles seriously. ‘I know exactly how you must feel, but shooting these men isn’t going to help anybody—least of all your wife. Before you do anything desperate at least give me a chance to do something.’

  ‘What can you do? You can’t arrest them because being official agents they can claim diplomatic immunity. They told me so.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ returned Biggles, grimly. ‘Where are these documents? Are they in the house?’

  Steffans hesitated.

  ‘You’ll have to trust me if I’m to help you.’

  ‘The papers are here. They would cause the downfall of the Communist agent who, from behind the scenes, now virtually rules my country.’

  ‘Will you let me have these papers for a little while?’

  Steffans looked astonished, startled. ‘Why do you want them?’

  ‘I have a plan. Having had photostat copies made of the papers I shall return them to you. You can then let these men have what they want in return for your wife, and still have the edge on them.’

  ‘But if I let them have the papers what guarantee have I that they’ll return my wife?’

  ‘Will you let me handle this?’

  Steffans made a gesture of despair.

  ‘Whatever happens the position can’t be worse than it is now,’ prompted Biggles.

  ‘What shall I tell these men when they come tonight?’

  ‘Tell them nothing. Leave the talking to me. I intend to be here, and we’ll see how they like the arguments I put forward.’

  Steffans looked relieved. ‘I’ll do it,’ he decided. ‘You don’t know what it means to have someone to help me
in this awful dilemma.’

  ‘I think I do,’ replied Biggles, quietly.

  Steffans went upstairs, soon to return with an envelope which he handed to Biggles, saying: ‘Now I and my wife are in your hands. What else can I do?’

  ‘Make a cup of tea while I go to the top of the track to speak to someone,’ answered Biggles. ‘I’ll be back.’ He went out, Ginger following.

  They found Algy and Bertie waiting.

  ‘Well, what did you find?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘One could get down almost anywhere, but there’s one place ready-made, less than a mile from here,’ reported Algy.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘How did you get on?’

  Biggles gave a brief outline of what had transpired. ‘I’m going to wait, which means you’ll have to wait for me,’ he concluded. ‘But you can’t stay here. Move back up the road a bit and I’ll give you a whistle when I’m ready. Meanwhile, in case of accidents, take care of this.’ He handed Algy the envelope. ‘See you later.’

  With Ginger, Biggles returned to the house to find tea ready.

  ‘By the way, I take it these visitors of yours speak English?’ Biggles put the question to Steffans.

  ‘Oh yes. They’re from the London office.’

  Biggles nodded and reached for his tea. ‘Fine. Then we’re all set.’

  Slowly the pink and gold of sunset faded. Rooks that had spent the day on the stubbles cawed their way home. Sofdy through the still air, from the distant village, came the sound of church bells. Shadows lost themselves in the gloom as the day died and night took possession of the scene. In the lonely cottage on the edge of the marshes the man who had found freedom at the cost of his wife lit a table lamp. As he returned to his chair a car door slammed. ‘They come,’ he said quietly.

  A few minutes later footsteps crunched on gravel. Voices muttered briefly. The door opened and two men appeared, to halt on the threshold when they saw that Steffans was not alone. Looking at him one said something in a foreign language.

  ‘Speak English,’ requested Biggles curtly.

  ‘Who are you?’ was the reply.

  ‘Never mind who I am,’ said Biggles. ‘I know who you are and why you’re nere. That’s enough. You can take your hand out of your pocket. No one’s going to shoot you however much you deserve it. This shouldn’t take long.’