Biggles Investigates

  CONTENTS

  BIGGLES INVESTIGATES

  A RING O’ ROSES

  THE LONG CHASE

  A MATTER OF CO-OPERATION

  BIGGLES CRACKS A NUT

  THE BIRTHDAY PRESENT

  THE CASE OF THE AMATEUR YACHTSMEN

  THE BOY WHO WATCHED THE PLANES GO BY

  BIGGLES INVESTIGATES

  Air Commodore Raymond, Chief of the Air Police Section at Scotland Yard, looked up from his desk as, after a tap on the door, Biggles walked in.

  ‘You sent for me, sir,’ said Biggles.

  There’s an aircraft lying on its back in a field near the village of Upgates, in Wiltshire,’ stated the Air Commodore. ‘I’d like you to go down and have a look at it. You’ll find it on a farm called Fennels.’

  Biggles looked mildly surprised. ‘Is there something special about it, sir?’

  ‘Very much so. It’s a foreigner; a Spaniard, to be precise, if my information is correct.’

  Biggles’ eyebrows went higher. ‘Spanish! Was it on an official visit?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what the devil is it doing here?’

  ‘That’s what I’d like you to tell me. The Spanish Government might be able to tell us, but that would take time.’

  ‘What’s the type?’

  ‘I don’t know. You should recognize it. Apparently it’s a Spanish Air Force job. It wears military markings.’

  ‘What has the pilot to say about it?’

  ‘Nothing, for the simple reason that he can’t be found.’

  ‘He must have been lucky and got away with it. He shouldn’t be hard to find. He can’t be far away. Who found the crash?’

  ‘The pilot of a Fleet Air Arm helicopter, on an early morning cross-country training flight, spotted it lying in a big field. He made a signal to his station, whereupon the ambulance was sent out. As no body could be found it went home again. The station officer phoned the local police to put a guard on the machine and informed the Accidents Branch at the Air Ministry. They phoned me to see if I knew anything about it. If you want to see it you’d better hurry because the Inspector of Accidents is going down, so it won’t be long before a break-down party arrives to clear up the mess.’

  ‘Do you happen to know the name of the man who owns the land on which the machine was found? I might want to have a word with him.’

  ‘He’s a sheep farmer named Diverton. His place is about two miles south of Upgates.’

  ‘I’ll slip along right away,’ said Biggles. ‘How on earth could a Spaniard have got here? Even a pupil on his first solo could hardly have lost his way to that extent. Last night was fair; practically no cloud.’

  ‘I was thinking the same thing. But we must remember the aircraft was only found this morning, shortly after daybreak; for all we know it may have been lying there for some days.’

  ‘That doesn’t strike me as likely. Most farmers, or an employee, covers the ground at least once a day. However, I’ll see what I can make of it.’

  Biggles returned to his own office where Police Pilot Bertie Lissie was alone on duty. ‘There’s an aircraft lying on its back in a field in Wiltshire. The Chief wants me to have a look at it. I shall fly down. If you feel like coming with me we can leave a chit for Ginger saying where we’ve gone. He should soon be in so he can hold the fort while we’re away. Let’s get along. I’ll give you the gen, as much as is known so far, as we go.’

  Less than two hours later an Air Police Auster was losing height as it circled over a low-wing monoplane, lying in a big pasture, showing the undersides of its wings. A man in police uniform was standing beside it.

  Biggles landed, taxied close to the wreck, got out and made himself known to the constable, who must have had a sense of humour, for he remarked: ‘This is a queer bird, sir. Never saw one with feathers this colour before.’

  By ‘feathers’ he must have meant the red and yellow Spanish military ring markings.

  Biggles agreed it was a rare specimen. ‘Has anyone been here?’ he inquired.

  ‘Not since I came on.’

  ‘How about Mr Diverton, who I believe owns this land? Hasn’t he been over?’

  ‘Not since I arrived. I called at the farm when I left my bike there, but his wife said he had gone to market. That’s his house, over there.’ The officer pointed.

  ‘I take it you’re from Upgates?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘What do you know about Mr Diverton?’

  ‘Not much. Nice feller, what little I’ve seen of him. He hasn’t been here long. Moved in last Michaelmas twelve-month. Keeps himself pretty much to himself.’

  Biggles nodded and proceeded with his inspection of the aircraft, taking time over it.

  ‘Am I right in guessing it’s a Hispano D.1?’ said Bertie, as they moved slowly round the machine, a two-seater.

  ‘Dead right. It’s classified, I believe, as an Advanced Trainer. If my memory serves me it has a range of a bit over eight hundred miles, so it could have got here from Spain without an intermediate landing. The pilot was flying solo.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Look at the safety belts.’

  The front one was hanging loose as if the pilot had unfastened it in order to drop out. The rear one was secured tightly across the seat showing it had not been used.

  Biggles went on. ‘I can’t see a passenger, having got out, going to the trouble of refastening the belt.’ By lying flat on his back he was able to get below the cockpit and examine it. He felt in the usual pocket in the instrument panel. Then he slithered out and stood up.

  ‘Find anything?’ queried Bertie.

  ‘Nothing. Not a paper of any sort — not even a map.’

  ‘That’s a bit odd.’

  ‘The whole thing’s odd. In fact, I’d say there’s something unnatural about it. If the pilot was able to walk away he must have been damn lucky, that’s all I can say. Look at it. If the cowling hadn’t been strong enough to take the weight of the machine he’d have been trapped. And that isn’t all. Even if he wasn’t hurt in the crash he could only have got out by dropping on his head.’

  Bertie went on. ‘He must have been ham-fisted. He had all the room in the world to get on the carpet, even with a groggy engine, yet he had to end up like this.’

  ‘You’ve put your finger on something else that puzzles me,’ declared Biggles. ‘It takes something to turn a machine, even a small type like this, completely over on its back. Only by being brought to a sudden stop would it do that.’

  ‘Jammed brakes, causing the wheels to seize up, would do it.’

  ‘But the brakes aren’t jammed.’ Biggles reached up and spun a wheel to prove it. ‘With plenty of room in front to run on there was no need to use brakes anyway. Had the machine come in at too steep an angle there would have been a real crack-up. The wheels would have buckled and the tyres burst. That didn’t happen. This machine stopped with a jolt, yet there’s practically no damage. I don’t understand it.’

  While speaking Biggles had gone to the front of the aircraft and was examining closely the undercarriage struts which, of course, were pointing to the sky. He looked again at each one in turn, even more closely, a strange expression creeping over his face. He gazed across the field to the left, where it ended in a thickset hedge; then to the right, where it was bounded by an area of rough gorse and broom.

  ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said quietly. ‘The man responsible for this knew something about war flying.’

  Bertie looked astonished. ‘How the deuce did you work that out?’

  Biggles ignored the question. ‘Come over here,’ he said, walking towards the gorse. Reaching it he took a course roughly parallel with it, zigzagg
ing, eyes on the ground.

  ‘Are you looking for something?’ asked Bertie, unnecessarily.

  ‘Yes. You can help me to find it. Somewhere about here there could be a hole in the ground.’

  ‘A hole? What sort of hole?’

  ‘The sort of hole that would be made by a stake having been driven well in.’

  ‘Why here, particularly?’

  ‘I’m working on the angle the machine is lying, assuming the pilot knew what he was doing when he tried to get down.’

  Within a minute Bertie was saying: ‘Here we are. Is this what we’re looking for?’ He pointed at the ground near his feet.

  Biggles looked at the hole, about three inches in diameter. ‘That’s it. With a little patience we should be able to get this buttoned up. Now let’s try over the other side.’

  He walked right across the field, taking a line on the aircraft, to the hedge on the far side. ‘See if you can find me another hole like the last one,’ he requested. ‘There may be several, but there should be one here.’

  In less than five minutes they had found it — an identical hole.

  ‘Would you mind telling me what all this is about?’ asked Bertie, plaintively.

  ‘Use your head. You can see what I can see. I don’t know the answers yet; but I can tell you there’s more to this than meets the eye.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘The machine lying over there was expected by someone on the ground, someone who didn’t want it here and was prepared to do some dirty work to stop it. And, by thunder, that’s just what he did.’

  ‘Did what?’

  ‘He stopped it.’

  ‘Who stopped it?’

  ‘Ah! That’s the big question. Hello, here come the RAF boys to take over. I shall have to ask them to leave the crash as it is for the time being. There’s some evidence on it. It’s time we had a word with Mr Diverton. According to the constable that’s his house on the far side of the gorse bushes. You can just see the chimney. The machine lies on our way, so I’ll have a word with the officer in charge of the working party as we go past.’

  As the farm appeared when they had breasted a slight fold in the ground it was a small, fairly modern, very ordinary brick house, unattractive, with no outstanding feature, obviously having been built with economy as the first consideration. It was reached from some distant road by a narrow, muddy lane. There were the usual wooden barns and other outbuildings, and an odd tree here and there.

  To reach the lane it was necessary to pass through the gorse bushes, about an acre of them; but this presented no difficulty, a well-worn sheep track which by-passed the thickest growths offering an easy route. Several times as they made their way through the thorny shrubs Biggles left the track to snatch a glance between them. Once he kicked up a loose turf, considered it for a moment and then replaced it. He said nothing.

  They came to the nearest barn, between them and the house. It was a rather ramshackle structure of tarred boards with a corrugated iron roof. The double doors were shut. After a glance in the direction of the house Biggles opened one of them to reveal the usual clutter of farm implements, tools used for hedging and ditching and coils of sheep wire.

  Still Biggles did not comment. They went on to strike the lane a little distance from the house just as a motor vehicle appeared round a bend. It turned out to be a baker’s van, as a notice on the side of it proclaimed. They stood aside, close against a hedge that followed the lane, to allow it to go past.

  ‘Stand still. I’d like to watch this,’ said Biggles.

  The van stopped at the door. The driver put some loaves in his basket and delivered them. A woman took in the bread but did not close the door. The baker’s man returned to his van, put two more loaves in his basket and went back to the door, which was afterwards shut. The driver reversed his car, and would have continued on his way home had not Biggles raised a hand to stop him.

  ‘How often do you deliver here?’ inquired Biggles.

  ‘Three times a week. Monday, Wednesday and Saturday,’ was the reply.

  ‘Thanks,’ returned Biggles. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

  The van went on its way.

  To Bertie Biggles said: ‘Let’s try our luck at the house.’

  They went to the door. Biggles knocked. It was opened by a dark-eyed, low-browed woman of middle age, dressed entirely in black, who, when she was younger, must have been strikingly handsome.

  Biggles raised his hat. ‘Buenos dias,’ he said politely.

  ‘Buen—’ The woman broke off abruptly. ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I said good morning,’ answered Biggles pleasantly. ‘Is Mr Diverton at home?’

  ‘No. He’s away at market.’

  ‘What time are you expecting him back?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wanted to speak to him about the plane that crashed on his land.’

  ‘I don’t know when he’ll be home.’

  ‘Are you Mrs Diverton?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Is there another man in the house who might answer one or two questions?’

  ‘There’s no one else here.’

  ‘Very well. I’ll call back later.’

  The door was closed.

  Biggles walked back a little way along the lane, found a seat on a fallen tree and lit a cigarette. ‘This begins to add up,’ he said quietly, as Bertie sat beside him.

  ‘Mrs Diverton didn’t say much.’

  ‘She said enough. She’s Spanish, so ruling out coincidence I’m pretty sure she’s the hook-up with the plane. She knows all about it.’

  ‘How do you know she’s Spanish?’

  ‘In the first place she looked it, every inch of her. I must admit I wasn’t prepared for that. On the spur of the moment I tricked her into admitting it. As you must have noticed I said good morning in Spanish, and she, from sheer force of habit, started to answer in the same language. Then she thought better of it and switched to English. But it was too late. She had told me all I wanted to know. She knew what I said. She has something to hide or she would have been delighted to have a chance to air her mother tongue. She lied to me, anyway.’

  ‘Lied?’

  The baker first took three loaves to the door. I counted them as he put them in his basket. That I imagine is the usual order. But it wasn’t enough. The baker had to fetch two more. He delivers three times a week. She said there was no one else in the house. Don’t ask me to believe that two people, the lady and her husband, eat five loaves in less than two days. Oh no. There’s someone else in that house.’

  ‘The missing pilot of the plane?’

  ‘Possibly, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Why are we waiting here?’

  ‘For Diverton. He may tell me the truth. Maybe he won’t. If he refuses to talk our next move will be difficult. We have a tricky problem facing us, and, I’m afraid, a nasty one. I may be wrong, but, although there are still one or two gaps, I believe I have a broad idea of what happened here last night. I’m considering going back to headquarters to report and leave the decision to the Chief.’ Biggles smiled faintly. ‘Alternatively I could pass the buck to the local police and leave them to finish the job.’

  ‘If that’s how you feel, old boy, now’s your chance. This looks like a police car coming up the lane.’

  The car came on, to stop when Biggles raised a hand. In it was a uniformed inspector with a constable at the wheel.

  Said Biggles: ‘Are you the District Inspector?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You’re here about the plane crash?’

  ‘That’s right. Who are you?’

  Biggles produced his identity card. ‘I was sent down by my headquarters to look over the machine. There may be a political angle.’

  The inspector got out.

  Biggles went on: ‘The RAF have arrived to dismantle it and take it away, but I’ve told the officer in charge to leave it alone for the time being. There are one or two things you should se
e.’

  ‘Couldn’t I have found them for myself?’

  ‘You might overlook them. I happen to be an aviation specialist.’

  ‘I see. I heard the plane was a foreigner. You seem to take a serious view of it.’

  ‘I do now.’

  The inspector looked dubious. ‘Plane crashes are common enough.’

  ‘Not this sort.’

  ‘What’s so unusual about it?’

  ‘It wasn’t an accident.’

  ‘Oh! Then what was it?’

  ‘Murder — or possibly manslaughter.’

  The inspector stared. ‘Murder, eh. Are you sure of this?’

  ‘That’s how it looks to me.’

  ‘What were you doing when I came along?’

  ‘Waiting for Mr Diverton to come home from market. I’m hoping he’ll be able to help us. In fact, I’m sure he could, if he would, but he may be hard to pin down. Do you know him?’

  ‘I’ve met him one or twice. I believe he’s well liked in the district. Takes an interest in the ex-service men’s associations, and so on.’

  ‘Do you happen to know if he ever served in the RAF?’

  ‘I’ve never heard that.’

  ‘Never mind. We’ll ask him when he comes home.’

  ‘Who’s in the house now?’

  ‘Only his wife. So she says. But I have reason to doubt it.’

  ‘Who else could there be?’

  ‘Frankly, I have no idea; but I’d wager there’s a man in the house at this moment. At this stage I’d prefer not to guess.’

  ‘Why should Mrs Diverton lie about it?’

  ‘That’s what we have to find out.’

  ‘Could it be the pilot of the plane? I hear he hasn’t been found.’

  ‘Possibly. But before we go any further please understand that I’m not trying to take this out of your hands. What I suggest is, I’ll show you one or two things which, as a pilot myself, I’ve noticed. Then we’ll see Diverton together. Of course, if you’d prefer to act on your own—’

  ‘No — no. You’re the expert. I’m always willing to take advice from someone who knows his job.’

  ‘Good. I hoped you’d take it like that. We’ll have a look at certain evidence that has caught my eye. Then we’ll see what explanation Diverton has to offer. You might leave the questions to me in the first instance because they may involve technical aviation.’