Biggles Presses On

by W E Johns

  ‘Fair enough, chaps.’ Bertie departed, and presently could be heard taking off.

  Biggles and Ginger found a seat in some bushes close at hand and, making themselves as comfortable as circumstances permitted, prepared for a long wait. Biggles lit a cigarette.

  The day wore on. Occasionally a car passed up the road and once a shepherd went by with some sheep; but no one came to the gravel pit. Ginger counted the hours. Five o’clock. Six. ‘If Gaskin doesn’t get here before dark things are likely to be difficult,’ he said, impatiently.

  ‘Give him a chance. He has some way to come. I can hear a car coming now. It’s slowing down. It has stopped. This should be him.’

  This time, as was presently revealed, Biggles was wrong. A young man, roughly dressed, appeared, moving with caution at the point where the track ran into the pit. He surveyed the scene. Then, turning, he called, ‘Okay. Come on.’

  A car nosed its way in first gear from the track to the pit.

  Two men got out. One carried spare registration number plates. The other, a pot of paint, which turned out to be dark green, and some brushes.

  ‘Sit still,’ breathed Biggles in Ginger’s ear. ‘This is how it’s done. In half an hour you won’t recognize that truck.’

  ‘It’ll be dark in half an hour,’ Ginger pointed out.

  ‘I’d rather wait than rush things and have a fist-fight with those three toughs who may have coshes in their pockets.’

  Biggles and Ginger watched while the three men went to work, slapping on the new colour with more haste than accuracy. Finally, as dusk was closing in, the paint pot was thrown aside and one of the men made for the driving seat.

  ‘They’re going to pull out,’ said Ginger. ‘Hark!’

  ‘That should be Gaskin, looking for the track to the gravel pit,’ returned Biggles. ‘I shall take a chance on it. You go to the road and stop him in case he goes past. I’ll take charge of things here. Stick to the bushes and you may get away without being seen.’

  In this Ginger must have succeeded, for the men with the truck showed no signs of alarm. Biggles got up and walked towards them, and, in fact, was almost on them before they noticed him. When they did they stiffened, staring aggressively.

  ‘This your truck?’ asked Biggles, casually.

  After a brief pause one of the men answered ‘Yes.’

  ‘Funny place to choose to paint it.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with you?’ rasped one of the men.

  ‘This is private ground,’ announced Biggles.

  ‘So what? We’re just going, anyway.’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘You’re going, but not where you think.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘I’m a police officer and you’re under arrest for taking this truck without asking the owner’s permission,’ stated Biggles, imperturbably.

  For perhaps five seconds nobody moved. Then the picture sprang to life. One of the men whipped out a short length of lead pipe. Another gasped, ‘Look out! Cops!’ He darted off, but Biggles put out a foot and he fell heavily.

  Biggles himself then had to retire, fighting off the other two as they tried to reach their car.

  Then, suddenly, it was all over. Dark figures materialized in the gloom. There were some blows, a scuffle, some heavy breathing, then a lull.

  ‘Nice work, Bigglesworth,’ said the voice of Inspector Gaskin. ‘I must hand it to you for this.’

  ‘Mind your clothes if you go near the truck,’ returned Biggles. ‘It’s just had a new coat of paint.’

  ‘So that’s it, eh?’ Gaskin gave an order and the truck thieves were marched to the police cars.

  ‘Is this the car these fellers arrived in?’ went on Gaskin, walking up to it and peering at the number plate.

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘It was pinched this morning, at Hendon. It’ll have to go back.’

  ‘That’s fine,’ rejoined Biggles. ‘I was wondering how I was going to get home. I’ll take this car and follow you. We have a lunch date to-morrow—remember?’

  ‘You’re not likely to allow me to forget,’ answered Gaskin, sadly.

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