'Why did he pick on you?'
'I was in uniform. I guess he could see I was a flyer.' 'You mean, he wanted you to do some flying for him in return for money?'
'Sure. That's it. All I had to do was come here and buy this old crate.'
'Did he say why he wanted it?'
'No. When I asked him he told me to quit asking questions. He gave me three hundred bucks to come over and buy the Crusader. Said that'd be enough. As you know it wasn't.'
'He didn't tell you he was wanted by the Federal Police, I'll warrant,'
said Biggles grimly.
The American started. 'What for?'
'Treason.'
'The skunk. So that's why he was lying low in the Soviet Sector.'
'Never mind calling him names. Didn't it strike you as odd that he didn't come over here himself to buy the machine?'
'Sure it did. He said he couldn't come because he'd an important date in Berlin on the same day.'
'What were you to do with the machine when you got it?'
'I was to fly her to a place not far from here - Hookley Green. I suggested Hookley myself because I was stationed hereabouts for two years and know every inch of the country. Hookley was one of our practice landing grounds. There's plenty of room to get down and an old windmill makes a good landmark.'
'Is that all?'
'That's all, except he said someone would be at Hookley to take over the machine. He didn't say who, but the guy would pay me when I handed over.'
'He was taking a chance, wasn't he, trusting you with three hundred dollars?'
'Not likely,' said the American bitterly. 'He'd got me where he wanted me if I ratted on him. Oh, he's wise, that guy. You see, officially, I'm not allowed out of Berlin. To get me out he gave me forged papers. If I skipped with the money all he had to do was ring up my squadron, and then where would I be with a phoney pass? must have been crazy to fall for this racket - but then, as I say, I was flat broke.'
'When were you to fly the machine to Hookley?' 'Right now. As soon as it got light.'
'Very well,' said Biggles in a business-like voice. 'Now let's see about getting this thing buttoned up. Silberman is an enemy of your country.
Are you going to stick to him, or are you coming in with us? I make no promise, but if you work with us I'll do my best to put things right with your commanding officer.'
'I'm with you,' answered Galton without hesitation. 'What do you want me to do?'
'Can you fly the Crusader?'
'Nothing to it. It's kid stuff after some of the crates I've had to handle.'
'Then give me an hour's start and fly it to Hookley as arranged. Can I trust you to do that?'
'You bet. I'll do anything if you'll get me out of this jam.'
'I'll be at Hookley when you get there,' promised Biggles.
As he made his way to the car, at the rear of the hangar, he whistled. A man appeared from the shadows. 'It's only Smithers,' he told the others.
'I told him to be around in case I needed him. He knows Silberman by sight.'
Leaving Galton with the Crusader they drove through narrow lanes to the spot where the aircraft was to be landed. It was flat, desolate country, and they could see the gaunt arms of the old windmill stark against the sky long before they reached it. In it, Biggles said, he expected Silberman would be waiting. There was nowhere else. He did not drive right up to it but stopped some distance away under cover of a line of willows. From there they went forward cautiously on foot to a point as near the windmill as could be reached without exposing themselves.
Touching Biggles on the arm Ginger indicated another car parked close in behind the windmill. Biggles nodded.
A short wait followed. Then the lonely silence was broken by the sound for which they were prepared — the rattle of an early type internal combustion engine. Into sight, flying dangerously low, came the Crusader.
With mixed expressions of wonder and anxiety the watchers followed it with their eyes as it skimmed the field. The engine died suddenly. The nose dipped. The wheels touched, bumped, and the aircraft, after bumping a little way, finished on its nose not a score of paces from where they crouched. Galion jumped down, and after a whimsical grin at his gimcrack conveyance, lit a cigarette.
By this time a man had left the windmill and was hurrying towards him.
'Silberman,' whispered Smithers.
'So you made it?' cried Silberman delightedly, as he reached his pilot.
'Sure I made it,' answered Galton.
Silberman wasted no time in further conversation. With a knife in his hand he climbed into the open cockpit and worked on something too low for the watchers to see, but it appeared to be either the floor or behind the three-ply bulkhead. Presently he stood up, holding in his hand a small roll. He then jumped down, almost into the arms of Biggles, who taking advantage of the man's preoccupation, had moved forward.
Silberman's expression would have been comical had the circumstances been less dramatic.
'Is your name Joseph Silberman?' asked Biggles. 'Yes — why?'
Before the man could have realized fully what was happening handcuffs had snapped on his wrists.
'I'll take that,' said Biggles, reaching for the roll and handing it to Smithers who, opening it quickly, cried, 'It's the Flying Crusader!'
'I'm Detective Air Inspector Bigglesworth of Scotland Yard,' Biggles told his prisoner. 'I'
m arresting you for stealing this picture from Mancroft Castle on a night in August, 1939. A more serious charge may be preferred later, so I must warn you that anything you say may be used as evidence against you.'
'Now don't be in a hurry,' choked Silberman, 'We can fix this between us.
There's big money in it. When I was in Moscow I found —'
'Cut it,' requested Biggles curtly. 'You can tell your story later.' To Galton he said: 'You'd better get back to Berlin right away. I'll do what I can for you.'
The sequel, while remarkable, was not unexpected. The old legend was confirmed.
Silberman confessed that he had come across a reference to the picture while, as a history student, he was going through the household accounts of the Tsar of the time it was painted. Following a clue contained in a simple cypher on the back of the picture, a panel was opened in the massive frame in which it had been shipped from Russia. In it was found a fortune in gems, the sale of which enabled Sir Giles to retain his ancient home and buy back the Flying Crusader, a silver replica of which now decorates the mantelpiece at Air Police Headquarters.
The honest Smithers, who had lost his life trying to defend his master's property, was avenged when Silberman went to the scaffold. His son, apart from the satisfaction of having cleared his father's name, did not go unrewarded, and is now a privileged person at Mancroft Castle, where the picture that was the cause of the trouble once more fills the frame from which it was cut.
5
THE MYSTERY OF THE TORN PARACHUTE
BIGGLES looked at his chief inquiringly as he dropped into the chair beside the Air Commodore's desk at Special Air Police Headquarters in Scotland Yard. 'You said you had a question to ask me, sir,' he reminded.
The Air Commodore held up a piece of flimsy rag about a yard long and a foot wide, with tattered edges, and allowed it to sink softly on the desk. 'Animal, mineral or vegetable?' he asked.
'You've been watching television,' observed Biggles. The Air Commodore smiled. 'Why not? Can you answer my question?'
Biggles took the rag, examined it closely and tested it for strength. 'If a silkworm is an animal then I'd say this is animal.'
'Correct. It is silk.'
'Judging from the quality, this line of stitching, and the gap where a shroud tore out, I'd say it's a fragment of parachute.'
'Correct again. It is.'
'It isn't British equipment.'
'You're doing fine.'
Biggies nodded sadly. 'And now I suppose you want me to tell you the name of the man who wore it - and tore it.'
'I'd very much like to know that.'
'Where did this rag come from, anyway?'
'It was found in the top of a tree in the Highlands of Scotland.'
Biggles stared. 'I see,' he said slowly. 'Then we can guess how it got there. No man in his right mind would climb a tree simply to hang out a piece of parachute fabric. It got hung up and tore off when the brolly was used.'
'That's how I'd worked it out. We have now arrived at the big question.
Who used it?'
'Tell me all you know and I'll try another guess,' offered Biggles.
'That won't take long,' averred the Air Commodore. 'It started with a bird, known in the Highlands as the hoodie crow. It has some nasty habits, attacking newly-born lambs and young birds, for which reason farmers and gamekeepers wage war on it. The hoodie knows all about that, and has developed a cunning that makes it hard to approach. One of these birds decided to build its nest in a clump of Scots pines that stand on that desolate stretch of moorland between the River Spey and the Moray Firth. A gamekeeper saw what the bird was doing and decided to deal with it as murderers should be dealt with.
During the hours of darkness before dawn he took up his position on its line of flight, well concealed, and waited for daybreak. But the bird was wise and didn't show up.
Thinking it might be in the trees he started some careful stalking. He didn't see the crow, but we can judge his astonishment when he saw, high up on the end of a branch, a white object. His curiosity led him to climb the tree and this rag is what he found. He was all the more puzzled because he's prepared to swear it wasn't there the previous afternoon, when he tried to stalk the bird in daylight. Mystified, not knowing what the thing was, he asked the local police officer what he made of it. The officer, not knowing, asked his Superintendent, who, after some discreet inquiries, passed it on to us.'
`Did these inquiries throw any light on the mystery?'
'Only this. The gamekeeper says that as he sat there in the dark he heard a plane go over very high. It came from the south, appeared to circle once, and then made off in a north-easterly direction. He paid no attention to it, for there are several aerodromes on the north-east coast of Scotland and night flying is common.'
'Is that all?'
'All except that the keeper, knowing that the rag couldn't have got there by itself, and suspecting poachers, made a thorough examination of the ground for tracks. He found none.'
Biggles lit a cigarette. 'And I'm supposed to find out who used the parachute, and why.'
'That's your job. We can't have that sort of thing going on.'
Biggles looked pained. 'Have a heart, sir. I'm a policeman, not a magician.'
The Air Commodore's eyes twinkled. It's your business to keep the sky clean, so see what you can make of it.'
Biggles drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. 'It looks like a case of illegal entry into the country. Had it been an emergency drop the plane would have crashed. The fellow got away with it, too, for had he been killed or injured the keeper would have found him. You'll notice he chose a wide open space to drop into. Either he was lucky, or he knew the ground. He was clever to find the place in the dark, anyway - unless someone flashed a signal.'
'Those are the lines on which I was thinking. The jump was planned, not accidental.'
'There could be only one reason why a man should take such a risk. He didn't want to be seen at any ordinary point of entry, seaport or airport.' Biggles picked up a pencil and note-pad. 'When exactly did this happen?'
'On Tuesday, a fortnight ago today.'
'Any planes missing that night? I can't recall any.' 'There was none.'
'Any pilot or aircrew unaccounted for?'
'None. I've checked all those angles on the phone.' 'Did anyone outside aviation go missing at that time?'
'Three people. A man deserted from the army and hasn't been found. A civil servant absconded. He was tracked as far as Austria. A bank cashier named Lynsdale bolted with fifteen thousand pounds in used one pound notes. After the bank closed on the Saturday he flew to Paris, where he changed some English money into francs at a travel agency, and then booked on to Marseilles, where he bought a passage on a Portuguese tramp bound for the Far East.'
'And that's as much as you can tell me?'
'That's the lot.'
Biggles got up. 'All right, sir. I'll see what I can make of it. One or two points occur to me. I'll follow them up and see if they lead to a tree-top in Morayshire.'
Biggles walked back to his own office where Ginger was waiting, Algy and Bertie being on leave.
'What's the drill?' inquired Ginger.
'Quite simple,' answered Biggles cynically. 'A fortnight ago somebody jumped out of an aircraft, with a brolly, and touched down in Morayshire.
We've got to find out who it was.'
'Is that all?' asked Ginger, with biting sarcasm.
'It should be enough to keep us busy for a day or two,' returned Biggles evenly. 'If you'll listen I'll tell you about it.' During the next ten minutes he passed on the information provided by the Air Commodore.
'Any ideas?' asked Ginger, when he had finished.
'Yes, but they're a bit thin,' replied Biggles, throwing the fragment of parachute on the table. 'That brolly wasn't made in this country. It's pure silk, reinforced. As it came from abroad we may suppose the aircraft also came from abroad. France and Italy use silk.
We'll start with France. Get me Marcel Brissac, at the Interpol office in Paris, on the phone — on the private line if it's disengaged.'
Within three minutes Ginger was handing him the telephone. 'Marcel on the line,' he said.
The conversation that followed occupied some time, and when Biggles hung up there was a pensive expression on his face. 'That may turn out to be a lucky shot, even if it's off the particular mark we're shooting at.
Marcel says he was going to speak to me anyway. Here's the thing in a nutshell. He's got a machine missing: a Loire four-seater out on a charter job; Le
Bourget to Liverpool. The point is, the passenger was an Englishman —
fellow named Norman Harrington White. I smell something fishy there.'
'Why?'
'Naturally, he had to pay for the trip in advance, in cash. Seventy-five thousand francs; which is about seventy-five pounds. How did he get all that money? The basic allowance granted in this country for travel to France is considerably less.'
'What reason did he give for such a trip?'
'He said it was vital that he caught a ship due to sail from Liverpool at dawn, for Buenos Aires.'
'Which means it was a night flight.'
'The plane left the ground, fuelled for the return trip, just after midnight. That was a fortnight ago today. It hasn't been seen since. But wait a minute. White, who said he'd never been in the air before, was desperately nervous, and asked if he could have a parachute. There was no reason why he shouldn't. After all, he was the customer; so they lent him one. I suppose such a thing could happen, but it's a bit unusual. The fact emerges, a French aircraft, carrying a French parachute, flew to England on the night that a piece of torn French parachute was found in northern Scotland. Is that a coincidence — or what is it?'
'But Liverpool's a long step from Morayshire.'
'The plane never arrived at Liverpool. The pilot spoke to three airfields after crossing the coast. It was then dead on course. After that there wasn't another peep. Marcel's inquiries have established that, and there the trail ends. What happened to the aircraft? Had it crashed on land the wreck would have been found by now. As it was a clear night one can't imagine an experienced pilot losing himself over the sea.'
Ìf, as Marcel says, the aircraft carried enough fuel for the return flight, it could have reached Scotland.'
'It could,' agreed Biggles. 'But we'll come back to that in a minute. As far as Marcel knows, with this exception, no French aircraft other than regular services were over England that night. No passenger has been report
ed missing. Air liners don't carry parachutes, anyway. Of course, it's possible that there might be two machines over England at the same time, both carrying French parachutes; but that it should happen at the same hour, on the same night, that one of them was used, would be stretching coincidence to the limit. I shall, therefore, rule it out -
for the time being, at any rate.'
'You mean, you will assume that there was only one machine.'
'Yes. And if we're right, that machine, however im-probable it may seem, went to Scotland. Now let's try a spot of elimination. It could have got there only in one of three ways. The pilot flew it. The passenger flew it. It flew itself. It might have flown itself: but that presupposes that the two people in it were dead or unconscious - which they were not, for one of them jumped out. That leaves us with the pilot and his passenger.
Can you think of any possible reason why an experienced pilot, starting for Liverpool in good weather conditions, should find himself in the north of Scotland?'
'No.'
'Neither can I,' went on Biggles. 'Even if the passenger said he'd changed his mind and had decided to go to Inverness instead, would the pilot have flown on? He would not. He had been paid to go to Liverpool.
His chart, his compass course — everything, would have been prepared for Liverpool.
Allowing for the remote possibility that the pilot did agree to change his course, he would certainly have notified ground stations. Moreover, he would have known his passenger was up to some funny business, for the alleged purpose of the flight was to catch a ship at Liverpool.'
'Okay,' agreed Ginger. 'That leaves us with a passenger who had never before been in the air.'
'Who said he'd never been in the air? There's a lot of difference.'
'You're suggesting he was a liar.'
'I'm suspicious of him. His reason for wanting a brolly is unconvincing.
Would any ordinary man, however nervous he might be, admit funk in front of other men? I don't think so. And how did he get all those francs? We can soon check up on that. Ring the Bank of England, Foreign Currency Branch, give our code number and ask if a man named Norman Harrington White, has, within the last few weeks, been granted an overseas allowance, and if so, how much.'
53 Biggles Chinese Puzzle Page 10