Biggles Cuts It Fine Read online

  “I’m sorry to ask so many questions, but this is a serious matter,” went on Biggles apologetically. “Could you give me a description of these men Robinson was with?”

  “Well, I really didn’t pay much attention,” admitted the sailor. “It’s true I had a second look at ‘em, because I could see from the cut of their jibs that they weren’t sailors, and I wondered what their game was, chumming up with a deck hand. I mean to say, they were a bit too well dressed to have any honest business at the dockside. They were both about forty, I’d say, and wore dark suits. One was a stocky sort of bloke. The other was taller, and thin, with prominent cheek bones, as if he could do with a square meal.”

  “You didn’t catch any of the conversation?”

  “No. They were talking when I went in, but they closed up like oysters when they clapped eyes on me, as if Robinson might have told them I was off his ship.”

  “I see,” said Biggles, in an expressionless voice. “Thanks for what you’ve told me. If Robinson should turn up, you might send word to police headquarters.”

  “He’ll have to buck up if he’s coming with us,” said the skipper. “We’re going out on the tide.”

  Biggles nodded. “In that case you probably won’t see him. So long. Thanks again.”

  Worried and depressed he walked back to the taxi and told the driver to take him to the airport hotel, where they were lodging, and where he expected to find the others waiting for him.

  That Robinson was in trouble he did not doubt. What he couldn’t understand was why Algy had failed to obey his cabled instructions. At all events, he felt sure that Algy hadn’t spoken to Robinson or the man wouldn’t have been such a fool as to associate with strangers in a low public house. Again, even if Algy had looked for him and failed to find him he would almost certainly have gone to the captain of his ship to ask where he was. Clearly, Algy hadn’t been to the ship to make inquiries or the skipper would have mentioned it. It was true that Algy hadn’t acknowledged his cable; but then he hadn’t asked him to, thinking it unnecessary. Moreover, it might have been difficult to get a message through while he, Biggles, was in transit.

  With these perplexing questions on his mind, Biggles paid off his driver, and picking up his bag went in to the hotel, fully expecting to find the others waiting for him in the vestibule. Indeed, he had thought they might be at the airport, for they would know the scheduled time of the arrival of the London plane. Not seeing them, he went on to the reception desk. “Do you happen to know if my friends are in?” he asked the girl in charge, who knew him well by sight.

  “No, they’re not here,” was the disappointing reply.

  “Any message for me?”

  The girl glanced at the pigeonhole above the number of Biggles’ room. “No, nothing.”

  For the first time Biggles experienced a wave of uneasiness. “When did you last see my friends?”

  “Now you mention it, I don’t remember seeing them for two or three days,” was the staggering reply. “It would be—let me see—yes, Thursday when they went out. That’s right. They asked to be called early.”

  “And they haven’t been back?”

  “I haven’t seen them. In fact, they couldn’t have come home because there’s a cable here for Mr. Lacey. It came after they’d gone.”

  “Mind if I look at it?”

  The girl handed it over.

  Biggles tore it open. It was, as he knew it must be, his own message to Algy. Algy had never received it. It had missed him. That explained the position with regard to Robinson.

  Biggles gave the receptionist a wan smile. “Thanks,” he said. “I’ll leave my bag here for the moment. I’m coming back.”

  It was now nearly dark. Weary from his long journey and now definitely upset, he called a cab and went to the marine airport. A single Sunderland floated at its moorings. He called to a maintenance official who knew him. “When did the other Sunderland leave?”

  “A couple of days ago, as near as I can remember. Took off about daybreak.”

  This, confirming the receptionist’s story, told Biggles all he needed to know. The machine had gone out and it hadn’t returned. That could only mean something had gone wrong.

  Algy, he was sure, wouldn’t stay out all night unless compelled by circumstances beyond his control. Obviously, he was not coming back tonight, either.

  For a little while Biggles stood there, staring unseeingly across the dark water. On the face of it there was nothing he could do until daylight. To look for the missing aircraft in the dark would be futile. But he felt he had to do something. Making his way back to his cab, which he had told to wait, an idea occurred to him, although he was not optimistic about its outcome. He told the driver to take him to police headquarters. Entering, he asked for the Chief Inspector, and having introduced himself, showing his papers, inquired if by any chance a body had been picked up during the past week. He was thinking, of course, of Robinson, whose presumed fate was now pressing heavily on his conscience.

  “Yes, we did pick up a chap,” answered the inspector. “Looked like a sailor. He had nothing on him by which he could be identified.”

  “Dead?”

  “No, but mighty near it.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Thin, about twenty. Might have been through a rough time.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “In the harbour.”

  “What has happened to him?”

  “Someone had coshed him on the skull and tipped him in the water. He was lucky. One of the harbour watchers was baling his dinghy when he heard a splash, and looking up saw a car making off. Thinking it looked fishy, he rowed over and pulled out a body just as it was sinking. The fellow is still unconscious; fractured skull, I believe. As I say, we know nothing about him. We’re waiting for him to wake up and tell us.”

  “Where is he?”

  “In the general hospital.”

  “Mind if I have a look at him?”

  “Think you may know him?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll run you along.”

  “Thanks.”

  A police car took them to the hospital, and a minute or two later Biggles was looking at the corpse-like face of the man he had picked up on Possession Island. He was shaven, and his hair had been cut, but there was no mistaking the emaciated face and little pinched-in nose.

  Biggles turned sombre eyes to the police officer. “Yes, it’s the man I thought it might be,” he confirmed. To the nurse who had brought them to the bed, he said: “How is he?”

  “Pretty bad, but the doctor thinks he has a chance.”

  “I see. Thank you, nurse.” Biggles turned to the inspector. “That’s all.”

  Outside on the pavement he explained. “His name’s Robinson—Alfred Robinson—of Wapping, London. He’s a sailor. He’s had a tough time. He was booked to go home on the Lady Alice. She must have sailed by now.”

  “Who’d be likely to crack his skull and why?”

  “Strictly between ourselves, I’d say Russian secret agents. Although he’s quite unaware of it, the unfortunate fellow, by the merest chance, happens to know more than is good for his health.”

  “So it seems,” answered the inspector grimly. He threw a sidelong glance at Biggles. “What’s going on?”

  “Sorry, but I can’t tell you any more for the moment,” replied Biggles apologetically. “It’s top secret in London.”

  “Is this what brought you here?”

  “Yes. But I may not be here tomorrow—or the next day. I’ll look you up when I get back. Meanwhile, you’d oblige me greatly by keeping a close eye on Robinson, and saying nothing about him to anyone. If the people who knocked him on the head discover that he is still alive, it’s more than likely that they’ll try and make a better job of it. If Robinson comes round, warn him, if only for his own sake, to keep his mouth shut.”

  “I’ll see to it,” promised the inspector. “Do you mind if I have a talk w
ith Robinson when he’s well enough?”

  Biggles hesitated. “No. But keep anything he tells you under your hat.”

  “I was thinking he might be able to describe his assailants.”

  “If he does, leave them alone—for the time being anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if you pick them up, you’d have to charge them, and that would mean bringing Robinson into the picture.”

  “If these thugs were under lock and key they couldn’t hurt him.”

  “Maybe not, but others would. Find out who the assailants were by all means, but I’d do no more than watch them till we’re ready to deal with them.”

  “If that’s how you want it.”

  “Well, I think that’s all for now,” concluded Biggles. “Thanks for your co-operation, inspector. You’ve taken a load off my mind. You see, in a way, I felt responsible for Robinson and I thought he’d had it.”

  “Can I drop you anywhere?”

  “At the airport hotel, if you’re going that way.”

  “No trouble at all.”

  Feeling a trifle better, but still far from happy, Biggles parted from the inspector at the door of the hotel. Passing the reception desk he picked up the bag he had left there and asked the night porter, who had now come on duty, to see that he was called without fail in the morning at five o’clock. Then, deep in thoughts that were certainly not conducive to an untroubled night, he went on up to his room. A glance showed that it was just as he had left it. There was no message from Algy or the others—not that he expected to find one there. A note would have been left with the management. The absence of anything of the sort made it clear that when Algy had set out for wherever he had gone, presumably for the Crozets, he had no reason to suspect that he would not be coming straight back; otherwise he would have left word of his intention.

  Biggles dropped into the easy chair, lit a cigarette and closed his eyes. He wanted to think; and he felt that he had plenty to occupy his mind. Not that all the guessing in the world would provide the answer to the question now uppermost in his mind—what had become of the missing flying boat? He could, of course, think of several possibilities, none of which he cared to entertain. In the morning, after he had had a night’s rest, he would take the other machine and try to arrive at the correct one.

  VI

  GINGER GOES ASHORE

  ON the departure of Biggles for the United Kingdom, the others, having sat about for two days, resting, then proceeded without question on the lines Biggles had laid down to keep them occupied usefully. These appeared to be so straightforward that no serious discussion about them was considered necessary. They would simply fly out to the Crozets and look for signs of occupation, not forgetting the possibility of survivors from the ill-fated Kittiwake being on one or other of the islands. Given fair weather they would in particular have a good look at Hog Island, where, according to the German who had been marooned, the submarine had spent some time. Given a continuance of the fair weather there appeared to be no difficulty in landing at Deliverance Bay.

  The project was regarded as nothing more than a routine sortie, and the only question raised was whether to employ one aircraft or both. After a brief discussion, it was decided to use only one of the two machines available. Naturally, they preferred to be together, and there seemed to be every reason why they should make a party of it. It would be more economical in the matter of fuel; it would lengthen the life of the spare machine without being subject to complete overhaul, bearing in mind that both Sunderlands had done a tremendous amount of flying without one; and finally, as it was intended that some of them should go ashore, there would be enough personnel for this purpose whilst at the same time leaving an adequate guard on the aircraft. It was generally agreed that, in regard to this latter point, the employment of two machines would only complicate matters.

  Wherefore, at the first streak of dawn on the Thursday following Biggles’ departure for London, Algy’s machine cast off and set a course for the dreary islands far out in the lonely seas. Everyone was in good spirits, for the weather was as fair as it was ever likely to be in a region notorious for storms. That is to say, it was cold but clear, with little wind, and consequently only a slight sea. These conditions were unusual and could not be expected to persist, so the advisability of making the most of them was evident. In a word, Algy, as leader of the party, could not have asked for anything better.

  A look-out was kept during the run for marine craft of any sort, but none was seen, and the islands crept up over the horizon with nothing more than an occasional whale, and one or two icebergs, having been sighted.

  Algy, always bearing in mind that the weather might change, headed straight for Hog Island. In the present conditions a landing in Deliverance Bay would present no difficulties whatever, whereas, should a sea get up, there would be risks which he preferred not to take. Obviously, he said, it would be better to get that part of the programme completed while the opportunity offered. The air survey of the other islands could be made in any weather providing visibility remained reasonable. The others concurred.

  All this was decided almost casually, and no arrangements were made for contingencies that seemed unlikely to arise. At the first sign of any change of weather Algy said he would fire a Verey light to recall those who had gone ashore. This was the only precaution taken and nothing more seemed necessary.

  The fact of the matter was, no one expected seriously to find anyone alive on any of the islands. The possibility was not even mentioned, with the result that the operation continued as a mere routine patrol. This, in view of the many fruitless journeys made over the preceding weeks, was understandable; but Algy in particular was to blame himself bitterly for what, in the light of subsequent events, was an example of the unpardonable folly of taking too much for granted. Of course, not having seen a vessel of any sort during the hours they had been in the air was no doubt largely responsible for the assumption that they had the ocean to themselves.

  Algy put the Sunderland down on Deliverance Bay without trouble, and taxiing close inshore to dead calm water, dropped anchor in five fathoms about a cable’s length from the proposed landing place. Biscuits and a cup of tea were dished out to all hands from the Thermos while the final arrangements, such as they were, were made.

  There was, Algy said, no need for them all to go ashore. Two could see anything there was to be seen. He himself intended to stay with the aircraft. Berrie could put Ginger and Marcel ashore from the dinghy and stay with it until they returned. It should be said in passing that Marcel had expressed a wish to go ashore. As the Crozets were French possessions, he felt that his government would expect him to have a look round while he was there. This was such a reasonable suggestion that its acceptance was a foregone conclusion. No one had anything else to say, so the matter was soon settled. The dinghy was launched. Berrie, wrapped in a duffle coat to keep him warm while he waited, paddled Ginger and Marcel to a convenient shelf of rock on which they had merely to step out.

  There was no difficulty whatever about this landing, for the shore, although rock, looked almost as if it had been designed by nature for the purpose. The rock, a sort of soft tufa, like pumice stone, was obviously of volcanic origin—as indeed were most of the islands of the group. But within the curving horseshoe of the bay it appeared that the lava of some prehistoric eruption had flowed down to the water in a series of broad, flat waves, which upon hardening on contact with the sea, had formed, as it were, a series of wide, shallow steps leading up to the higher ground. The effect was, in fact, that of a big ready-made slip-way, and this was remarked casually as they stepped out on it.

  After seeing them on their way, Bertie strolled about to await their return. He did not expect them to be long, and the break gave him an opportunity to stretch his legs. For a little while he amused himself trying to stalk a baby seal, but its mother arrived, and having shown her teeth at him took her offspring to a safer locality.

  After o
ne comprehensive survey of the island from the first high point they reached, Ginger did not think they would be long, either; for a more dismal spectacle had never been presented to his eyes. Grim, desolate and utterly wretched, with a complete absence of trees, the place appeared to be the end of the world. The only vegetation was lichen, moss and some harsh tussocky grass that grew in the peat that occurred in the boggy depressions. Gulls of many sorts, taking no notice of the visitors, drifted in a disconsolate sort of way round the deeply cut shore. Their eggs and broken shells lay about everywhere. He could see a rookery of seals, lying on flat, wave-splashed rocks, some way off; and there were marks of rabbits; but these were the only signs of life in what was plainly a harsh existence.

  Marcel, after gazing at this melancholy prospect, turned to Ginger and grimaced; an expression that revealed his opinion more clearly than words.

  There was now a debate on which way they should go, for the island was of some size, with numerous hills and ridges of rock to limit the view. Ginger was in favour of making for the highest point, although this would mean a stiff climb, hoping from the top to see everything in one sweep of the eyes. Marcel was against this, however, saying it would take too long. Considering the matter Ginger saw that he was right. It would take a long time to scale the hill. Moreover, it was unnecessary. If there was anyone on the island it was reasonable to suppose that they wouldn’t have to go far without finding some indication of it.

  In this he was correct, for in walking on, taking the easiest route, which was only a short distance back from the coast, they picked up a small, pasteboard carton. It was wet and weatherstained, but some printed words, presumably the name of the contents, were still legible. They could not be read, though, for the language used was known to neither of them; but from the type of lettering, it was decided that the carton was of Russian origin and had probably contained cigarettes.

  “That proves that someone has been here,” said Marcel.

  “Nothing to do with the Kittiwake, either,” returned Ginger. “British sailors would be unlikely to have anything but British cigarettes—if they had any serviceable cigarettes at all by the time they got here. If we look at it like that we need no longer doubt that the story which Willy the German told Robinson was a hundred per cent true. Anyway, somebody has been here fairly recently; there’s no question at all about that.”