by W E Johns
‘The first thing that struck me as we stood by the oil stain was that it was dead in line between the mill and the five elms near the farm, both ready-made landmarks for a pilot making his approach from the sea. The elms stand on the skyline.’
‘But not the mill.’
‘The pilot has a confederate there to show a light and possibly signal all clear. To do that, as the glass was almost opaque with dirt, he had knocked out the middle pane, as you must have noticed. The other window, which could be seen from the farm, had for obvious reasons been blacked out. Wartime blackout material wouldn’t have lasted for ten years in a place like that. And finally, the track leading to the mill had been used recently by a vehicle, presumably a car. Some of the briars had been dragged, and the leaves torn off. Norden doesn’t use the track. He said so.’
‘His sheep might drag the briars.’
‘In which case we should have seen wool on the thorns.’
‘You know all the answers,’ said Ginger sadly.
‘We’re paid to try to find them,’ Biggles pointed out, smiling.
There is little more to be said, except that events were to prove that Biggles’ deductions had been correct.
The night of May seventh, with its full moon, came fine and clear, to find Biggles, with Ginger and Inspector Gaskin, waiting in a convenient ‘hide’, and the Inspector’s men posted at strategical points.
At eleven o’clock a car, showing no lights, came slowly down the track, to stop close by the old mill. The driver, who was alone, having turned the car, lifted out a heavy suitcase and took it with him into the mill. Silence fell. The only sounds were the occasional cries of wildfowl on the marsh.
‘I think he must be the only one,’ whispered Biggles, after half an hour had passed. ‘It’ll be interesting to see the contents of that suitcase.’
Presently came the sound for which they were waiting— the distant drone of a low-flying aircraft. The man in the mill must have heard it, too, for almost at once the beam of a torch started winking from the upper seaward-facing window. The aircraft came on. It showed no lights so it couldn’t be seen, but the sound of its engine made it plain that it was heading for its usual landing ground. The torch in the window was switched off. Footsteps could be heard in the mill, descending, soon to be drowned by the noise of the aircraft as, with its engine throttled back, it passed over.
‘Sounds like a helicopter,’ murmured Ginger.
When the man in the mill emerged Biggles and the Inspector were waiting. Biggles, from behind, clapped a hand over his mouth, and before the smuggler could have realized what was happening the handcuffs were on his wrists.
‘Don’t let’s have any fuss,’ growled the Inspector. Then turning his torch on the prisoner’s face he exclaimed: ‘Hello, Charlie, fancy meeting you here. After your last stretch I’d have thought you’d have learnt sense.’
Charlie swore. ‘Why can’t you keep out o’ my way?’ he said plaintively.
Biggles, with Ginger beside him, walked briskly towards the aircraft which by this time was on the ground. The pilot, with his back towards them, was in the act of climbing down when they arrived. ‘Guess I’ll just snatch a minute for a cigarette—’ he began; then, turning, he saw Biggles standing there. His hand flashed to a pocket, but Biggles’ gun was out first. ‘I wouldn’t try anything like that,’ warned Biggles grimly.
Several of the Inspector’s men arrived, running. The pilot looked at them and shrugged his shoulders. ‘Okay,’ he said quietly. ‘I know when I’m beat.’
Inspector Gaskin bustled up. ‘All right,’ he told his men. ‘Take ‘em away.’ Turning to Biggles he added: ‘What about the plane?’
‘It can stay where it is until the morning when we can see what we’ve caught,’ decided Biggles, climbing up to the cockpit and cutting the engine, which had been left running.
Norden arrived at the double, crying: ‘So you caught ‘em?’
‘We have—thanks to you,’ acknowledged Biggles.
So ended the affair at Five Elms Farm. There was only one surprising outcome of it. ‘Charlie’, the man whom Inspector Gaskin had recognized, was a professional ‘fence’ well known to the police. His suitcase contained the spoils of several burglaries, which he must have thought could be more safely disposed of on the Continent than in England. But the pilot turned out to be a deserter from the United States Air Force who, with the help of two members of his squadron, stationed in Germany, actually had the audacity to use a service machine for his criminal purposes. But for the odd chance of selecting for his landing ground the property of an ex-airman, his scheme might have succeeded for a long time. He went to prison.
As Biggles remarked to his old corporal after it was all over, it might be a good thing if more farmers did a spell in the Royal Air Force.
[Back to Contents]
THE CASE OF THE STOLEN TRUCK
It was purely by chance that Biggles ran into Inspector Gaskin in one of the corridors near his office.
‘Hello, Inspector,’ greeted Biggles, cheerfully. ‘Why so glum? Are you off to dig your grave, or something?’
‘I might as well,’ growled the detective.
‘What’s biting you now?’
‘Oh, it’s these truck bandits at it again.’
‘That’s not my line of country,’ said Biggles. ‘What goes on?’
‘Quite simple. One of the heavy truck drivers on the long-distance all-night hauls between London and the North stops at a pull-in café for a cup o’ coffee and mebbe a sandwich. When he comes out, no truck. One of the wide boys who work the road has pushed off with it.’
‘But I thought the law required that there should be two drivers on these long runs, taking turn and turn about in case one should get overtired and drop off to sleep at the wheel.’
‘Quite right. But it doesn’t always work out like that. Take the case of a contractor working between Scotland and London. A truck starts off with two drivers. Number one takes it as far as, say, Doncaster. There he gets out for a sleep while Number two takes over. Number Two goes on to London and sleeps there. Next morning he loads up and drives as far as Doncaster where Number One is waiting to take over again.’
‘I see. So that’s how it’s done.’
‘Working that way there’s only one driver actually on the truck.’
‘Does the truck thief know what the load consists of?’
‘He may or he may not. A spy may listen to the drivers nattering at one of the regular halts and so learn what they have on board. That isn’t really important because everything has a market these days. Take the case of the truck that was pinched last night. What do you think it was carrying?’
‘I haven’t a clue.’
‘Ten tons of potatoes.’
‘You mean—just common or garden spuds?’
‘Yes.’
Biggles burst out laughing.
‘What’s funny about that?’ demanded Gaskin.
‘I was thinking in terms of something valuable.’
‘Even if the crooks only get ten pound a ton for ‘em that’s a hundred quid—not to be sniffed at for a night’s work if you can get away with it. And don’t forget, one spud being like another you can’t trace ‘em.’
Biggles nodded. ‘I see that. Where do these crooks sell their stuff?’
‘They have a market for everything.’
‘What happens to the truck?’
‘Maybe it’s just abandoned somewhere—empty, of course —or it can end up at one of these shady scrap yards where it’s broken up for spare parts. That’s the last of it.’
‘Well—well!’ murmured Biggles. ‘Sorry I can’t help.’ He had turned to walk on but stopped suddenly. ‘Just a minute,’ he said sharply. ‘I said I couldn’t help, but on second thoughts I don’t see why not.’
‘What can you do?’
‘I have a good pair of eyes.’
‘So have I.’
‘Yours can only operate from ground l
evel. I can see more than you can, at a glance, from up topsides.’
‘Maybe you’ve got something there,’ agreed the Inspector.
‘Where exactly did these spuds disappear?’
‘Come into my office and I’ll show you.’
Biggles followed the Inspector into his department, the walls covered with maps dotted with the tops of drawing pins of many colours.
‘Here we are,’ said Gaskin, picking up a long pointer and taking a stand in front of a large-scale map of the Great North Road. ‘Here’s A.1., otherwise the main road north.’
‘I get it.’
‘Here’s Stamford.’ The Inspector pointed. ‘Here, twenty-one miles north, is Grantham.’
‘So the job was done between the two towns?’
‘The truck vanished somewhere in that sector. The driver had dropped his mate off at Doncaster, having arranged to pick him up there on his way home to their depot at Aberdeen. At three in the morning the driver pulled into one of the roadside cafés that keep open all night for long-distance traffic. He had a cup o’ coffee and a couple o’ sausages. He was away from his truck not more than a quarter of an hour. Other trucks were drawing in and pulling out all the time, which explains why he didn’t notice his own truck being started. When he went out it had gone. He had no means of knowing whether it had gone north or south, of course, so he phoned the police at both Grantham and Stamford. That blocked both ends of the sector while the truck must still have been on it. What happens?’
‘The truck didn’t arrive either at Grantham or Stamford.’
‘You’re too smart,’ growled Gaskin. ‘Somewhere on that stretch of road the truck must have turned off.’
‘Of course.’
‘Why of course?’
‘The thief must have known what the driver would do as soon as he missed his truck, so unless he was an utter fool he’d take thundering good care to keep clear of the two towns where the police would be watching for him.’
‘Okay. So he turned off. The question is, which way did he go, east or west? Not knowing the answer means a lot of country to search. There are side roads both ways.’
‘On the east side you have Lincolnshire. To the west, Rutland and Leicestershire.’
‘That’s it. And that’s where we’re stuck. Motor cycle police were working both areas inside an hour but they found no sign of the truck. What does that suggest to you?’
‘It suggests that the thief who pinched the truck had more sense than to stay on the road. He went to earth with his haul.’
‘Talk sense. You can’t go to earth with a ten ton truck piled high with sacks of potatoes.’
Biggles smiled. ‘I wasn’t speaking literally. Let’s say he went into hiding. If he did that he must have known just where he was going when he pinched the truck. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that the existence of a good hide-out might well have determined the café from which a truck should be stolen. I mean, the theft was made within easy reach of the hide-out.’
‘You could be right, at that,’ conceded Gaskin. ‘Anyway, the truck hasn’t been found.’
‘I imagine these thefts aren’t one man jobs?’
‘No. It’s gang stuff. Two or three men at least.’
‘Can your mobile police hope to find the truck while they merely race round the roads?’
‘What else can they do? You can’t drive a car or a motor bike across ploughed fields. With so much traffic on the roads it’s no use looking for wheel tracks. The road surfaces are too hard for that, anyway.’
‘It doesn’t matter to me what’s under my wheels when I’m in an aircraft,’ said Biggles, meaningly.
‘Are you suggesting you might have a look round from the air?’
‘No harm would be done. What’s the colour of the truck?’
‘Dark red, with a black tarpaulin over the load. The number is XKZ 969. The name of the company that owns the truck, Long Loco Ltd., is painted on the bonnet.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Biggles. ‘I’ll take some of my boys with me and we’ll have a look round. I’ll keep in touch with you on the high-frequency radio. You know my call signal. Now I’d better get cracking or I may be too late.’
‘Thanks a lot. Lunch is on me if you find that lorry.’
Biggles grinned. ‘Sounds as if you don’t expect me to find it.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Don’t spend all your money and tell your Radio Ops. Room to keep an ear open for my call.’ Biggles went out and walked briskly to his own office. ‘Anyone feel like a flip this fine morning?’ he questioned, breezily.
‘What’s the drill, old boy,’ inquired Bertie, folding the press cutting book on which he had been working.
‘The drill is to find a lost load of spuds.’
‘Are you kidding?’
‘No.’
‘Who lost these spuds, and where?’
‘They disappeared, with the truck hauling them to London, on the Great North Road.’
Said Algy, with cutting sarcasm, ‘With several thousand trucks whistling up and down that road, how are you going to spot the one you’re looking for?’
‘For being so pessimistic about it you can stay here and hold the fort till I come back,’ answered Biggles. ‘Ring the Ops. Room and tell them to pull out the Auster, top up the tanks and get her warmed up. Bertie, Ginger, grab your caps. This is urgent.’
‘Why all this fuss about a few spuds?’ demanded Algy.
‘If we can find ‘em Gaskin pays for lunch.’
Inside five minutes the Air Police car was on its way to the airport. As they travelled Biggles told Ginger and Bertie what had happened and what he intended to do.
‘We can forget about the roads,’ he said. ‘If that truck is on a road we haven’t a hope of spotting it. I don’t think it is or it would have been found. No, it’s been tucked away somewhere and I’m reckoning on it being in the open. We’ll quarter the whole area within forty or fifty miles of where it disappeared, looking for anything that looks like a black tarpaulin.’
‘What if it’s camouflaged?’ queried Ginger.
‘If it is it will only be at the sides, against ground level observation,’ asserted Biggles, confidently. ‘I can’t credit these crooks with enough foresight to anticipate an air search for a load of potatoes. It’s never been done before so that’s where they may slip.’
‘Do you think they’ll still be with the truck?’ asked Ginger.
‘I don’t know. Probably not. It’s more likely that having parked it they’ll clear off and lie low until the police activity has fizzled out. That’s how I figure it, anyway. Again, having examined the load the truck was carrying they might have to take time to find a market. I doubt if they’d have taken that particular truck had they known it was only carrying potatoes. Cigarettes, whisky, and that sort of thing is their usual line. But having got the spuds I’d say they’ll try to sell ‘em.’
They arrived at the airfield to find the Auster ready and waiting. Ginger got out the appropriate map and sitting next to Biggles opened it on his knees. Bertie sat behind prepared to do some spotting.
Biggles took off and headed for the Great North Road with its teeming traffic. He picked it up just south of Hatfield and followed it to Stamford.
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘This is where we start. I’ll take the east side first. There’s more open country and that should make it easier.’
Then began one of those tedious flights known to air survey units and photographic pilots. Up and down, turn, and down again parallel. This went on for an hour and yielded nothing more than an occasional false alarm when, Biggles having taken the machine low, the object turned out to be a farm vehicle.
‘Now we’ll try the other side,’ said Biggles, cheerfully.
‘There are more turnings off the main road,’ observed Ginger.
‘There’s more cover, too; woods and things,’ put in Bertie.
The same procedure was followed, up and down, round, dow
n and up, with an occasional low turn over a wood or a track.
It was over a wooded lane that dived at an angle from a secondary road that Ginger let out a cry. ‘Steady! Take her back over that piece you’ve just covered.’
Biggles complied. ‘Did you think you saw something?’
‘There’s a gravel pit just off that lane. I saw something black in it. There it is!’
‘I see what you mean,’ said Biggles, retarding the throttle and losing height.
‘It could be another tractor,’ remarked Bertie.
‘Too big for that,’ disputed Biggles. ‘I can’t see anybody moving near it. I think we shall have to go right down to have a close look at this.’
‘There’s a field straight in front of you.’
‘So I see.’ Biggles slipped off some height with a couple of S turns, landed, and taxied on to as near the gravel pit as the field allowed. They got out and walked the last few yards. This brought them to the lip of the pit, on the side farthest from the short, tree-shaded piece of track, much overgrown, that linked the open pit with the lane. It was clear from the state of the track that it had not been in regular use for some time.
‘That’s certainly a lorry,’ said Biggles. ‘Loaded, too. Let’s go down.’
They made their way to a slope and so down into the pit. Even before they reached the truck they could see it was the one they were seeking. The name on the bonnet and the registration number confirmed it. There was no one there.
The rope holding down a corner of the tarpaulin cover had been untied but the load was still intact.
‘This’ll kill Gaskin,’ said Biggles, grinning. ‘I don’t think he took me seriously. I thought there was just a chance we might spot it but I wouldn’t have bet on it. Well—well!’
‘What are you going to do about it?’ asked Ginger.
‘Let Gaskin know it’s here. We’d better not take our eyes off it in case it disappears again before he arrives. This is the drill. I’ll stay here with Ginger. Bertie, you take the machine home. As soon as you’re in the air call the Yard and give Gaskin the pin-point. Tell him to get here as quickly as he can. I don’t want to fiddle about here all night.’