by W E Johns
‘I want to have another look at that cord,’ replied Biggles. ‘Give me the torch.’ He went on alone, but was soon back.
‘That’s enough for to-day,’ he said. ‘Let’s turn in.’
The next day dawned with the weather still clear and fine.
‘Where do we start looking for Murray?’ asked Ginger.
Biggles, who had been somewhat preoccupied, answered: ‘For a start I’m going down the glen to have another word with Macrae. His cottage will be by the river so it shouldn’t be hard to find.’
Presently they set off, taking an old deer track that skirted the loch. This soon brought them to a rock shelf over which a trickle of water spilled to form the little river Glash. Following the stream, sparkling in the sunshine, a walk of twenty minutes revealed, a little way ahead, a stone cottage nestling in a stand of wind-warped pine and silver birch. Beyond it ran a cart track, following the river. Macrae, apparently having seen them coming, was waiting, hands on hips.
‘What can I do for ye?’ he greeted.
‘You can answer some questions,’ returned Biggles. ‘You say your name is Macrae?’
‘That’s richt.’
‘We are police officers,’ stated Biggles. ‘I have reason to believe you are the Alva Murray who we have been anxious to interview in connection with the murder of his wife seven years ago. I must warn you that anything you say—’
Biggles got no farther. Never did a man move faster than the one who called himself Macrae. In a flash he had whipped up his skean-dhu. With this in his hand he backed towards the house. ‘Don’t come near me,’ he growled. ‘Ye’ll no tak me alive.’
‘Don’t be a fool, Murray,’ said Biggles curtly. ‘That sort of talk won’t help you.’
Murray dashed into the house and slammed the door.
‘Watch out!’ cried Ginger urgently, as a window was opened and the barrels of a twelve-bore appeared.
They dashed to the nearest cover, a dilapidated venison larder.
The gun blazed, shot spattering against the wall of the building.
‘If we try to get to that house someone will be killed,’ said Biggles calmly. ‘I should have taken into account that we’re dealing with a man who has had commando training. He can’t get away and he must know it; but being guilty of murder he won’t care who else he kills. I was prepared for trouble, but not a twelve-bore.’
‘What are we going to do?’ asked Algy, anxiously. ‘It would be suicide to face that gun.’
‘He’s armed and resisting arrest,’ Bertie pointed out. ‘We should be justified in using our guns.’
‘I’d rather not,’ said Biggles. ‘There’s only one thing to do. We shall have to fetch help. Algy, go back to the machine. Fly south until you can contact the Yard on the high-frequency. Tell the chief what’s happened and ask him to notify the county police. Make it snappy.’
Algy ran off. The others settled down to wait, and watch.
The day wore on. The sun climbed over its zenith. High overhead an eagle soared on rigid wings. From time to time a cock grouse croaked a warning to his kind.
Late in the afternoon the gun crashed again, showing that Murray was still within.
‘Who’s he shooting at?’ queried Bertie.
‘Just letting us know he’s still about, I imagine,’ answered Biggles.
‘I can hear a vehicle coming up the track,’ said Ginger.
Presently it appeared. From a jeep stepped four police officers, one an inspector.
‘Watch your step,’ called Biggles.
The inspector ignored the warning. He walked straight to the door of the house. ‘Come out of that, Murray,’ he shouted. ‘Let’s have no nonsense.’
Finding the door locked he walked round the house and looked in a window. Then, turning, he beckoned.
Biggles and his party joined him at the window. Inside, on the floor, in a crumpled heap lay Murray, the gun beside him.
Biggles’ eyes opened wide. ‘We didn’t do that,’ he told the inspector. ‘He must have shot himself. We heard a shot.’
‘Aye, I’d think that,’ said the inspector, without emotion. ‘It’s the sort of thing I’d expect him to do when he realized he hadn’t a chance. He’d choose to die in the heather rather than be hanged in a city gaol.’
Biggles, rather pale, shook his head. ‘Well, there it is. I’ll leave this to you, now, Inspector, if you don’t mind,’ he said, glancing up as the Otter roared past on the way to the loch. ‘You’ll find an aeroplane in Lochnaglash, near the beach, the one Murray used to get here. It’s hardly worth salvaging but you may need it for evidence. We’ll get along. Thanks for your help.’
Biggles turned away, and followed by the others walked back to the loch to find the Otter on the beach.
‘Thanks,’ Biggles told Algy. ‘It’s all over. He shot himself. For him, probably, it was the best way out. We’ll get along home. I’m afraid I didn’t handle that too well.’
‘What beats me is how you knew Macrae was Murray,’ said Ginger.
‘You saw what I saw, and heard what I heard,’ stated Biggles. ‘I told you it needs a very smart murderer never to make a mistake. Murray made several. The first was coming near us, otherwise we might never have known he was there. He couldn’t keep away. He saw us coming down and a guilty conscience and anxiety to know what we were doing brought him along. Then he made the fatal blunder of lying. He said his was the only house between here and Balashlin. He only admitted the lodge was there when I said I’d seen it. Then he said he didn’t know what troops had been there. A regiment always leaves its mark, so that was asking me to believe that in the years he had lived here he had never been to the place. I was already suspicious when I noticed the black handle of the commando knife which he carried as a skean-dhu. That was silly. Maybe he had grown careless over the years.’
‘And I didn’t notice a thing,’ said Bertie, sadly.
‘There was more to it than that,’ went on Biggles. ‘I don’t think he had realized that the water had dropped so low. Did he hope we hadn’t noticed the rudder? He must have seen it as we stood here talking. Any man with nothing to fear would have called attention to it. During the hours we were away at the lodge I fancy he swam out to it and either pushed it under or cut it off. I knew he’d been here.’
‘How?’
‘He was worried about us, and in his natural anxiety wondered if he had left anything about. He remembered that cord and the water-wings. When I went along there last night on our return from the lodge it was to see if they were still there. I wasn’t surprised to find they’d gone. Only Murray could have known they were there. That was all I needed to know to confirm my suspicions. Maybe I was silly to confront him as I did but I hoped the shock would cause him to give himself away, as in fact it did. I should have guessed that having been a commando he’d show fight. But let’s get home. We can just do it before dark.’
Subsequent inquiries revealed that Murray had served at Lochnaglash Lodge during the war. He must have lived there for some time, in hiding, for it was not until some months after his arrival that he had bought the cottage from the owner, paying for it in cash. In the interval he had grown a beard and taken to wearing Highland dress. Then, feeling safe from recognition, he had made periodical visits to the village for stores, making his excuse for living far up the glen that he was an eagle-watcher for the Bird Protection Society, as in fact he was, having offered his services in a voluntary capacity—presumably as a cover.
It was a clever scheme that might never have come to light had it not been for the drought which exposed the tail of the Gipsy. Weather conditions were outside the murderer’s calculations, but, as Biggles remarked, on this occasion they proved the old saying that ‘Murder will out.’
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE SABOTAGED PARACHUTE
Biggles had barely settled at his desk in the operations room of the Special Air Police when the door was opened and Inspector Gaskin thrust his h
ead inside. ‘Do you feel like a run down to the New Forest?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Not particularly,’ answered Biggles, frankly. ‘What’s it all about?’
‘We’ve just had a phone call. Bloke named Betts, dog breeder or something of the sort, says his son has found something he thinks we ought to see.’
‘Where do I come in?’
‘He says bring somebody who knows something about aviation.’
‘Sounds pretty vague. What’s this chap found?’
‘He wouldn’t say. But we can see it at his house—a place called Dell Farm, near Sway.’
‘Why all the mystery?’
‘I dunno. But he sounded the sort of feller who knew what he was talking about. I shall have to slip down, anyway, in case it really is something.’
Biggles got up. ‘Okay. I’ll come with you. You can come, Ginger, if you feel like a day in the country.’
‘Why didn’t this chap call in the local police?’ asked Ginger, as he reached for his hat.
‘That was the first thing I asked him,’ returned Gaskin. ‘He said he thought it was a specialist’s job,’ he added, grinning.
‘Ha! The County police wouldn’t think much of that,’ observed Biggles, smiling.
‘He could be right, at that, since apparently this thing he’s found is tied up with flying,’ stated Gaskin, as they got into the car and drove off.
‘Probably picked up something dropped off an aircraft,’ opined Ginger.
‘I dunno about that,’ replied Gaskin seriously. ‘It was the son who found the thing, whatever it turns out to be, and what some of these modern kids don’t know about planes ain’t worth knowing.’
‘Don’t let’s waste time guessing,’ suggested Biggles.
And, as it turned out, they might have made a lot of guesses without getting the right answer.
With a little difficulty they found Dell Farm, where they were greeted by much barking of dogs in kennels. Betts himself opened the door, and when he learned who they were invited them into the sitting room.
‘Now, what’s it all about?’ asked Gaskin, in his rather blunt way. ‘I hope you haven’t brought us all the way down here on a wild goose chase.’
‘I’ll show you, and you can judge for yourself,’ answered Betts.
‘Do you know anything about aviation?’ inquired Biggles.
‘I should, seeing as how I did twelve years in the R.A.F., finishing as flight sergeant. I was a dog handler part of the time,’ added Betts, ‘which is why I went in for dogs when I packed up. This is what I brought you to see.’
From a cupboard he took a bundle of white material which, being unfolded on the table, became a parachute— or part of one. Gathering the loose shrouds he pulled them to the ends and held them out for Biggles to see. ‘What do you make of that?’ he asked, a world of meaning in his voice.
Biggles stared, his forehead knitting in a frown.
‘See what I mean?’ murmured the ex-airman.
‘Yes, I see what you mean,’ replied Biggles, slowly. ‘Those lines were cut.’
‘Too true they were. Looks as if some poor blighter jumped not knowing that a kind friend had cut his cords. He must have gone down in the harness leaving the part that mattered most floating about above him.’
‘You haven’t found—anything else?’
‘No. The body would go straight down like a brick, but this piece might have been some time coming down, according to the height the machine was flying.’
Biggles nodded. ‘Have you heard any planes?’
‘We’re always hearing planes, day and night. All sorts, from jets to helicopters. I don’t look at ‘em any more.’
Biggles examined the fabric, feeling it with his hands. ‘This wasn’t on the ground very long,’ he remarked.
‘Couldn’t have been. We had two showers yesterday, the last one about six. This was dry when my boy brought it in.’
‘What time was that?’
‘About eleven. That’s the time we usually turn in. But first, Len, that’s my boy, took his pup for a stroll in the yard. The little beggar ran off into the wood. He went after it, and found this.’
‘He knew what it was?’
‘Of course he did.’
‘Is he about?’
‘Yes. Want to see him?’
‘I’d like him to show me exactly where he found this.’
‘I doubt if you’ll find the body there.’
‘Unless the machine was flying very high it might not be far away. There wasn’t a lot of wind last night. We shall have to look for the rest of the parachute, anyway. Have you told anybody about this?’
‘No. As soon as I realized what had happened I rang up Scotland Yard.’
‘Did your boy find the pup?’
‘Not last night. Nor this morning, either. He turned up about half an hour ago, dead beat, looking as though he’d spent the night digging out rabbits.’
‘Then Len had been out to look for him again?’
‘He was out at the crack o’ daylight.’
‘Let’s have a word with him.’
‘I’ll fetch him. He’s doing the kennels.’ Betts went out.
Gaskin cocked an eye at Biggles. ‘Queer business. Looks as if it might be a new line in murder, but we’ve had no report of anyone missing.’
‘There would hardly be time. This only happened last night. But if an aircraft had crashed we should have heard of it by now. If the man who wore that useless brolly was flying solo the plane would have crashed out of control. As it hasn’t crashed we can assume someone was at the joystick. It’s the fact that this pilot hasn’t reported losing his passenger that makes the thing look ugly.’
‘If he was the murderer he wouldn’t be likely to talk about it. I mean, if he was the man who carved up the brolly.’
‘I don’t see how it could have been anyone else, or he’d have reported losing a passenger from his machine. The man who jumped, assuming a man did jump—and I can’t believe this is a joke—would hardly cut up his own parachute.’
‘That’s right,’ agreed Gaskin, thumbing tobacco into his pipe. ‘If the rest of that parachute, with the body in it, is in the forest, it may take a bit of finding. We’d better get out a search party and start to look for it.’
‘The boy may be able to help us there.’
‘How?’
‘He was in the forest first thing this morning. So, I’d wager, was someone else.’
‘Who?’
‘The man who cut those cords, which I take to be the man who was flying the aircraft. He might not know where the top part of the brolly came down but he’d know to within a little where the rest of it was likely to be, because the man who jumped would plummet straight into the ground. He’d also know that sooner or later someone would stumble on the body, when it would again be realized that the cords, at that end, had been cut. He wouldn’t want that to happen, so unless I’ve missed my guess he also would be in the forest early, in the hope of recovering the harness and perhaps hiding the body. He might hope to recover the piece of brolly. The boy might have seen somebody in the forest.’
‘There’s a chance,’ agreed Gaskin. ‘But the New Forest covers a lot of ground. Still, if we could find the body, and identify it, we’d be half-way to the man who did this job.’
At this juncture Betts returned with his son, a bright-eyed, intelligent-looking lad of about sixteen. He looked at the police officers expectantly.
‘I want you to show us where you found the parachute,’ said Biggles.
‘Yes, sir. It isn’t far. Not more than ten minutes’ walk.’
‘You were out in the forest this morning, I understand.’
‘Yes, sir. I was looking for Jim, my dog.’
‘Did you see anyone?’
‘No, sir. Oh yes, I did see one man for a moment. It was on the road. He was in a car. He stopped, got out, then got back in and drove on.’
‘What were you doing at the time?’
<
br /> ‘Looking for Jim.’
‘Did this man see you?’
‘Well, he must have heard me if he didn’t see me, because I was whistling or calling all the time. I didn’t pay much attention to him. I noticed he lit a cigarette and threw the packet away. I was half a mind to tell him to pick it up. We’re always tidying up after these litter-bugs.’
Biggles smiled. ‘You didn’t take the number of the car?’
‘No. Why should I?’
‘Never mind. Come and show us where you found the parachute.’
They went out, and the boy set off across a paddock towards the line of timber that marked the fringe of the forest. Reaching it, they plunged into the deep shade of the ancient trees, often having to duck under low-spreading branches. With leaves and dry bracken rustling underfoot they reached a glade, and there the boy stopped. ‘This is the place, sir. It’s a wonder the parachute didn’t get caught up in a tree.’
‘Had there been any wind that would probably have happened,’ opined Biggles.
For a minute they stood looking at the spot. Then Biggles said: ‘Where’s the road where you saw the car?’
‘Over here.’ Again the boy led the way, a mere hundred yards, to a secondary road that ran through the forest.
He came to a halt, pointing to an empty cigarette carton that lay on the grass verge. ‘This is the place,’ he said. ‘There’s the cigarette packet I spoke about.’
Biggles walked up the road a little way, and then back, looking at the ground. ‘I fancy that car came back,’ he said, speaking to Gaskin. ‘There’s a drip of fresh oil here, anyway. It could, of course, have been another car.’
‘We’d better start a proper search for the body,’ advised Gaskin. ‘We shan’t get far like this.’
‘If we start a full-scale search the newspapers will get to hear of it, and so will the man who was flying that plane. It would be better if he didn’t know that piece of brolly has been found. If he hasn’t already been here looking for it, he’ll come. The temptation to cover up what has happened will be irresistible. But if he learns that the police are looking for a body he’ll keep out of the way.’