Biggles and the Poor Rich Boy

by W E Johns

  ‘Thank you,’ said Biggles. ‘I’m much obliged to you. We’ll see if we can find them.’ Followed by Eddie he went back to the car. ‘Not that there’s much hope of that now,’ he added, gloomily.

  Ginger and Bertie looked at them expectantly. They must have seen from their faces that something had gone amiss for they both exclaimed: ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘They’ve gone,’ said Eddie, bitterly.

  ‘We missed them by a minute,’ muttered Biggles. ‘They were in that shooting brake we saw leave just as we arrived. Sorry, Eddie. My fault. We should have pressed right on last night, but there didn’t seem any reason in it then. The question I’m asking myself is, why did they go off in such a hurry?’

  ‘The boss said someone else had been asking after them,’ reminded Eddie. ‘Was that the cause?’

  ‘Could have been. The only other reason I can think of is, the fishing might be bad and so they decided to try somewhere else. Just a minute.’ Biggles walked over to the man who had been greasing his line and was now reeling it in.

  ‘How’s the fishing?’ he asked.

  ‘No good,’ was the frank answer. ‘The water’s too low. There hasn’t been a fish brought in for days.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Biggles returned to the car and told the others what he had just learned.

  ‘One of two things must have happened,’ he continued. ‘Either Cornelli heard a whisper that inquiries were being made about him and took fright, in which case he might be going anywhere, or else young Carlo got fed up with trying to catch fish that wouldn’t look at anything and has persuaded his pal to take him to another river. If so they would probably stay in Scotland.’

  ‘How many of these fishing hotels are there in Scotland?’ asked Eddie.

  ‘Hundreds. Too many for us to go round them all if that’s what you’re contemplating.’

  ‘Pity we didn’t come straight on here last night, old boy,’ put in Bertie.

  ‘Actually, I don’t know that it would have made a lot of difference if we had. We wouldn’t have known Cornelli intended leaving so early this morning. He’d have been on his way before we’d realized he’d gone, in which case we’d find ourselves in the same position as we’re in now. I don’t think there’s much hope of finding them, but we might as well try. They may stop for petrol, or a meal, and someone may have noted the number of their brake.’

  They were in their seats and Biggles had slammed his door when another car, a big old six-seater, pulled in. Two men got out and walked into the hotel, leaving the driver, wearing a chauffeur’s peaked cap, standing by the vehicle.

  Biggles’s first glance at the two men as they walked past was perfunctory, but he gave them a second look. ‘That was an Italian-looking type,’ he observed, casually.

  ‘From the lurid piece of neckwear he had on he might even be an American,’ remarked Ginger.

  Eddie was frowning. ‘I’ve seen that man before somewhere,’ he said in a puzzled voice. ‘In fact, I’m not sure I haven’t seen both of ‘em, but I can’t remember where it was.’

  ‘Really? That’s a bit odd. I notice they haven’t any fishing gear. I wonder where they’ve just come from and what they’re doing here. That looks like a local car and driver. Just a minute.’ He got out, spoke briefly to the driver and returned to his seat. ‘Yes, it’s a local car from Aviemore Junction. The driver says his fares got off the London train and asked for a car to bring them straight on rather than wait for the branch line connection. But if we’re going after Cornelli we’d better be on our way,’ he concluded abruptly, slipping in the clutch. The car moved off, taking the road Cornelli’s brake had taken. At the corner it was signposted Ballindalloch. Almost at once they came to the side turning which they had been told went over the hills to Deeside. It looked very second-class and Biggles ignored it.

  There was no other turning for some miles, when they came to the fork, one road leading to Ballindalloch and the other to Dufftown. Biggles stopped. ‘Now which way?’ he said.

  At that moment there appeared round a bend on the Dufftown road a flock of sheep. The shepherd walked behind.

  ‘He’d know if he’d met a brake,’ said Ginger. ‘The dogs would have to work the sheep to the side of the road to let it through.’

  ‘Ask him.’

  Ginger got out. He spoke briefly to the shepherd and returned. ‘He’s come four miles and he hasn’t met anything,’ he said, getting back into his seat.

  ‘At the rate he’s going that’s over an hour. Cornelli can’t have gone that way.’ Biggles drove on towards Ballindalloch, to find it was a district of a few scattered cottages rather than a village. Keeping straight on, another twenty minutes saw them crossing the bridge which two hours earlier they had crossed in the reverse direction, the Spey bridge at Grantown.

  Inquiries were made at every garage in the long main street without result. There was now a fair amount of traffic about.

  Biggles lit a cigarette. ‘It’s no use,’ he said. ‘We’re wasting our time. With so many roads now from which to choose, cruising about haphazard won’t get us anywhere. Cornelli may have taken the main road south for anywhere in England, or north to Inverness for anywhere in the Highlands.’

  ‘What do you suggest we do about it?’ asked Eddie, despondently. ‘One way seems the same as another.’

  ‘For all the good we’re likely to do we might as well take the car back to the garage in Inverness, go on to Dalcross and fly back to London. Gaskin may be able to help us. At least he now has a clue to work on — an Austin brake with a busted near-side front mudguard.’

  Eddie sighed. ‘Okay,’ he agreed, wearily.

  Biggles restarted the car and settled down for the thirty-four mile run to their starting point — Inverness.

  When, nearly an hour later, he drove into the forecourt of the garage from which they had hired their car, there, standing not ten yards away, behind the petrol pumps, was a light wooden-bodied Austin shooting brake. The near front wing was buckled. Standing by it, looking at the damage, was a man. He was not Cornelli.

  Biggles, staring, stopped with a jerk.

  ‘There it is,’ said Ginger, in a voice that sounded as if he was being strangled.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ muttered Eddie.

  ‘It isn’t true,’ declared Bertie, with a little high-pitched laugh. ‘Oh, I say, what a delicious drop of gravy!’

  Biggles shook his head. ‘These things don’t happen. There could be more than one brake with a busted wing...’ He looked around. ‘I don’t see Cornelli.’

  ‘He can’t be far away,’ said Eddie, tersely.

  Biggles slipped out of his seat. They all got out.

  Said Biggles, to the man standing by the damaged vehicle: ‘Excuse me, but is this yours?’

  The man turned, smiling wanly. ‘It is. Want to buy it?’

  ‘Buy it?’ Biggles spoke as if he didn’t understand.

  ‘Yes, it’s for sale.’

  Biggles put a hand on the bonnet. ‘It’s just been out.’

  ‘It’s just been brought back — like this. Practically a new car, too. It’s one of our hire cars, self-drive. This is what happens.’ The man indicated the damage. ‘But I mustn’t grumble. He paid for it, which is more than some people do.’

  Biggles spoke slowly. ‘I see. What you’re saying is, this brake has just been out on hire?’

  ‘That’s right. Have any trouble with yours?’

  ‘None, thanks. When was the brake taken out?’

  ‘About a fortnight ago.’

  ‘When was it brought back?’

  ‘A bit over an hour ago.’ The man looked at Biggles suspiciously. ‘Why do you want to know?’

  Biggles showed his police badge. ‘We’re police officers.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s like that.’

  ‘Yes. Had the man who hired the brake got a boy with him?’

  ‘Aye. He had.’

  ‘Was this them?’ Biggles showed the photographs.

/>   ‘Aye. That’s them.’

  ‘Do you know where they are now?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. They paid for the car and went off.’

  ‘Had they any luggage?’

  ‘They each had a light case and the boy had a bundle of rods.’

  ‘Was there any talk of them staying in the town or going on to fish somewhere else?’

  ‘They didn’t say a word in front of me.’

  ‘Which way did they go when they left here?’

  The man pointed. ‘Towards the town centre.’

  ‘Was it you, personally, who handed over the brake to them?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘What home address did they give?’

  ‘The man told me they were Canadians over here on a fishing holiday. The only address they could give in this country was the hotel in London where they’d stayed before they came here. We got quite a lot of that nowadays. They said they’d come up from London on the night train and wanted a car to get them around while they were here.’

  ‘What was the name of their hotel in London ?’

  ‘I’ll have to check that.’ The garage proprietor went to his office and presently returned. ‘The Grosvenor.’

  ‘You let them hire a car on the strength of that?’

  ‘Oh no. Since they had no fixed address I had to ask for a deposit. The man paid it without any argument. ‘I’ve just given it back to him, less the cost of the damage. He said he was quite prepared to pay for that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘Well, as that seems to be as much as you can tell us we’ll get along. By the way, just in case they should still be in the district I wouldn’t say anything to anyone about police inquiries. You know how people talk. As far as you’re concerned we’re looking for two friends of ours.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Well, can you beat that?’ growled Eddie, as they walked away. ‘That’s twice we’ve just missed ‘em. It kills me to think that had we sat here instead of tearing off to Tomintoul they’d have walked right into us.’

  ‘It’s always easy to say what might have happened had one done something else,’ said Biggles, dryly. He stopped and continued the conversation on the pavement. ‘Let’s see how things look now. They’ve handed in their car. I take that to mean they’re not staying in Inverness, nor anywhere near it. They’ve gone, and it’s not much use trying to guess where. But as they came from London it would be reasonable to suppose they’ve gone back there. If they’ve gone anywhere else — well, we’d be wasting our time looking for ‘em. They came up by rail so they may go back that way, but if they’re in a hurry they may take the air service south. We could try both — the railway first. If that gets us nowhere we’ll try the air booking office. Of course, there’s always a chance they may be waiting for the night express, in which case they’ll still be somewhere in the town, so keep your eyes open, everyone.’

  CHAPTER 5

  INQUIRIES at the railway station yielded nothing.

  In view of the number of people travelling Biggles was neither surprised nor disappointed when the booking office clerk, behind his little pigeon hole, said he was too busy to notice individuals. At the most he only caught a fleeting glimpse of the passenger and as often as not didn’t see his face at all.

  ‘We’ll wait here for Bertie,’ decided Biggles. ‘If he fails we’ll get a taxi to take us to Dalcross and hit the breeze back to London.’

  Bertie had left the party to make inquiries at the airways booking office.

  Ginger’s eyes, wandering round the general platform, suddenly came to a stop. ‘There are those two men we saw at Tomintoul,’ he observed, without any real interest. ‘You remember, they rolled up in a car just after we did. The driver said they’d come from Aviemore. They appear to be waiting for someone.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Over there, by the barrier of the main line platform, watching the people who are boarding the train. From the way they keep looking over here I fancy they’ve recognized us, too,’ said Ginger who, for the first time, was able to have a good look at them.

  They were an ill-assorted couple. One was a small, slim man, dapper, clean-shaven, thin-lipped, sharp-featured with a darkish skin and dark eyes. He, reasoned Ginger, must have been the one Biggles had referred to as Italian-looking. Unlike his companion, who was somewhat carelessly dressed, he was immaculate in a chalk-striped dark blue suit, the jacket cut with lapels reaching to the bottom button of his waistcoat. On his head, set at a slightly jaunty angle, was a stiff hat with the brim snapped down in front. A flowing necktie might have been a picture of a firework display.

  The other was taller, fair and loose-limbed. The hair that showed round his ears below his hat was sandy. In build he was inclined to be gaunt, with cheeks rather sunken.

  ‘I’m sure I’ve seen that little guy before,’ declared Eddie. ‘I can’t remember where, but I shall get it in a minute.’

  ‘Whoever they are they didn’t come to Scotland to catch salmon,’ remarked Ginger, sarcastically. ‘They’re having a good look at everyone getting on the London train. They’ve also been having a dekko at us.’

  ‘Could be they remember seeing us some place and are wondering where,’ suggested Eddie. ‘I’d bet my life I’d seen that little feller before. Must have been in the States. He couldn’t have got that neckware any place else.’

  ‘They’re coming over,’ said Biggles. ‘I can’t imagine why, but I believe they’re going to speak to us. There’s something queer about that pair. They don’t look like fishers. What were they doing at a place like Tomintoul? But neither do we look like fishermen if it comes to that.’

  Biggles’s belief was quickly confirmed. The two men came over and stopped close, facing them. The tall one spoke. He had a curious accent which struck Ginger as Scottish with an American drawl.

  ‘Are you the gentlemen who were at Tomintoul earlier this morning?’ he inquired.

  ‘That’s right,’ answered Biggles. ‘We were.’

  ‘I thought I wasn’t mistaken.’

  ‘The hotel was full up.’

  The next question was a shocker, but it explained much. ‘Were you by any chance asking about a gentleman named Cornelli? He was there with a boy.’

  Caught absolutely off guard Biggles’s face expressed the astonishment he really felt at the very last question he expected. ‘Cornelli?’ he echoed, to gain time to think. ‘Who’s he?’

  The little man replied. ‘Pal of ours.’ He had a thin, hard voice, which came out of the corner of his mouth. His lips hardly moved.

  ‘Why should you suppose we were asking after a man of that name?’ said Biggles, now over his surprise.

  ‘That’s what we’re asking you, mister.’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you. What made you think I might be interested in a man named Cornelli?’

  ‘The boss of the hotel.’

  ‘Why? What did he say?’

  ‘When we asked him about Cornelli he acted sorta dumb. Said he wasn’t there.’

  ‘Well, he should know.’

  ‘Sure. We said we happened to know he was there.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Then he said he’d gone.’

  ‘But what has all this to do with me?’

  The man answered slowly and deliberately. ‘Then the boss told us some people had just been in who might be able to help us. As you’d just come out we figured he might have meant you. Like I said, Cornelli’s a pal of ours and we aimed to do him a good turn.’

  ‘In that case it’s a pity you can’t find him.’

  The man regarded Biggles with half-closed eyes. ‘You ain’t answered my question, mister.’

  ‘What question?’ asked Biggles, innocently.

  ‘Was it you who was asking after Cornelli?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake,’ cried Biggles impatiently. ‘Why should I be asking questions about a man I’ve never seen in my life? Don’t be ridiculous. Sorry, but I can’t h
elp you. That’s all I have to say.’

  It was Bertie who saved a situation that was fast becoming difficult. He hurried up, took one comprehensive look at the two strangers and tapped Biggles on the shoulder. ‘Excuse me barging in, and all that, but may I speak to you a moment?’ He took Biggles to one side.

  ‘What is it?’ breathed Biggles.

  ‘They’re on their way to London by air. They booked here at the office and said they’d provide their own transport to the aerodrome.’

  ‘What time did the plane leave?’

  ‘It shouldn’t have left yet.’ Bertie snatched a glance at his watch. ‘It’s due to leave the ground in a quarter of an hour.’

  ‘If we can get a taxi we might just catch it. See if you can find one. I’ll bring the others along.’

  Bertie dashed off.

  ‘Come on, you chaps,’ Biggles said sharply to Ginger and Eddie.

  ‘What’s the hurry?’ said the Italian-looking man.

  ‘We’ve got an appointment.’

  Leaving the two men staring after them Biggles led the way briskly to the station yard where, to his great satisfaction, he saw Bertie standing by a car.

  ‘I’ve told the driver where we want to go,’ informed Bertie, as they all scrambled into the vehicle.

  ‘Did you tell him it was urgent?’

  ‘I told him we wanted to catch the London plane.’

  ‘Did he think he could do it?’ asked Biggles, as the car moved off.

  ‘No, but he’s willing to try.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  On the ten mile run to the aerodrome Biggles told Bertie the gist of the conversation with the two strangers at the station. ‘It seems,’ he concluded, ‘that we’re not the only people looking for Cornelli. I don’t understand it. Those two men seemed to know as much, if not more, than we do about him. What knocks me flat is that they should track him to Tomintoul, of all places in the world.’