Biggles and the Poor Rich Boy

by W E Johns

  They learned nothing at the hotel. One of the staff, on duty outside, said he had two or three times seen a Rolls go through, but as he knew nothing about it that did not help them.

  They went on to Newtonmore and there, at the station, Biggles’s appraisal of the situation was more or less confirmed. The porter on duty distinctly remembered a man answering to Cornelli’s description getting off. He had given up his ticket, which was for Inverness.

  ‘You’re the second lot of people I’ve had here asking questions about that gentleman,’ said the porter, who may have been wondering what all this was about.

  Biggles described Carlo Salvatore. The porter had a vague idea that he had seen such a boy going fishing, but he knew no more.

  And Biggles led the way to the Balavil Arms, the chief hotel, he remarked: ‘From now on we’d better go warily. Cornelli can’t be far away; neither can the Viper, who’s following the same trail as we are.’

  At the door of the hotel they encountered a man doing some cleaning, apparently one of the staff. He knew of no one named Cornelli, but when Biggles mentioned a Rolls Royce he said at once: ‘You must mean Major Grey.’

  ‘That’s right,’ returned Biggles quickly. ‘Is he staying here?’

  The man shook his head. ‘Na. Not this time. He has stayed with us once or twice, that’s how I know him. But he isn’t with us this year.’

  ‘Do you happen to know where he is staying?’

  ‘Na. Canna’ be far away because I’ve seen his car aboot.’

  ‘Do you know where he’s fishing — what beat he’s on?’

  ‘Na.’ The man scratched his head. ‘I don’t think it can be the Spey or I’d have known. I know who’s on most of the beats because mostly it’s the same party year after year. I remember the Major saying to me last year he thought of going somewhere else. The water was awa’ to nothing and he couldna touch a fush.’

  ‘You don’t remember him saying where he thought of going?’

  ‘Na.’

  Biggles described Carlo.

  ‘Aye, I’ve seen the laddie aboot.’

  ‘Was this him?’ Biggles showed Carlo’s photograph.

  ‘Aye, that’s the laddie, richt enough,’ returned the man without hesitation. ‘I saw him once with Major Grey.’

  ‘He isn’t staying here, at the hotel?’

  ‘Na. But he might be at one of the others.’ The man pointed at a figure striding up the road. ‘Yon’s the gentleman you want to ask. He knows where everyone’s fishing.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Mr Grant.’

  ‘How does he know?’

  ‘He’s the water bailiff.’

  ‘Thanks,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘I’ll speak to him. He may be able to help us.’

  Biggles intercepted the river official. ‘Good morning, Mr Grant. May I have a word with you?’

  ‘Surely,’ was the courteous reply.

  ‘Do you know a boy named Cornelli? I believe he’s fishing somewhere in the neighbourhood.’

  ‘I canna say I know the name.’

  ‘Do you know Major Grey?’

  ‘Aye. I ken him fine. I’ve known him for many a year. A very nice gentleman. He casts a grand fly.’

  ‘Do you know what part of the Spey he’s fishing?’

  ‘He’s no fishing the Spey.’

  ‘But he’s somewhere near.’

  ‘Aye. He’s on the Tromie.’

  ‘What’s the Tromie — a loch?’

  ‘No — no. She’s a tributary of Spey.’

  ‘Where is it, exactly?’

  ‘Not far away.’ The bailiff pointed. ‘She joins Spey yonder.’

  ‘Is there a road?’

  ‘I wouldna say a road. A track, you could call it, to Tromie Lodge. It’s a private road, ye ken, to the Lodge.’

  ‘Is this a fairly long river?’

  ‘Aye. Fair. She rises in Loch Seilich, way back in yon hills, the Cairngorms.’

  ‘There would be a chance of finding Major Grey on the river?’

  ‘Aye, I’d think that. He’ll be on the water, no doubt. It’s a grand day for fishing. If he isn’t on the river he’ll be at the Lodge.’

  ‘Do you mean he’s staying at the Lodge?’

  ‘Aye, he’s taken it for the season, I hear.’

  ‘There would be no objection to me walking up the river bank?’

  ‘None at all. But ye canna fish, ye ken, without the Major’s permission. It’s private water.’

  ‘I understand that. As it happens I don’t want to fish. Where, on the river, do you think the Major would be most likely to fish?’

  The bailiff pursed his lips and glanced at the sky. ‘After the fine spell of weather the river will be a wee bit thin, and clear, so you’ll be likely to find him trying the rough water below the lynn.’

  Biggles smiled. ‘Forgive the ignorance of a stranger but what do you call the lynn?’

  ‘You’d call it a waterfall, I’m thinkin’.’

  ‘And how far up the river is that?’

  ‘Six or seven miles.’

  Biggles grimaced. ‘As far as that. And how far to the loch?’

  ‘Twelve miles or a bit more.’

  ‘Do the salmon get above the lynn?’

  ‘Aye, they do that, up to the loch.’

  ‘Then the Major might be fishing the loch.’

  ‘Aye. There’s a boat kept there. But there won’t be many fish up as far as that yet. It’s full early. The fish go right up to spawn and they usually wait at the lynn for heavy water. The beasties canna’ climb over the rocks when they’re dry.’

  ‘I see. Well, thank you very much, Mr Grant, for being so helpful.’

  ‘’Tis a pleasure. Good morning, gentlemen.’ The water bailiff strode on about his business of watching for poachers or illegal methods of killing fish.

  Biggles turned, looking from Eddie to Bertie. ‘Where’s Ginger?’ he asked, seeing that he was not there.

  Bertie answered. ‘He walked off suddenly about a minute ago.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Behind those old houses — down there.’ Bertie pointed. ‘He said he’d be back in a jiffy.’

  Biggles frowned. ‘Why does he want to disappear at this moment?’ he muttered irritably. ‘It looks as if we’ve a long hike in front of us if we’re to walk the length of this river — what did he call it — the Tromie. If that’s where Carlo is fishing with Major Grey, as seems likely, it explains why no one has seen him on the Spey. And if Grey has invited Carlo to stay at his lodge with him we’ve been wasting our time chasing round all these hotels. What the devil is Ginger playing at? We can’t move off without him.’

  Ginger was not playing. Anything but that. He had just had the shock of his life. What happened was this. Standing behind Biggles listening to the conversation with the water bailiff his eyes wandered idly over the scene just beyond. He was not looking at, or for, anything in particular. In fact, he was listening intently to the conversation, but rather than stare at the Scot who was speaking he looked anywhere but at him. Far from there being anything unusual about this it is a common practice with people who prefer not to embarrass a stranger by looking him straight in the face unless one is actually speaking.

  At first there was not a soul in sight, but after a while a man appeared, walking quickly as if on a definite errand, in a lane by some stone buildings. What these buildings were Ginger did not know. He had not the slightest interest in them. The man had appeared from somewhere behind them, perhaps forty or fifty yards away. Ginger merely noted the man casually as he looked towards them and then turned sharply back to where he had come from. But in that moment Ginger’s interest had been aroused. The first thought that sprang into his mind was that he had seen the man before, somewhere. He couldn’t recall where. Then, with a mild shock, it struck him that the man looked remarkably like the one they were looking for, Cornelli. In the ordinary way he would have passed this information on to Biggles immediately, but i
t so happened that he was at that precise moment speaking to the bailiff, and rather than break in he strode off to make sure he had not been mistaken. He had only caught a brief glimpse of the man, and that at some little distance away. It might, he thought, be as well to confirm his impression before sparking off an alarm that could hardly fail to arouse the bailiff’s curiosity as to what they were doing. Saying quietly to Bertie, ‘I’ll be back in a jiffy,’ he strode off, and a minute later reached the corner of the buildings behind which he had seen the man disappear. He took no precautions against being seen, seeing no reason to do so, but walked boldly and briskly in the hope of catching sight of the man before he disappeared altogether.

  Without altering his pace he swung round the corner, instantly to be stopped with a jerk and a gasp as something hard was thrust into the pit of his stomach.

  ‘Keepa walking,’ said a thin, hard voice.

  Ginger looked up into the dark, expressionless face of Cesare Paola, the gangster who now called himself Cornelli. Looking down he saw that the object that had been pushed into his stomach with unnecessary force was the muzzle of an automatic pistol.

  ‘I said to keepa walking,’ repeated Cornelli, softly, but with intense deliberation.

  Ginger did not move. He looked at the face with its dead-pan expression and the smouldering eyes of a killer.

  It is all very well to say what he should, or might have done, at that moment. In these days of armed robbery an increasing number of people have been faced with the same problem; to obey or to resist. The question that inevitably arises is, will he shoot or is he bluffing? Most people, wisely perhaps, do not put the matter to test. The problem arises even when the assailant is unknown, possibly masked. That did not apply here. Ginger knew the man and his reputation. Cornelli did not carry a gun to support his courage or merely as a threat. He had killed men with that same gun, and would, Ginger did not doubt, do so again should it become necessary. That was his business.

  What caused Ginger to hesitate was the fact that his friends were within call, a circumstance which, if he obeyed the order to walk, might not be repeated.

  ‘Walk,’ rasped Cornelli again, in a voice even more menacing than before.

  Ginger shrugged, and deciding that here discretion might be the better part of valour, obeyed. Argument would obviously be futile, and in any case one can’t argue with empty hands when the other fellow holds a gun at a range of inches. He might get a chance to do something later. So he set off down a lane in the direction indicated, Cornelli so close beside him that anyone watching would not see the gun still pressed against his ribs.

  Not that there was anyone in sight. All was still and quiet on a fine summer day. Birds sang. Bees hummed. Ginger and his unwelcome companion might have been two dear friends out for a stroll.

  The way, with the houses now behind them, sloped gently downhill towards the river, glimpses of which could occasionally be seen through gaps in a long stand of old Scots pines that occupied the brae and filled the air with the fragrant tang of resin. Into these the lane ran on, fast dwindling to a track. There was no undergrowth except for some straggling bracken here and there, so no chance to make a break and hide.

  ‘In here,’ said Cornelli. ‘I guess this’ll do.’

  He left the track and entered the pine wood.

  Underfoot the ground lay deep in dead pine needles, spotted with humps of grey-green moss. On this carpet footsteps made no sound.

  Deep in the wood Cornelli stopped and faced his prisoner. ‘Now, smart guy, talka quick and plenty,’ he ordered, coldly.

  CHAPTER 14

  GINGER ON A SPOT

  GINGER looked at Cornelli uncomprehendingly. ‘Talk?* he echoed. ‘What about?’

  ‘Donta give me dat line, copper. I’m waitin’, and I ain’t got no time to waste.’

  ‘Copper? What are you talking about?’ Ginger tried the bluff although he knew it was a flimsy one. ‘What gives you the idea I’m a copper?’

  Cornelli leered. ‘I can smell a copper a mile off. Why else you follow me around? Quit stalling and start talkin’.’

  ‘What am I supposed to talk about?’

  ‘De kid. Where is he?’

  Ginger’s lips parted in astonishment that was genuine. ‘Are you asking me?’

  ‘Sure I’m askin’ you. I speeka da English plain, don’ I?’ In spite of his long residence in the United States Cornelli had not lost his native accent.

  Ginger decided that to deny knowledge of the boy would be futile. Cornelli obviously knew who he was and what he was doing there. ‘How should I know where the boy is?’ he demanded, with asperity. ‘If anyone should know where he is it’s you.’

  ‘So you play dumb, eh?’ Cornelli made a threatening movement with his gun. ‘Okay, copper. Have it your way.’

  ‘Are you crazy? What makes you think I know where the boy is?’ protested Ginger. ‘You brought him here. We didn’t.’

  ‘Sure I brought him. Why you come here?’

  ‘We were looking for the boy. I’m not denying that. But so far we haven’t found him.’

  ‘For what you want him?’

  ‘To take him back to his father. What else?’

  Cornelli’s saturnine face creased in a cynical smile that sent a cold shiver down Ginger’s spine. ‘So dat’s de lay. He donta go back. Not never. After all I do for dat kid he run away. Where you got him now?’

  ‘You’re out of your mind. We haven’t got him. I’ve already told you we haven’t been able to find him. If we’d found him do you suppose we’d still be here? We’d be on our way back to London.’

  This argument seemed to carry some weight. ‘You figger he’s still here some place?’

  ‘Of course we do, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Can’t you understand that?’

  ‘How come you tink he’s around here some place?’

  ‘Because you came here.’

  ‘How you know I come here?’

  ‘Because this is where you got off the London train.’

  ‘So you know dat. Smart. Sure, you’re smart.’

  ‘Naturally, we assumed it was somewhere near here that you’d left the boy when you went to London. You see, I’m being quite frank about it.’ Ginger was being frank because he could see no reason to be otherwise.

  ‘Sure I left de kid here, but he ain’t where I left him.’

  ‘For which reason you think we found him. Forget it. I only wish you were right.’

  By this time Ginger had grasped the situation. Cornelli had lost the boy, and now, like they themselves, was looking for him. He could have laughed at the irony of it. Feeling there now seemed a chance of turning the position to his own advantage he went on: ‘Am I right in thinking that when you dashed off to London you left the boy here in lodgings?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘You told him to go on fishing?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And when you came back today he’d disappeared?’

  ‘Sure. Dat’s right.’

  ‘So you jumped to the conclusion that we’d found him?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Well, you’re wrong. It’s my guess he’s still fishing.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Why ask me? Didn’t he leave a message at his lodgings?’

  ‘No. He goes out and he donta come back.’

  ‘Maybe you came back before he expected you.’

  ‘So dat’s how you figger it.’

  ‘Meanwhile he found a place where the fish were more obliging.’

  Cornelli did not answer. His quandary was plain to see.

  ‘You’ve only to wait at the place where you left him and sooner or later he’ll come back,’ suggested Ginger. ‘That is, unless he’s found a playmate who takes more interest in fishing than you do,’ he added, slyly.

  Cornelli’s eyes narrowed. ‘Whata you mean by dat? What you know? Come clean.’

  ‘I’m saying what I think may have happened.’ Actually, Ginger was now fair
ly certain that this was what had in fact upset Cornelli’s apple-cart. Realizing he was getting on dangerous ground he went on quickly: ‘If you’re still hoping to find the boy you’ll have to be quick about it.’

  ‘So you still figger to find him — ha? You be wise and keep outa dis. I don’t stand for no monkey business from cops.’ Cornelli’s tone had become vicious.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of myself,’ returned Ginger, evenly.

  ‘Who else you tink of?’

  ‘The Viper.’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘He’s gunning for you. He says you double-crossed him. If it hadn’t been for us he’d have got you at the landing stage at Loch Ness.’

  ‘He donta find me.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure of that. He’s here, with his pal.’

  ‘Mack?’

  ‘I don’t know his name. Tall fellow. Looks a bit and talks a bit like a Scot.’

  ‘Sure. Dat’s Mack. Talks plenty about dis dump where he came from, fishing and all dat.’

  ‘Is that why you brought the boy here?’

  ‘Quit asking questions. You’re so wise, where’s de Viper now?’

  ‘I’ve told you. He’s here.’

  Cornelli frowned. ‘You mean right here.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean. And he knows you’re here.’

  ‘How come he knows? You tell him, you—’

  For an instant, from the expression on Cornelli’s face, Ginger thought he was going to shoot. ‘Don’t be dumb. Why should I tell him?’ he said quickly. ‘He followed you. He was on the same train as you when you left London. Didn’t you know that?’

  Cornelli obviously did not know. For once his self-control slipped and he looked shaken.

  Ginger, seeing that he had got in a blow followed it up, now speaking with more confidence. ‘We knew you were on that train because the police in London were tailing you. They rang us up at Inverness and told us. We met the train there. You weren’t on it. Neither were the Viper and Mack. We worked it out that you’d got off at one of the stations on the Spey and the Viper spotted you on the platform. We know he got out at the next station and came back. He can’t be far away, so if you’ve live ammunition in that gun you’d better save it for him. Now you know as much as I do.’