Biggles Takes The Case

by W E Johns

  “What about America?”

  “We’re in touch with them, but so far we haven’t received a reply. The stuff was certainly stolen from an official source somewhere because it’s virtually impossible for a civilian to get hold of any.”

  “This lump must be worth a lot of money.”

  “It is, but the intrinsic value is secondary. It’s the fact that an unauthorised person was flying across this country with a quantity in his possession that has sent the balloon up.”

  “What has happened to the body?” asked Biggles.

  “It was brought down, and was buried today in the nearest churchyard.”

  “And there was absolutely no clue, nothing in the pockets, that might give a line even to the man’s nationality?”

  “Nothing. Only one thing remained in his clothing that was not destroyed by fire; but it was not without significance. It was a Luger automatic pistol. It had been loaded, but the cartridges had exploded in the heat. Respectable peace-time pilots don’t carry automatic weapons.”

  “Quite. He was ready for trouble apparently—but not the sort he met.”

  Biggles tapped a cigarette slowly on the back of his hand. “Just what do you want me to do about this?”

  “I want you to find out who this man was and where he was going.”

  “That’s a tall order, with only a charred corpse and some buckled longerons to work on.”

  “Had it been a simple one, it’s unlikely that the case would have been brought to us,” averred the Air Commodore, a trifle bitterly.

  Biggles thought for a minute. “Tell me this,” he requested. “Are these Alpine Rescue fellows still on the spot?”

  “Yes. They’re standing by waiting for orders.”

  “The Air Ministry will be in touch with them by radio, I imagine?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then for a start, will you ask the Ministry to tell these chaps to stay where they are until I get there, after which they must be withdrawn. I shan’t need them. If that signal can be sent in code so much the better. There’s just a chance someone else may be listening.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “One other point. Has this story got into the newspapers?”

  “Not yet, but the evening papers have got hold of it and they are putting out a story about an aircraft, at present unidentified, crashing in the Cairngorms.”

  “They’re not saying exactly where in the Cairngorms?”

  “No. They don’t know.”

  “Then I’d like them to.”

  The Air Commodore looked rather surprised, but he agreed. “All right. If that’s how you want it I’ll arrange it. I’ll let them know that the crash lies halfway up the western slope of Ben Macdhui.”

  “You can also tell them that the body has been brought down and the guard withdrawn.”

  The Air Commodore’s eyebrows went up. “Why?”

  Biggles smiled. “Just a little idea of mine. I suppose it isn’t difficult to spot the crash?”

  “The wreckage is scattered over half an acre.”

  Biggles got up. “Okay, sir. I’ll see what I can do about it.”

  “Don’t be too long over it or I’m likely to lose my job,” declared the Air Commodore, as he went out.

  “Well, stuff me with suet pudding! He doesn’t want much,” snorted Bertie, after the door had closed.

  “I must admit this looks like a poser,” admitted Biggles. “Well, let’s get on with it. The first thing is to get to the crash.”

  “But here, I say old boy, that means climbing up the beastly mountain,” protested Bertie.

  “I’m not climbing up any mountains,” stated Biggles. “Ginger, ring Algy and tell him to have the Proctor ready to take off in half an hour, with three parachutes. He won’t need one himself; he’s Duty Officer so he’ll have to come back. If we get cracking we should just be able to reach the objective in daylight.”

  “What’s the idea?” asked Ginger. “What are we going to look for when we get there?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Biggles told him. “I hope somebody else will come looking for something, though —a lump of uranium, for instance. Get your brains weaving. This unlucky pilot wasn’t just cruising about on his own account with a lump of atomic energy in his pocket. Unless I’m mistaken he was only the errand boy. Somebody, somewhere, was waiting for him. When he doesn’t turn up that somebody is going to get worried. When he reads in the papers that an unidentified plane has hit the carpet in Scotland, he’ll know, or he’ll think he knows, where his precious lump of uranium is lying. What will he do? I’ll give you one guess.”

  “Go to look for it,” answered Ginger promptly.

  “Right first time,” acknowledged Biggles. “I want to be there when he gets there. Which is why, to save time, I asked the Air Commodore to tell him through the papers, just where the crash is lying. With a little encouragement this fellow may be induced to tell us what our security people must be panting to know—where the uranium started from and where it was going. Come on, let’s get mobile. Bring your binoculars, Ginger. We’re going to the wide open spaces.”

  The sun was setting in a clear, windless sky, behind the rugged Monadhliath Mountains of Inverness-shire when the police machine arrived over the remains of the ill-fated aircraft which, lying in the middle of a blackened area of heather, were plain to see. The Proctor circled once, and then made a straight run at little more that stalling speed across the gently sloping flank of the mountain. In quick succession four objects dropped from its escape hatch; first a large bundle, then three figures that were Biggles, Ginger and Bertie. As soon as Biggles, who had dropped last, had left the machine, the engine resumed its normal note and stood away to the south.

  Ginger, after stumbling and falling in a sea of purple heather, picked himself up, stepped out of his harness, and turned to find himself the object of critical scrutiny by half a dozen stalwart young men in air force blue.

  “Is that the way you usually get around?” asked one, grinning.

  “More or less,” answered Ginger casually. “As in this case, it is sometimes easier than walking.”

  “Are you telling me?” returned the Rescue man.

  The arrival of Biggles on the scene put an end to facetious conversation.

  “Who’s in charge here?” he asked briefly.

  A corporal stepped forward. “I am, sir.”

  “I see. My name’s Bigglesworth. Have you had a signal from the Air Ministry about me?”

  “Yes sir. I’m to take your orders,” reported the corporal.

  “They are quite simple,” answered Biggles. “You can pack up and go home. I’m taking over.”

  “That suits me,” declared the corporal. “A couple of days here have been long enough.”

  “Did you bring a tent?”

  “No, we’ve made a rough bivvy by those big rocks.” The airman pointed.

  “Any rations left?”

  “Some tins of bully, biscuits, tea, sugar and condensed milk.”

  “Fine. You can leave them. I’ll send a chit to the Air Ministry when I get back to say I took them over. Seen anybody about?”

  “Not a soul since the Accidents Branch officer departed.”

  “Okay. If you look lively you’ll be off the hill before it gets dark.”

  The corporal turned away, and in a few minutes he and his crew could be seen striding down the hill in single file.

  “And now what’s the drill, old boy?” asked Bertie.

  “The drill is, for a start, you can go and collect the bundle of stores we dropped. It fell over there.” He pointed. “Then we’ll go and have a look at the corporal’s bivouac, brew a dish of tea on the spirit stove, and keeping under cover make ourselves comfortable. We’ll take turns at mounting guard. Those rocks seem to be just the right distance away from the crash. No noise. Sounds carry a long way in this still air.”

  Biggles walked on towards the rocks, looking at the wreckage in
passing. “What a mess!” he breathed. “That pilot couldn’t have been very bright or he’d have known what was in front of him. Maps aren’t expensive.”

  Ginger stopped to look at the spot where the unknown pilot must have been hurled from life to death in an instant of time without knowing anything about it. He gazed around.

  Even on a summer evening, the landscape, with its brooding silence, was one of utter loneliness and mournful melancholy. The only sign of life was a grouse-cock sitting on a rock two hundred yards away watching him with deep suspicion. On three sides rose the purple giants of the Highlands, their outlines softened by distance and an imperceptible mist that had already filled the corries. Far below, the valleys were pools of sombre shadows. It was, he pondered, an appropriate setting for tragedy, and the vigil they were about to undertake.

  Turning away he followed Biggles to the bivouac, which turned out to be no more than a flattened pile of heather in a slight depression with a primitive fireplace built of stones. A spring bubbled near at hand.

  “When do you reckon this chap’s likely to show up, if he’s coming?” Bertie was asking.

  “I couldn’t guess,” replied Biggles. “If he starts from somewhere close, he should be here fairly soon; but he may have to come from the Continent. Be sure he’ll get here as soon as possible because the longer the delay the greater will be the chance of someone finding the uranium. He’ll know where to come because the exact location of the crash must have appeared in the papers some hours ago. The question is, will he come by night or by day? Both times have advantages and disadvantages. By night it would be more difficult to find the stuff, but by day there would be more chance of being spotted by someone. I’d say he’ll try his luck in the dark. If he fails, then he’ll wait for daylight. We’ll take two-hour watches. There’s nothing else we can do. The wreck can tell us nothing we don’t already know. You’ll take first watch, Bertie. Keep an eye on the skylines but don’t show yourself.” Biggles lay back and lit a cigarette.

  Ginger awoke with a start and found himself in a world of blue moonlight and vague shadows. Biggles was squeezing his arm.

  “What goes on?” whispered Ginger, awake on the instant and remembering where he was.

  “Ssh! Someone’s coming.”

  Ginger raised himself to a sitting position. “Where?”

  “Can’t see him yet. Twice a rolling stone has rattled on the scree below us.”

  “What’s the time?”

  “Half-past one.”

  Nothing more was said. Ginger crouched beside Biggles. A yard away Bertie lay flat behind a stone. Several minutes passed in a silence that was profound. It was broken by a sudden whirr of wings as a brood of grouse hurtled past. Ginger didn’t move, but his nerves grew taut as his eyes strove to probe the shadowy world in the direction from which the birds had come. What had disturbed them?—a fox, a wild cat... or a man?

  It was a man. Presently he saw him, a mere outline against the colourless background, a silhouette that hardened as it drew nearer. Boots swished in brittle, sun-dried heather.

  Then came the sound of heavy breathing as the figure, toiling uphill and at a distance of perhaps forty yards, suddenly altered its direction towards the scene of the fatal accident. Now it was possible to make out a face, pallid in the moonlight.

  Once the man stopped to gaze around, as if to make sure that he was alone. Then he went on again, quickly now, and presently the sound of metal scraping against metal told the watchers that he’d reached his objective and had begun his search. His purpose was no longer in doubt.

  Biggles drew the others to him and cupping his hands round his mouth, whispered: “Bertie, work round behind him in case he sees us and bolts. He’ll run downhill if he goes. Ginger, come with me. Keep close. No noise.”

  Fortunately the man himself was by this time making enough noise to drown the lesser sounds that their movements might cause.

  Biggles crawled forward through the heather, feeling his way, stopping frequently.

  Ginger followed in like manner at his heels. He couldn’t see the man but he could hear him all the time as he searched within the charred and twisted wreckage. Nearer and nearer they drew, until they, too, were at the crash. And still the man was obviously unaware of their presence.

  Biggles touched Ginger on the arm and pointed. Grasping the meaning of the signal, Ginger worked his way to the far side of the gaunt skeleton of what had been an aircraft. Then came a pause.

  It was broken in dramatic fashion. Biggles’s voice cut through the hush like a whip-lash.

  “Come out of that!” he ordered.

  A shuddering intake of breath told Ginger the extent of the shock the words inflicted.

  There was a wild rush as the man scrambled out on his side. “Take it easy!” rapped out Ginger. The man spun round, and crouched as if to run; but Bertie rose up from the heather and the man remained motionless. They all closed in on him.

  Biggles spoke, and his tone was peremptory. “We’re security police. Who are you?”

  Silence.

  “What’s your name?” snapped Biggles.

  “Lowenski,” came a nervous voice, tinged with a slight accent.

  “Nationality?”

  “British.”

  “Since when?”

  “A year ago.”

  “And before that?”

  “Polish.”

  “Did you come to this country as a soldier or as a displaced person?”

  “I came in the War and flew with the R.A.F.”

  “Where do you live now?”

  “Perth. I was stationed in Scotland. I’ve got a shop there. What’s the matter? I can come here if I like. This isn’t private ground.”

  Biggles ignored the questions. “Did you know the man who was flying this machine?”

  A brief pause. “I think so.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “I hope I’m wrong, but if I’m right—yes.”

  “Another Pole?” When Biggles went on his tone was less harsh. “Now listen carefully, Lowenski. We know what you’re doing here, so we needn’t waste time arguing about that. What you came for isn’t here. Just how far you are implicated, I don’t know. I shall find out, so on what you say much will depend. Now then. Answer my questions and you’ll find that we’re not unreasonable. Try being awkward and you’ll find we can be awkward too.”

  “You can’t do anything to me,” came back Lowenski. But the confident tone in which the words were said didn’t ring true.

  “You are still on probation,” said Biggles curtly. “I could have you sent back to Poland. How would that suit you?”

  The hesitation that followed told Ginger that the shot had gone home.

  “You—you wouldn’t do that,” almost pleaded Lowenski. “What about my wife?”

  “What about her?”

  “I married a Scotch girl.”

  “Then she looks like being out of luck unless you come clean. Now, what about it?”

  “All right. What do you want to know?” asked Lowenski desperately.

  “Are you in this business on your own account or are you working for somebody?” demanded Biggles.

  “Own account? Not likely! Where would I get the money to finance a game of this size?”

  “But you’re in it for money.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong. I can earn my living without scrambling up and down mountains all night. It happens I’ve got a father and mother in Poland. They’ve been interned on a trumped-up political charge. If I don’t do what I’m told, they’ve had it.”

  “Oh! So that’s it,” murmured Biggles. “The Government bosses who are running your country have got the screws on you, eh?”

  “That’s the truth.”

  “Have they made you do this sort of thing before?”

  “No.”

  “Where did this machine start from?”

  “America, I think.”

  “Where was it going?”


  “Warsaw, I believe.”

  “Why are you in doubt about it?”

  “I can only tell you what I think,” protested Lowenski. “I’m not supposed to know anything about it. But it happens that a Polish friend of mine, another old War pilot, is in the same fix as I am, only in his case it’s his wife they’ve got in Poland. The other day I had a letter from him to say he was being sent to America to fetch a machine and fly it to Warsaw. They’d chosen him, they said, because he had been a night bomber and he knows his way across Europe in the dark. He was hoping to see his wife when he got over. How he came to be so far off his track I don’t know, but when I heard about this mysterious crash I put two and two together. We did our raids from an aerodrome not far from here. Maybe Stefan, if it was him, came this way to pick up the old bearings.”

  “And how were you brought into this?”

  “This afternoon I had a phone call from London ordering me to go to the crash and collect some bars of heavy metal I’d find in it. I reckon I was chosen because Perth is not a great distance away. I could get here quicker than anyone coming from London.”

  “Who phoned you?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never seen the man or heard his name; but I’d been warned by him to obey orders —or else. If—”

  “How did you get here?”

  “I’ve got a car.”

  “And having got the metal, what were you to do with it? Speak up! This is your chance to get your own back on these twisters.”

  Lowenski seemed to take a new interest. “Yes, that’s right enough. My orders were to take the stuff to the big marsh near Nethy. At four o’clock, just before daybreak, a plane would land and collect it. All I had to do was hand the stuff over and then send a telegram first thing in the morning to a Box Number at the General Post Office, London, saying that the job had been done.”

  “I’ll have that Box Number from you,” said Biggles. “Meantime, I’m going to keep the appointment with that plane. I shall have to borrow your car. You can come with us and go home afterwards, or you can make your own way home, leaving me your address, because I shall have to get in touch with you later.”

  “I’ll come with you,” decided Lowenski.

  At five minutes to four, having left the car on the road, Biggles led his party into the big desolate marsh, now dried by the summer sun, that was Lowenski’s rendezvous with the enemy agent.