Biggles and the Pirate Treasure Page 9

  The Auster’s call signal was soon picked up, and presently a red signal flare soared up into the air. Turning towards it they saw the machine on some open ground near an area of mixed trees and scrub. Algy told them it was safe to land, so Biggles went down and joined him. Even before they landed Ginger realized why the Auster had so soon been able to find the crashed Gipsy Moth, for leading to the scrub was a quarter of a mile of dead black grass.

  ‘We’ve found him,’ said Algy briefly. ‘He died in the machine. He’d switched off, so it didn’t catch fire. There are bullet holes in the airframe and fabric, and there’s dry blood on the floor of the cockpit. He was shot all right.’

  ‘From the air the crash looked to be burnt out!’

  ‘He had a tank of Vegicide on board. The lead must have broken when he struck, and everything is dead for thirty yards round.’

  ‘I’d better have a look. You stay here, Ginger.’ Biggles pushed his way into the scrub.

  When he came out his face was pale and his expression grim. ‘A plain case of murder,’ he said quietly. ‘Two bullets — perhaps more — struck him. They’ll still be in the body. The ballistic experts will identify the gun that fired the shots and I think I know where we can find it.’

  ‘Klookerstein?’

  ‘Where else? There’s quite a bunch of them there, too many for us to handle alone, although they may not all know what’s been going on. Poor Harley must have rumbled it. No doubt he said what he thought and then tried to get away to report the matter. They must have shot him as he got into the machine, but they couldn’t prevent him taking off. He knew he’d never get to Nairobi so he broadcast a signal, switched off, and in trying to land, piled up. His signal was vague, but when you think about it what else could he say? He had no time for long explanations. However, the word Klookerstein was enough. Let’s get back to Nairobi. This place needs cleaning up.’ He walked over to the Proctor, and was about to get in when from no great distance came the roar of an aircraft, flying fast and low. A Puss Moth burst into view.

  For a moment everyone stood still, staring, as the Puss suddenly lined up towards them.

  ‘He’s pulling out,’ muttered Ginger.

  Then, from below the machine, an oily black substance was squirted downwards.

  ‘Look out!’ shouted Biggles. ‘Run.’

  For a moment all was confusion. Biggles jumped into the cockpit. Ginger fell in behind him, but before he could get into his seat the Proctor was on the move, bumping tail-up over the ground, with the door still open, as it gathered speed on a course at right angles to the Puss Moth, which roared past behind them. ‘What happened to the others?’ rapped out Biggles. ‘If that stuff was Vegicide, it’s poison.’

  Ginger, trying to see out, nearly fell out. A smoking trail marked the line of flight of the Moth. It passed close to the Auster. Algy and Bertie were under the trees, peering out. ‘They’re all right,’ he told Biggles, with the Proctor slowing down.

  ‘Where’s the Puss?’

  Looking, Ginger saw the machine racing on, belching a hideous black cloud. At first he supposed this to be intentional, but a streamer of yellow flame made him catch his breath. ‘He’s on fire,’ he yelled.

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘But he is, I tell you.’ Ginger’s voice rose to a shrill crescendo. ‘He’s into the ground. What a mess!’

  Biggles turned the Proctor, taxied back a little way, stopped and jumped down. ‘How on earth did that happen?’ he cried in a voice of amazement, as he stared at the blazing wreck nearly a mile away.

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ answered Ginger helplessly.

  Algy and Bertie got into the Auster, and taxiing quickly across the tract of devastation, joined them. Algy was looking shaken.

  ‘How did he set himself on fire?’ asked Biggles wonderingly.

  ‘He didn’t,’ replied Algy shortly. ‘I did it.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Biggles. ‘How could you do it?’

  ‘With this,’ returned Algy simply, holding out his Very pistol. ‘I had it loaded in case you didn’t see my first flare. When I saw the Puss was going to drench us with that stuff I let drive a flare across his nose to make him swerve. As you’d expect, at the rate he was travelling I was behind him. I’m sure I didn’t hit him. That’s what I don’t understand.’

  ‘The flare must have fired the Vegicide, and it caught up with him,’ said Biggles thoughtfully. ‘The Air Commodore said the stuff was highly inflammable.’

  ‘Of course. I didn’t think of that.’

  ‘There’s no question of getting near that crash,’ asserted Biggles. ‘The grass is on fire all round it and likely to spread. We’ll get back to Nairobi and report it, and arrange for the rest of the gang to be picked up. They had only one machine left, and now that’s gone, so they’ve no hope of getting away. Come on, let’s get mobile.’

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  * * *

  1 See Biggles and the Black Raider.

  BIGGLES NETS A FISH

  As soon as Biggles entered the office of his chief, Air Commodore Raymond of the Special Air Section at Scotland Yard, he knew that something serious was under discussion. Major Charles, of Security Intelligence, whom he knew well, was there, and three other men, none of whom he recognized. One was an army colonel; another wore the uniform of an American major, and the third, an elderly man in civilian clothes, he judged to be a senior civil servant.

  ‘Come in, Bigglesworth,’ greeted the Air Commodore seriously. ‘You and Major Charles need no introduction. This is Major Booth of the Inter-Zonal Security Section, Western Germany.’ Turning to the civilian he went on: ‘This is Professor Frail, head of the atomic sub-station at Heatherstone Moor, and’ — indicating the last member of the group — ‘this is Colonel Barclay, one of those responsible for the safety of the Harwell atomic pile and its satellite stations. As you will already have supposed we are having a spot of bother. You may be able to help us. Sit down and I’ll run over the main points of the business. The trouble started in Major Booth’s department. No doubt he will prompt me if I do not make things clear.’

  ‘I guess I’ve brought a tough nut for you to crack,’ the American told Biggles lugubriously, as they all sat down. ‘Having been in the New York State police for nearly twenty years I reckoned I was pretty tough myself, but that was kid’s stuff compared with this Iron Curtain racket.’

  Biggles lit a cigarette and settled down to listen.

  The Air Commodore began: ‘The case opened with an accident, a fortunate one for us. It seems that the sector of Germany over which Major Booth has control is heavily wooded, and some of the local lads are rather given to poaching game. Being near the zonal demarcation line it must be a dangerous pastime, but apparently it goes on. One night recently a low-flying aircraft must have mistaken the poachers’ torches for signal lights on the other side of the frontier, for it dropped a small packet which was picked up by two German youths, who, with commendable common sense, and perhaps hoping for a reward, took it to Major Booth’s headquarters.’

  ‘Sure, and it was some reward they got,’ muttered the American grimly.

  The Air Commodore continued: ‘The package contained a micro-film of what seemed to be scientific plans and formulae, prefixed by a cypher written in ink on the film. Major Booth, perceiving the significance of this, took a statement from the Germans and phoned his Zonal Headquarters for instructions.’

  The American again interrupted. ‘You must understand that they were slow on the long distance line; very slow. Maybe I was slow, too, not to realize that there was something phoney about such a long delay.’

  Raymond resumed. ‘Major Booth was ordered to hand over the message on the film to his own decoding department and then wait for a special scientific investigator from Bonn. This man arrived so soon afterwards that Major Booth became suspicious. When the special investigator demanded the micro-film Major Booth said he would fetch it himself from the decoding depar
tment. He went off, leaving the investigator alone with the two Germans. Actually, what the Major did was phone back to his headquarters. He was told that their man couldn’t possibly have arrived. From this it became clear that the telephone had been tapped — or at any rate, the Major’s report had been overheard — and an enemy agent was now at work.’

  The American stepped in again. ‘We were in the thick of an epidemic of ‘flu at the time, and down to half our normal office staff.’

  ‘When, with an armed guard, Major Booth returned to his office,’ continued the Air Commodore slowly, ‘the bogus investigator had disappeared. The two Germans were still there. They were dead, having been shot by some sort of gas pistol.’

  ‘And the film?’ interposed Biggles.

  ‘We still have it. Had Major Booth returned alone to his office with it, no doubt he would have been shot too, and the enemy agent would have got what he really came for. But it didn’t work out that way. The plans have now been identified with the atomic sub-station at Heatherstone Moor, in Scotland. The written message simply said that more messages would follow. I will now ask Professor Frail and Colonel Barclay to give you their angle.’

  ‘No plans or documents of any sort are missing from Heatherstone Moor,’ said Professor Frail, shortly.

  ‘Hard as it is to believe, we are forced to the conclusion that the plans were copied by someone who had access to them,’ said Colonel Barclay.

  Biggles put a question. ‘I take it there’s no possibility of an outsider breaking in and copying the plans without taking them away?’

  The Professor shrugged. ‘It’s hard to imagine how anyone could get in. While the thing is in doubt my department remains under a shadow.’

  ‘Of course, Heatherstone Moor isn’t Harwell,’ explained Colonel Barclay. ‘I don’t suppose a dozen people outside those employed there know of its existence. We satisfied local curiosity by labelling the place a salmon breeding research station — suggested by the fact that a stream passes close to the buildings.’ He handed Biggles a photograph which he took from his briefcase.

  Looking at it Biggles asked: ‘What actually goes on at Heatherstone Moor?’

  ‘Purely theoretical calculations in connection with the synthetic production of certain radio-active elements. Figures that cannot be discussed even in this office,’ declared Professor Frail.

  ‘I see you have the latest type of man-proof wire fence,’ observed Biggles, his eyes still on the photograph.

  ‘Naturally. And we have, of course, the usual security precautions, including an X-ray plant for examining all staff before they leave the building. It’s an embarrassing business but there it is. No one objects.’

  ‘How far is the stream from the buildings?’ Biggles asked.

  Professor Frail made a gesture of impatience. ‘Really, I can’t see that this is getting us anywhere. I have urgent work waiting for me. I suggest we go to Heatherstone immediately, where Doctor Mills, my assistant, can deal with these routine questions.’

  ‘Have you a landing ground at Heatherstone?’ asked Biggles.

  ‘Yes. It was one of the reasons why the site was chosen. To get there any other way would be a slow business. The place is in the remote Highlands.’

  ‘I’ll fly you up if you like.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Just one other question,’ persisted Biggles. ‘Is there anyone — other than people like gamekeepers and forestry workers — living in the vicinity?’

  ‘Only the man who owns the fishing rights of the river on the lower part of the moor,’ volunteered Colonel Barclay. He went on: ‘As a matter of fact we’ve checked up on him pretty exhaustively because he’s of foreign extraction and owns an aircraft — although of course, he never comes near our establishment.’

  ‘What’s he doing with an aircraft?’

  ‘He uses it to deliver salmon, and game in season, to the big London hotels. Several people are doing that, cashing in on areas which by ordinary transport would be too far from the London markets. His name was Felceman. Since becoming naturalized he’s changed it to Felce. He had a very good war record with the Free Czech Air Force. Anyway, he never comes near us so we have nothing against him.’

  ‘Still, an aircraft so near you must necessarily be an object of some suspicion,’ remarked Biggles.

  ‘We thought it seemed a bit too obvious,’ opined Barclay. ‘I mean, if the man was up to any funny business he’d hardly invite suspicion by parking a plane so close to us.’

  Biggles nodded and turned to the Air Commodore. ‘I take it that it’s all right for me to fly these gentlemen back to Heatherstone Moor, sir?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  The American stood up. ‘Well, I wish you luck. There’s a transport leaving for Berlin at noon so I guess I’ll take it. I hope, Inspector Bigglesworth, that you catch your fish.’

  ‘I’ll take a net,’ answered Biggles, smiling, as he shook hands.

  Before touching down inside the formidable man-proof fences of the Heatherstone Establishment Biggles added some mental pictures to the photograph Professor Frail had shown him. He noted a little footbridge over the stream below the entrance gates. Beyond it the moor stretched away to distant skylines, lonely and utterly deserted except for a group of isolated buildings which he assumed to be those of the commercial sportsman Felce, or Felceman. A large shed was obviously his hangar.

  Circling low before coming in to land he noted, too, that a concrete gatehouse, the only entrance to the establishment, screened the footbridge from the view of anyone in the main building.

  A little group of people came out to meet the aircraft, among them a dapper little man whom Professor Frail introduced as Doctor Mills, the Deputy Director.

  Smiling, and obviously anxious to be agreeable, Dr. Mills turned out to be a pleasant contrast to his rather taciturn superior. Indeed, the whole atmosphere relaxed when the professor, after explaining the purpose of Biggles’s visit, went off to attend to some urgent business. After a short talk with Mills Biggles said he’d like to take a stroll round the whole place, on his own; which he did, walking down the stream as far as the footbridge where he spent a little while. He then returned to the main building, where he rejoined Doctor Mills, who conducted him on a tour of the Establishment.

  This inspection, which occupied some time, yielded nothing beyond a rather uncomfortable atmosphere of suspicion, which, in the circumstances, was perhaps to be expected. In so-called ‘laboratories,’ which looked more like futuristic counting houses than anything else, the scientists and mathematicians to whom Biggles spoke seemed to regard each other with cold disfavour. He realized the reason for this, of course. The responsibility for safeguarding the secrets of the Establishment rested on the shoulders of everyone who worked in it, and one of them, obviously, had broken faith.

  As Doctor Mills put it, after they had rejoined Professor Frail in his private office: ‘Everybody is so much under everybody else’s eye that it seems impossible to suspect anybody. Wherefore we must either suspect everybody or nobody.’ He pointed to a miniature camera mounted on a stand, and added: ‘The copies could have been made in this room. At least six people have keys, apart from the Chief.’

  Colonel Barclay, who was present, explained: ‘You see, Bigglesworth, in an establishment of this kind, where it is impossible to keep secrets in watertight compartments, we rely mainly on sealing off the whole building from the outside world. The grounds are patrolled day and night. No one can pass the gatehouse, either in or out, without being checked, and everyone, including myself and Doctor Mills, must be prepared for search and X-ray screening when, going out.’

  ‘Have you any theory about this matter, Inspector Bigglesworth?’ asked Professor Frail curtly.

  ‘Yes — but it is only a theory,’ answered Biggles.

  ‘Well? What are you going to do?’

  Biggles spoke apologetically. ‘I’d like to see every member of your staff who had access to this office during the
period when the plans must have been copied. I’ll see them together. You might call them in now.’

  Professor Frail opened his mouth as if to argue, but thought better of it. Instead, he picked up his inter-com telephone and gave the necessary order.

  Biggles leaned back against the window while, with a subdued murmur along the corridor, the room filled with people. The black-coated figures had the air of gathering storm clouds.

  The professor tapped his desk with a pencil, and through an uneasy, almost hostile silence, announced: ‘Gentlemen, this is Inspector Bigglesworth from Scotland Yard. I need not waste time explaining his errand. We are all aware, painfully aware, of it. Inspector Bigglesworth will speak to you.’

  Unlike most of those present Biggles presented an untroubled face, but when he spoke there was a hard edge on his voice. ‘As Professor Frail has already remarked, gentlemen, this is a painful situation. It could hardly be otherwise, for outside personal considerations the country is faced with a grave threat. In plain English, what has happened is, someone in this room has copied certain plans for transmission to a potential enemy.’

  A murmur of protest broke out among the scientists, but Biggles stopped it with a movement of his hand. ‘Until the culprit is found, as he will be, you are all under suspicion, and that, for those of you who are innocent, is a horrible state of affairs. But how can it be otherwise? Now before I do anything else I am going to ask the guilty party to end this lamentable episode by coming forward. Meanwhile, no one will leave the station. It is now six o’clock. The man responsible for this has four hours to think it over. At ten o’clock we shall meet here again — unless, of course, my appeal is answered before then. Work can now proceed as usual. That’s all. Thank you, gentlemen.’ Biggles went out of the room followed by a buzz of indignation.

  As he walked through the bleak corridors towards the exit he was wondering if the trap he had set would work, for it was one of the oldest in the history of detection. What he had actually done, of course, was put up a bluff in the hope that the guilty person would either strike at him or make a move that would give him a lead. Not for a moment did he suppose seriously that the traitor would confess.