Biggles and the Poor Rich Boy

by W E Johns

  There was a moment of silence, all eyes on the Inspector.

  It was broken by Eddie. ‘Fishing,’ he breathed, in a curious voice.

  Biggles looked at him. ‘Fishing,’ he echoed. ‘What else? We’re not so smart,’ he went on sadly. ‘We should have thought of this fishing angle. It would have narrowed the search. What could have been more likely than that the boy should ask to go fishing in a real live river? And if Cornelli’s trying to keep him happy, he’d agree.’

  ‘Yeah,’ murmured Eddie. ‘Like you say.’ He seemed slightly dazed.

  ‘We’d decided Cesare would give the boy everything he wanted to keep him quiet and what more likely than fishing? We might have guessed it. We knew he was keen on fishing.’

  Eddie drew a deep breath. ‘Yeah,’ he said again, in a melancholy voice. ‘I oughta have my head examined not to think o’ that.’

  ‘They’d have no difficulty in getting the name of a fishing hotel,’ went on Biggles. ‘There are plenty of ‘em. There are books available with that information. I need my head examined, too. I said they’d either hide up in a city or some remote rural district. That wasn’t very bright. What would Carlo do in a city?’

  ‘He might have heard of this place Tomintoul before he came over,’ surmised Eddie. ‘I saw his room. It was littered with books on fishing, and where to fish.’

  ‘From what I hear they’ve gone to the right place,’ put in the Inspector. ‘Plenty of salmon in the river as well as trout.’

  ‘Don’t rub it in,’ groaned Eddie.

  ‘We needn’t waste time arguing what we might have done or should have done,’ said Biggles shortly. He looked up at the Inspector. ‘You’re sure they’re still there?’

  ‘They were there yesterday. Been there a fortnight. I’ve heard nothing about ‘em moving.’

  ‘If they’ve been there a fortnight they didn’t waste any time in London. I suppose you don’t know how they travelled?’

  ‘No. All I know is they’ve got a car. Where they are they’d need one for getting about. They might have driven up from London in it or it may be they picked one up in Scotland somewhere. I don’t know about that. On a job like this it doesn’t do for the police to ask too many questions for fear of scaring the birds.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Biggles.

  ‘What are we sitting here for?’ snapped Eddie, impatiently. ‘Let’s go. All I want now is to have a look at these two. That’ll tell me all I need to know. How do we get there?’

  Gaskin answered. ‘You can get part way by train but it takes time, and you’d need a car at the other end unless you feel like walking twelve to fourteen miles, mostly uphill. There’s a good train, the night express, leaves Euston for Inverness somewhere about seven. You change at Aviemore Junction and wait there for the local train—’

  ‘We can do better than that,’ broke in Biggles. ‘Why be dependent on trains, fiddling about at junctions, and then end up in a car anyway, when we’ve got an aircraft? We might as well fly up to Dalcross— that’s the aerodrome for Inverness — spend the night there, hire a car and press on first thing in the morning.’

  ‘You’d do it quicker that way,’ said Gaskin.

  ‘Okay,’ agreed Eddie, eagerly. ‘When do we start — right away?’

  Biggles looked at his watch. ‘We might just get to Dalcross before dark. There are too many mountains in the way for comfortable night flying. We could spend the night at Inverness and hit the road for Tomintoul as soon as it’s light enough to see the signposts. Take the wrong road in the Highlands and you’re likely to meet yourself coming back—’

  ‘Shucks! Why waste time sleeping. Why not go straight on to this place Tomintoul?’

  ‘I’ve just given you one reason. I know these Highland roads. We’d gain nothing by getting lost. Besides, there might not be a vacant room at the hotel. These Highland fishing hotels get pretty full up at this time of the year. We don’t want to spend the night touring the Highlands looking for accommodation.’

  ‘Aw shucks! At a pinch we could spend the night in the car.’

  ‘Why rush things? We shall have to go about this carefully. We can’t just barge in and—’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Why do you always have to be in such a deuce of a hurry? If this man is Cesare, he has only to get one sniff of who we are and he’ll be off like a dingbat.’

  ‘Then we go after him.’

  ‘And having come face to face with him what are you going to do? Have you thought of that?’

  ‘Arrest him.’

  ‘You, as an American, couldn’t do that.’

  ‘You could.’

  ‘Could I? That might not be as simple as it sounds. Don’t forget he’s travelling as a Canadian — a British subject.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘What are we going to charge him with? Over here you can’t arrest a man without charging him with something.’

  ‘Kidnapping.’

  ‘And what if Cornelli says the boy’s with him of his own free will?’

  ‘Hear what the boy has to say about it.’

  ‘And if Carlo says it’s true: that he’s on a fishing trip with his father, or a friend—what then?’

  ‘Cesare took the boy away from home. That’s still kidnapping. I’d ask the boy to come home with me.’

  ‘And if he refused to go with you, then what are you going to do — take him away by force?’

  ‘I’d tell him the man he’s with is a crook.’

  ‘That could lay you open to an action for slander. If the boy is thoroughly enjoying himself, as seems more than likely at the moment, he might refuse to believe it. Remember, until it can be proved otherwise, Cesare is a Canadian.’

  ‘He’s a naturalized American subject.’

  ‘We know that, but no one else does, over here.’

  ‘It could be proved.’

  ‘Admittedly, by an exchange of notes across the Atlantic. That would take some time, and while these formalities were going on between our respective governments Cesare might slip away.’

  Eddie was looking worried. ‘He couldn’t if he was under arrest.’

  ‘I’ve already told you that we couldn’t hold him merely on suspicion.’

  ‘That’s right,’ put in Gaskin.

  ‘What I’m saying is,’ continued Biggles, ‘as things stand at present everything would almost certainly depend on the attitude taken by the boy; and the odds are a hundred to one he’d deny he’d been kidnapped. In fact, he may not yet have realized that is what has happened.’

  ‘Are you trying to be awkward?’ inquired Eddie, in a pained voice.

  ‘Certainly not. I’m simply trying to make you see the legal position in order to back up my argument that the business of recovering the boy isn’t such plain sailing as you seem to think.’

  ‘All right. Then what are we to do?’ asked Eddie, desperately. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘What I suggest is this,’ returned Biggles. ‘First, we make sure that the Cornellis are still at Tomintoul. Next, confirm that they are the people you’re looking for.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘Watch them while we get authority to pick them up. That might be arranged in London, but it may mean conversations across the Atlantic. America isn’t the only other country involved. Canada comes into the picture.’

  ‘How are we going to watch them at a place like Tomintoul without Cesare realizing what’s going on? If he sees our car behind him everywhere he goes he’ll soon tumble to that. As a gangster he’ll have had plenty of experience of being shadowed.’

  ‘One, or some of us, could stay at the hotel as fishers, assuming accommodation is available. It shouldn’t be too difficult. Let’s do that for a start and leave further plans until we see how the land lies.’

  ‘Okay, like you say,’ agreed Eddie, without enthusiasm.

  Biggles got up. ‘Let’s get to Scotland. Thanks, Gaskin, for your help. I’ll do as much for you some day. We’ll let
you know how we get on.’

  ‘Don’t lose him,’ requested the Inspector as he went out. ‘I don’t want to have to go over all this again.’

  Biggles turned to the others. ‘You’d better come, Ginger. And you, Bertie. You may have to be the fisherman.’

  ‘Jolly good. I’ll slip home and get my rods and join you at the aerodrome. If we’re going fishing we’d better have something to fish with — if you see what I mean.’

  ‘Algy, you take care of things here till we get back in case anything crops up,’ went on Biggles. ‘The chief’s out at the moment. When he comes in tell him what’s cooking. Say if we find the boy I shall probably ‘phone from Scotland for instructions on procedure. You might ring the hangar and tell Smyth to pull the Proctor out ready.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Ginger, go and bring the car round. We’ll be with you in a couple of minutes. We shall have to call at the flat for some kit.’

  Ginger went off.

  ‘I’m putting you to a heck of a lot of trouble,’ said Eddie apologetically.

  ‘Forget it,’ Biggles told him, briefly.

  In a little more than half an hour they were getting into the Air ‘Police Proctor’, which had been warmed up and stood waiting for them. Biggles took off, turned north, and after a flight devoid of incident landed at Dalcross, on the Moray Firth, just as the long June twilight of the Scottish Highlands was ending in the afterglow of sunset.

  Having shown his police pass he parked the machine, asking for it to be refuelled. He then put through a call to Inverness for a taxi to fetch them, and on arrival in the capital of the Highlands made arrangements with the garage proprietor for the hire of a self-drive car which, as a matter of detail, was a Humber Hawk. This done, accommodation was found at the Station Hotel where, after some refreshment, Biggles asked to be called promptly at six in the morning.

  ‘That’ll do for today,’ he concluded. ‘Let’s get to bed.’

  CHAPTER 4

  THE following day dawned clear and bright, and after an early breakfast Biggles was at the wheel of the hired car speeding along the first-class straight road that was available for the first part of the forty-five mile journey to Tomintoul. But after crossing the Spey bridge at Grantown the highway deteriorated quickly to a typical Highland second-class road, pursuing a track up hill and down dale across open rolling moorland, visible for miles ahead. The heather was not yet in bloom, but larks sang in the blue sky and broods of young grouse dusted themselves along the sandy verges.

  ‘At least we’re getting some fresh air,’ remarked Ginger, approvingly.

  ‘We should get to the village about the time the fishers are having their breakfast,’ observed Biggles. ‘There wasn’t much point in starting earlier.’

  A little while later, as he went into bottom gear to take a steep descent with a narrow stone bridge at the bottom, he continued: ‘That river at the bottom must be the Avon, presumably the one the boy is fishing.’ Having crossed the sparkling water he turned right up the hill that led to the objective.

  When, at the top of the long, straight, gently rising street, the wide square of the village green came into sight, it presented a picture which not even Biggles had expected, even though he had mentioned the popularity of Highland fishing establishments. There was no mistaking the Richmond Arms, for it stood immediately facing them with its name across the front in bold letters.

  The area in front of it was a scene of activity. There were parked some seven or eight cars, while a small shooting brake was just leaving by the road that ran on past the hotel. Some of the cars had doors or boots open as their owners loaded their fishing equipment for the day on the river— waders, brogues, rods, gaffs, bags and baskets which, judging by the protruding tops of Thermos flasks, contained the day’s food rations. On the green itself a tweed-clad man, watched by a little group of spectators, was making practice casts. Another had stretched his line between two trees and was busy greasing it. Several other people, women and children as well as men, stood about in earnest conversation, probably discussing the fishing prospects in relation to the weather. Apparently the majority of guests had already had breakfast.

  ‘Well, if Cornelli and the boy are here it shouldn’t take us long to spot them,’ said Biggles, confidently, as moving dead slow, he found a place to park behind the cars already there.

  ‘I wonder which of these cars is theirs,’ murmured Ginger.

  Eddie was first out, his eyes running quickly over everyone in sight. ‘I don’t see them,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe they haven’t finished breakfast,’ suggested Biggles. ‘I can see people still in the dining-room,’ he added, after a glance through the window facing the front. ‘Let’s wait a bit. People are too busy to take any notice of us. Better not call attention to ourselves by asking questions. We can do that later.’

  They waited. Five minutes, ten, a quarter of an hour passed. More people came out of the hotel but none looked like the Cornellis. One by one the cars began to move off for their respective beats on the river. The last one went, and still there was no sign of Cornelli and son.

  ‘Stand fast,’ said Biggles. ‘I’ll go in the hall and have a look at the register. It should be just inside, on a table.’ He went in.

  In a few minutes he came back. ‘The names are there,’ he informed, quietly. ‘Arturo Cornelli and son. The date of departure column is still blank so they should still be here. But there’s one thing I don’t understand. There’s a roster hanging on the wall allocating the fishing beats for the day. Their names aren’t on it.’

  ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘Obviously they can’t be going fishing today.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ said Eddie, anxiously. ‘Isn’t it time we went in and asked about them?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘Please yourself, but I’d feel inclined to wait a little longer. Maybe they’re in their bedrooms, sick or something. If you go in and ask for them what reasonable excuse could you give for wanting to see them?’

  ‘Sure. That’s right.’

  ‘They’re bound to show up—unless, of course, they’d gone out, either to the river or on some trip or other, before we arrived. They may have gone to the nearest town to buy fishing tackle.’

  ‘That could be the answer.’

  They waited another ten minutes and then Eddie’s patience became exhausted. ‘I’m going in to make inquiries,’ he announced.

  ‘Okay. I’ll come with you,’ offered Biggles. ‘Leave the talking to me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if Cornelli happens to be within earshot and hears your American accent he’ll have a second look at you and may wonder what you’re doing here.’

  ‘Okay. I didn’t think of that.’

  Biggles, with Eddie beside him, walked through the open door into the hotel. There was only one person in the hall, a fair, stockily-built man who was arranging some letters on the side table.

  ‘Excuse me, but am I speaking to the proprietor?’ Biggles put the question.

  The man turned. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘Sorry, we’re full up.’

  ‘I wonder if you have a man staying here by the name of Cornelli? He has his son with him.’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Do you know where I could find him?’

  ‘Wait a minute and I’ll ask my housekeeper. She may know where he’s gone.’

  Biggles had the photographs ready. ‘Are these the people?’

  The proprietor looked at the pictures. ‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That will be them. They’re no’ fishing the day.’

  ‘So I see from the roster.’

  The man disappeared into the back regions, but in two minutes he was back. ‘Mr Cornelli and his son have left,’ he said casually.

  Biggles looked taken aback. ‘You mean — they’ve left the hotel for good?’

  ‘Aye. I mind someone else asking after them on the telephone, yesterday or the day before.’

  ‘W
hen did they leave?’

  ‘A few minutes ago, as soon as they’d finished breakfast, so my manageress tells me. It seems they paid their bill last night so as to make an early start.’

  Biggles tried to hide his disappointment. ‘Their departure was rather sudden, wasn’t it?’ he suggested carelessly.

  ‘People come and go.’

  ‘Did they give any reason for going off in such a hurry?’

  ‘They didn’t tell me and I don’t ask questions.’

  ‘You don’t happen to know where they’ve gone?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So they didn’t leave a forwarding address?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I take it they left by car?’

  ‘There’s no other way.’

  ‘Their own car?’

  ‘Surely.’

  ‘What make of car was it?’

  By this time the proprietor’s eyes were clouding with suspicion. ‘Why all these questions? Is something wrong?’

  Apparently Biggles felt bound to offer an explanation. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said confidentially, ‘we’re special Inquiry Agents acting on behalf of relatives who are anxious to make contact with the Cornellis. They’re over here from America and have been moving about. The boy in particular is keen on fishing. They must have gone off to try another river. But I must get hold of them. What sort of car were they using?’

  ‘It was a light Austin shooting brake.’

  ‘Could you remember its number?’

  The proprietor smiled bleakly. ‘With everyone here having a car and cars coming and going all day you wouldn’t expect me to take notice of their numbers.’

  ‘No. I understand that.’

  ‘But there’s one thing I can tell you about the car. Its near-side front wing was dented and scratched from trying to take the Brig of Avon too fast.’

  ‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘That might be helpful. We saw that car leaving just as we got here. There’s a chance we may overtake them. The car turned left when it left the hotel. To where does that road lead?’

  ‘It depends on how far they went before they turned off. If they took the first turn to the right, a matter of not more than two minutes away, they’d be on the right road to Deeside. If they kept straight on there’s no other turn for some miles. If they went straight on they’d come to Dufftown. If they took the left fork they’d come to Ballindalloch and the main road. That could take them to the West Coast or the East Coast.’