Special Smashwords Edition
BIGGLES AND WORRALS-JOINT MISSION
By
GenieD
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
BIGGLES AND WORRALS-JOINT MISSION
Special Smashwords Edition
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Copyright © 2009 GenieD. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.
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This Book is dedicated to Captain W.E Johns
Author of the original Biggles and Worrals series
Chapter 1: Eventful Journeys
When Air Commodore Raymond retired, he held a party for many of those he had associations with, including Air Inspector Bigglesworth, commonly known as Biggles. That much was known at the time. That there was more to it has often been suspected but only with the release of papers under the Thirty-Year Rule has it been possible to piece together what the real purpose of the get-together was and what it led to.
‘If it’s only a party,’ mused Ginger Hebblethwaite as Biggles drove through long leafy Berkshire lanes, ‘why all the precautions?’
‘Search me,’ said Biggles, ‘but the chief must have a reason – you can be sure of that.’
Rain, which had been threatening for some time, now sluiced down. Biggles pulled into a lay-by, stopped and lit a cigarette.
‘Gives us a chance to see if there’s anyone on our tail,’ he remarked.
‘Smoking’s bad for your health, they say,’ Ginger reminded.
Biggles gave a wry smile.
‘My whole career’s been bad for my health,’ he said. ‘But for an incredible run of luck, I wouldn’t be here and still in one piece.’
A car swished past, spraying surface water to both sides of the road.
‘Just like ours,’ noted Ginger. ‘Same model, same colour – might have been a twin.’
‘In a hurry, whoever he is. Too fast for the conditions, I’d say.’
‘All this cloak and dagger stuff,’ Ginger continued, returning to his initial comment. ‘Bertie goes up to Scotland for a shooting holiday with Gimlet King so they can fly all the way down again; Algy’s supposedly on an investigation in Wales – why couldn’t we all just travel together?’
‘We’ll find out when we get there,’ said Biggles, philosophically.
‘Hello, there’s thunder,’ said Ginger as a sudden boom dwarfed the pounding rain for a second. ‘Must be close but I didn’t see any lightning.’
‘I’m not sure that was thunder,’ said Biggles, narrowing his eyes and stubbing out his cigarette. ‘Sounded too sharp for that. Let’s go and see.’
He drove with care, peering at the road during the brief intervals of vision that the windscreen wipers allowed him, but it was not long before he stopped again. There, battered in the foliage, lay the car that had so recently passed them; there were also signs of debris on the road itself. Ginger rushed over to the other vehicle while Biggles radioed for an ambulance and the police. Then, grabbing his anorak, he made for the shattered fragments on the highway.
‘What is it?’ Ginger asked, coming over.
‘Unless I miss my guess,’ said Biggles, ‘these are the remnants of a bomb. Keep alert. Those who planted this may still be around. How are they?’ he added, indicating the other car.
‘In a bad way, I’d say. Both unconscious.’
Cautiously Biggles moved further along the road.
‘Hello,’ he said, ‘what have we here? Skid marks and a yellow streak on this tree. Looks as if someone took off in a devil of a hurry and grazed the trunk on their way out.’
‘The ones who planted the bomb?’
‘Who else? These marks are recent. And the road’s only been wet for less than half-an-hour. Let’s see if we can find where it started from.’
Not far away they came upon an alcove in the trees, a gap large enough for a car and, indeed, there were signs that one had been there. A ragged path led off towards the area of the bomb and, skirting this slightly, Biggles noted footprints and some sodden cigarette butts.
The rain had relented by the time the ambulance arrived. A police car came too and Biggles showed his warrant card and shared his suspicions.
‘I think I’ve got the picture,’ Biggles told Ginger when they were back in the car awaiting CID. ‘The bomb was concealed by leaves and detonated from behind those trees when the car appeared. What was planned, presumably, was that it should go off right underneath it. The driving rain and the speed the car was going meant they didn’t identify it for a crucial second so the detonation didn’t occur until it had passed, blowing it off the road but not destroying it.’
‘Why them, though? Who are they?’
‘No idea – but what makes you so certain they were the target?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You said yourself their car was the twin of ours. And we were ahead of them till we stopped for the rain.’
Ginger looked at him grimly.
‘You think that was meant for us.’
Biggles nodded. ‘And, but for that downpour, it might have got us, too. Well, it looks as if you have your answer.’
‘What to?’
‘Why we were warned to be so careful. Raymond must have suspected something like this could happen.’
The CID. inspector arrived at this moment.
‘Detective-Inspector Jones,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘I’ve heard of you, Inspector Bigglesworth. Air crime’s your beat, isn’t it?’
Biggles recounted what he had discovered.
‘You ought to pick up quite a bit checking behind those bushes there,’ he concluded.
‘We’ve put out a general alert about the car,’ Jones reported. ‘A dent on the nearside and the colour should give us a chance of locating it.’
‘We’ll be waffling along,’ said Biggles, ‘but I’ll be glad to know what you find,’
As they drove into Oxfordshire, the rain returned with full vigour. They made a number of detours and sudden stops as they progressed but saw no-one following them.
At length they turned into a semi-circular driveway by two huge iron gates. They drove in along a tree-lined avenue, showing their warrant cards to an alert attendant, and passed many parked cars before stopping at the back of an enormous mansion, almost a palace.
‘Don’t tell me Raymond lives here,’ Ginger gasped.
‘I won’t. This is one of our great stately homes and the venue for the party – if that’s really what it is.’
The door opened before they knocked and they were shown into a large room. Pictures of former earls adorned the walls and soft settees nestled beneath them as if awaiting occupancy. The familiar figure of the Air Commodore rose from an armchair to greet them. Behind him a wood fire blazed cheerily, keeping at bay the damp autumnal chill.
‘Hello Bigglesworth, Hebblethwaite,’ he said, shaking hands. ‘Welcome!’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Biggles returned. ‘It so happens that we’ve had a reception of sorts already.’
They sat down and related the incident on the road. The Air Commodore listened carefully.
‘Well, now we know what we’re up against,’ he said when Biggles had finished, ‘though I didn’t expect it to go this far so soon. Perhaps you had better ring that detective you met. I’ll show you where the phone is.’
Biggles spoke briefly then rang off.
‘Jones is still locating the car,’ he reported. ‘They’ve found nothing about the pair that could be called exceptional, except that the driver has a string of speeding offences.’
‘Hardly a motive for murder,’ Raymond considered. ‘It makes it more likely that you were the target.’
‘But how would they have known that I would go on that route? If I were followed, they wouldn’t have had time to arrange anything.’
‘Once you were on the road, it would be reasonable to suppose you’d carry on to the end. There aren’t any significant turnings off it. The car you found traces of may have come from the other direction – probably did if you don’t recall it passing you.’
‘Then how could they have traced our movements so clearly?’
The Air Commodore smiled sadly.
‘Really, Bigglesworth,’ he answered, ‘you’re the last person who should need to ask that.’
‘You mean . . .’
‘Helicopter – we had a report of one in the area. It was able to pinpoint your progress.’
‘This sounds like quite an elaborate operation,’ said Biggles, accepting a cigarette.
‘They clearly perceive you as a danger. Fortunately the rain should have obscured visibility enough to prevent them noting your progress after. With luck they may think they’ve been successful and you’re now out of the way.’
‘Who are they?’ queried Ginger.
‘Wait till the others are here. I’ll brief you all together.’
New arrivals were announced at this moment. Two women, no longer young but retaining the looks and figures of youth, entered and looked around. One was dark with tidy brown hair; the other’s flaxen locks were less controlled and her cheeks were ornamented with freckles. The men stood up.
‘I’m not sure you’ve met,’ said Raymond. ‘Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth, Air-Constable Hebblethwaite – Miss Joan Worralson and Miss Betty Lovell.’
‘You’re also known as Biggles, I presume,’ said the dark-haired woman. ‘I’m usually called Worrals and my friend here is Frecks.’
‘Then I’ve heard of you, too,’ said Biggles. ‘Some pretty remarkable missions you accomplished by all accounts.’
‘No more than your own.’
‘Well,’ Biggles smiled, ‘it was expected of me.’
‘Careful, Bigglesworth,’ Raymond warned, ‘you’re treading on thin ice.’
‘He is,’ Worrals agreed. ‘Why it should amaze the mighty male that what is expected of him can be achieved by a woman just as well is beyond me.’
‘Let’s just say,’ said Biggles hastily, ‘that sometimes men are in need of evidence before they can believe something and that you provided it. You have to make allowances for us sometimes.’
‘Peace,’ said the Air Commodore, holding up a hand. ‘I want you to be friends.’
‘Peace it is,’ smiled Worrals. ‘Perhaps I am a little quick off the mark at times.’
‘Any troubles on the way?’ asked Raymond.
‘No – should there have been? We followed all your deviations to the letter.’
They sat drinking coffee and chatting while others arrived. The Honourable Algernon Lacey came in, grumbling about the putrid weather, and with him two of Gimlet King’s old commando squad, the heavily built ‘Copper’ Collson, once heavyweight boxing champion of the Metropolitan Police, and the leaner ‘Trapper’ Troublay, a French-Canadian, whose car had broken down not far away. Algy had given them a lift.
‘The sight of Algy’s mug leaning out of that car window was a sight for sore eyes, my oath it was,’ said Copper. ‘Am I right?’
Trapper’s tongue clicked.
‘Every time,’ he agreed.
‘My main worries now are Gimlet King and Bertie Lissie,’ said Raymond anxiously. ‘They were planning to fly down from Scotland but this confounded weather may hold them up.’
‘Ho!’ said Copper. ‘Trust the landed gentry to be late. They’re probably still foxhunting on the estate.’
Lord Bertie Lissie and Captain Lorrington King, DSO, M.C. and Bar, the latter once leader of a group of commandos named, misleadingly, ‘King’s Kittens’, were indeed being hampered by the worsening conditions.
‘This is no joke, by gad,’ Gimlet remarked, looking down into gathering murk. ‘We’ll be late on parade at this rate.’
‘We should be pretty close,’ Bertie said. ‘Wish this beastly rain would stop.’
Next moment he had to bank violently as a helicopter came out of the gloom and across their path.
‘I say old boy,’ Bertie breathed, when they were back on an even keel, ‘that was rather close. Where’s he gone? He’s not supposed to be up here at all.’
‘Damn fool,’ said Gimlet and then, as the clouds parted for a second, ‘there he goes, about to land in that field.’
‘Looks like an aerodrome of sorts. I might go down myself and give the fellow a piece of my mind. Not to mention an official report for a near miss.’
The rain had eased enough for Bertie to make out a makeshift runway and some huts at its end. Checking the wind direction he made his approach and was soon taxiing up to the helicopter. Two men stood beside it, watching. Bertie switched off and jumped out.
‘I say, you chaps, you can’t go waffling all over the sky like that,’ he began, walking over to them. ‘You nearly caused a collision. Why no contact with air-traffic control?’
‘Don’t own the sky do you?’ growled the first man, tall and slightly balding, his face fixed in a morose scowl.
‘No, but there are rules and regs about sharing it,’ returned Bertie, his voice hardening. He flicked out his warrant card. ‘Detective Air Constable Lissie, Special Air Police. I shall be making a report of this incident. Let me see your pilot’s licence please.’
The man reached slowly into his pocket but instead of producing the licence, as Bertie expected, he pulled out a gun.
‘Nobody’s reporting me,’ he grated.
Bertie looked around. The other man, older, shorter and stockier, also had a gun in his hand. Apart from the huts there were no other buildings in sight – the airfield was isolated in the midst of heath land.
‘Now don’t be foolish,’ Bertie said, severely. ‘I radioed my position as I came into land. There’ll be other police here soon if I don’t report in.’
‘They’ll be too late to be any use to you. Get your hands up.’
Bertie was assessing the possibilities of jumping the man but the gun was unwavering.
‘Frisk them,’ the tall man said. His companion removed Bertie’s automatic and approached Gimlet.
‘This guy’s clean,’ he reported in a distinctive American accent.
‘What the devil is all this about?’ Gimlet demanded.
‘You’ll find out soon enough. What did you really land for?’
‘Why?’ said Bertie. ‘Is there something we should know?’
The stockier man produced Bertie’s warrant card. The other laughed unpleasantly.
‘Maybe there is. We just bumped off your boss and now you can join him.’
‘What!’ Bertie was aghast.
‘When your friends get here, they’ll be able to report a real air accident with you two in it. Get moving.’
The stout man pushed Gimlet violently, making him stumble and fall. He kicked viciously at the prone body but Gimlet suddenly came to life, clutching the extended foot and pulling it towards him. The man’s momentum caused him to overbalance. His gun went off harmlessly, frightening some nearby birds, which rose in a flurry. Instantly, with the tall man’s attention distracted, Bertie chopped down on the arm with the gun and, turning, planted a fist in the man’s face. The man went over and, before he could aim the weapon again, Bertie had stamped on his hand and kicked the gun away.
‘That’ll do,’ called a voice sharply behind them. Gimlet’s adversary also lay groaning on the ground and Gimlet had the gun. Bertie picked up the other one and retrieved his own automatic and warrant card.
‘Now then,’ said Bertie firmly. ‘It’s your turn to be asked questions.’
At that moment there came an interruption. A yellow Jaguar sports car screeched down the track towards them. Shots rang out, one whistling inches above Bertie’s head. He and Gimlet dashed behind the helicopter, the nearest form of cover, and returned the fire from there. The two men they had disarmed joined the others, now behind the car.
‘Well this is a rum do, Gimlet old boy,’ said Bertie as an impasse ensued, the firing having ceased. ‘Sorry to drag you into it.’
‘Not at all,’ said Gimlet. ‘Comes to something when someone pulls a gun on you just because you want to see his licence.’
‘Any ideas what we can do? If I could get over to the plane, I could radio for assistance but that’s rather a step with these trigger-happy gentlemen about.’
Nothing happened for some time, though they could hear the voices of the others, evidently discussing the situation.
In the event the decision was taken out of their hands. Bertie, turning slightly, became aware of a light aircraft coming into land. Immediately a volley of shots came smacking against the helicopter. The plane taxied to a halt just behind them.
‘Hey,’ said the pilot, jumping out, ‘what’s going on?’
‘We’re being shot at,’ Bertie said, superfluously, wondering why the newcomer had escaped this welcome.
‘Yes, I rather think you are,’ the pilot said. Suddenly there was a gun in his hand, too. ‘Okay,’ he called. Four figures came running up, the tall man still nursing his hand. Both the men from the car were of medium build but had their faces obscured by large dark glasses.
‘What kept you?’ one of them complained. ‘You were supposed to have been here twenty minutes ago.’
‘Flying conditions,’ said the pilot. ‘Visibility’s lousy. What are we going to do with these two?’
‘That’s all figured out,’ the tall man said.
Bertie and Gimlet were now menaced by five guns. Once more they were disarmed and, after a struggle, had their hands tied behind their backs. Four of them dragged Gimlet over to Bertie’s aircraft and pulled him in. The tall man, carrying his gun in his left hand, eyed Bertie malevolently.
‘You’ve broken my wrist, I think,’ he snarled, wincing slightly. ‘I’ll pour the petrol over you myself.’
‘You won’t get away with this,’ Bertie snapped.
‘Why not?’ the man said. ‘Plane crashes on landing and bursts into flames. Just a sad calamity. Who’s going to check any further?’
‘Pilots don’t usually fly with their hands tied behind them,’ Bertie pointed out.
‘The ropes’ll burn along with you,’ sneered the man.
The others returned and Bertie was pulled to the plane and placed in the pilot’s seat. The seatbelt was wound between his arms and fastened. The tall man picked up the petrol but the sound of another vehicle approaching distracted him. A police car skidded into view, its tyres squealing as it sped across the greasy ground.
‘Cops,’ cried one of the men and with one accord they ran for the plane. The tall man, the petrol can still in his hand, hesitated as if his loathing for Bertie had overcome his desire for escape. Gimlet, though, had found a sharp edge to work his bonds against and managed to free himself and release Bertie. The plane was turning for take off and, dropping the can, the tall man began to run after it. Swivelling like a hammer thrower, Gimlet hurled the can after him. It struck him on the head and he went down. By the time he was up again, Gimlet and Bertie had reached him and the police car was slithering towards them. A bullet from the plane spat into the ground at Bertie’s feet and he and Gimlet went flat. The tall man started to run but Gimlet grabbed at his leg and brought him over. He kicked out, forcing Gimlet to release his hold, and started after the plane again but Bertie was close behind him and the car was gaining fast. There were more shots and Bertie leapt sideways like a startled snipe. He was not hit but the tall man staggered and then fell in a crumpled heap. The plane now took off into renewed rain.
Bertie picked up his automatic from where the man had dropped it and showed the arriving constable his warrant card.
‘A timely arrival, laddie,’ he gasped. ‘Things were beginning to look very nasty. Now if you can take care of him, I’ll get after this plane.’
Bertie took off and reported his position and a description of the other flight. Air control had located the aircraft on radar but had not established contact with it. It was flying west into thick cloud. After ten minutes or so, Bertie turned back.
‘We’ll never find him in this,’ he complained, ‘and we don’t have the fuel for a long pursuit. At least his progress is being plotted from the ground and everyone’s alerted.’
‘Where now, then?’
‘Back to that mini-airfield, I suppose – if I can find it again.’
There were still some breaks in the cloud and soon they were coming into land once more along the tiny track. An ambulance was in attendance now and another police car. Bertie jumped out and went over to them. A CID officer greeted him.
‘Jones – Detective Inspector,’ he said. ‘You work for Inspector Bigglesworth, I presume.’
‘Yes,’ said Bertie, uneasily.
‘I saw him further up the road a little while ago.’
Bertie gave a deep breath.
‘That’s a relief,’ he admitted. ‘They said they’d killed him.’
‘They tried but hit the wrong target.’
‘Your men arrived here in the nick of time. It looked very much as if our numbers were up.’
‘That was as a result of the earlier incident. All cars were asked to look out for a yellow vehicle dented on its near side. We happened to spot this one. Lost it for a while but found it just in time. That plane arriving was a key factor. We suspected they might be connected. Glad we were in time.’
‘How’s the one in the ambulance?’
‘Gone, I’m afraid. At least four bullets in him. Either they can’t shoot straight or they were worried about what he might say.’
‘Well,’ put in Gimlet, ‘after what he was keen to do to us, I shan’t shed any tears over him.’
‘A ruthless lot,’ said Jones. ‘Sooner they’re behind bars, the better.’
‘Any clues in the building?’ Bertie asked.
‘Of a sort. The owner of the helicopter was in there, recovering consciousness. Heavy blow from behind and locked in, alongside another plane. He’s in the ambulance. We won’t be able to interview him for a while.’
‘Maybe the Jag’s his,’ suggested Bertie.
‘More than likely.’
‘We’d better be moving,’ Gimlet observed.
‘I promised to keep Inspector Bigglesworth informed of progress,’ Jones said to Bertie. ‘You’ll be able to do that now, I presume. We’ll see what dabs we can get from the car and the helicopter.’
‘I fancy they meant to fire both of those,’ Gimlet considered, ‘but we rather diverted them.’
They took off again and within twenty minutes were landing at an official airport. With the aircraft secured, they walked to the buildings. A lithe figure of medium height stood up and came towards them.
‘Hallo, Cub,’ Gimlet greeted. ‘Sorry we kept you waiting. One or two things came up unexpectedly.’
Nigel Norman Peters, the youngest of the Kittens, commonly known as Cub, smiled.
‘Better late than never,’ he said.
‘Yes, by Jove,’ said Bertie with feeling. ‘You can say that again.’
Chapter 2 - A Conference and its Sequel
‘You see,’ said the Air Commodore, when dinner was over and they were seated at ease in a large drawing room, ‘the problem we are facing is too much for one party to deal with. As most of you have guessed, my retirement isn’t the only item on the agenda. I’ve already been asked to stay on for a little longer in any case. The fact that four of you had narrow escapes on your way here shows how serious this all is. It is clear now that there was a deliberate attempt to remove Inspector Bigglesworth that, fortunately, failed, though more from the inefficiency of the assassins than any preventative action on our part. Bigglesworth and his team are probably the best known of you. It's some time since I’ve needed to call on reinforcements so I’m hoping that you others will not be recognised by the opposition.’
The room was crowded now. In addition to Biggles and his team, Gimlet and his Kittens and Worrals and Frecks, there was also Steeley Delaroy, once, as Raymond confided to Biggles, a modern day Robin Hood on the wrong side of the law but a firm ally of the police since.
‘Who is the opposition?’ asked Gimlet.
‘What we know so far,’ Raymond replied, ‘is that a number of criminal activities are being master-minded from some of the quieter areas of the globe. We need to track these down.’
‘Tall undertaking,’ said Algy. ‘There’s a lot of world out there.’
‘Fortunately we have some clues. One of the advantages of dwelling in such places, though, is that any stranger in the area is likely to be noted and commented on. Difficult to check up on people in that situation without them being aware of it.’
‘Do we know who and where some of these people are?’ asked Biggles.
The Air Commodore nodded.
‘We think we’ve identified some of the locations where key players live,’ he said, ‘in some remote areas: one quite close to home, the Faroe Islands; one mid-Atlantic, the Azores; one in Malaita in the Solomon Islands. We also have friends in some of these places, who have been able to indicate suspicions but we need to make contact with them and check on who the suspects might be. The reason we’re having this meeting here is so you could arrive amidst a horde of visitors and be unnoticed. I only hope that the suspected attack on Inspector Bigglesworth was coincidental and not connected with the briefing. From what they boasted of to Lord Lissie, they may believe they have succeeded, which could act to our advantage.’
‘If the attempt was made by these same people,’ Gimlet pointed out.
‘Yes, it’ll be interesting to see what Inspector Jones comes up with. But we feel that assassination is one of their major activities. You can see how ruthless they are by the incident with Captain King and Lord Lissie. Not only were they willing to commit cold-blooded murder but they shot one of their own men rather than take the chance of him giving us any information. And not all of them are going to bungle things like the group you’ve encountered. It may be that they tried to eliminate you, Bigglesworth, because they suspected you might soon be on their trail.’
‘So,’ Gimlet said in a business-like fashion, ‘three locations – three teams and Mr Delaroy. Who goes where?’
‘A mission for you all,’ said the Air Commodore, with a faint smile, ‘and more friends, some familiar, some, shall we say, recently converted to help along the way where necessary.’
They stayed the night, accommodated by the mansion’s many luxurious bedrooms, ready to drive out again the next day as happy tourists. Despite the comfort, Ginger slept fitfully. A waxing moon penetrated the curtains to throw an eerie pattern on the floor. He got out of bed and gazed down on bushes and trees, silvered and romantic and an attractive spectacle for the moment. Thinking that a brief read might make him drowsy, he turned on the bedside lamp. Hardly had he done so than there was a soft and hesitant tap on the door. He opened it. Standing there, shivering beneath her dressing gown and looking distinctly uneasy, was Frecks. She put her fingers to her lips.
‘I think there’s an intruder,’ she whispered. ‘I’m sure there was some movement just now.’
‘I’ll fetch a torch.’
Together they crept along the passage. Ginger nudged Frecks. One of the bedroom doors was ajar. He peered cautiously around it and almost froze in horror, as he spied in the moonlight a shadowy figure by the bed, brandishing a knife over its snoring, supine occupant. Instantly Ginger yelled and tore into the room, dimly aware that Frecks was following. The light went on. A dark face snarled, then the knife was upraised again and began to plunge downwards. Frecks, standing by the light-switch, grabbed a vase of flowers, the nearest thing to hand, and flung them at the man. They missed him and almost hit the sleeper but achieved their object by intercepting the thrust of the knife. The water and flowers spilt all over the man in the bed, who awoke abruptly, and Ginger grappled with the intruder. The pair crashed on to the floor but Ginger’s foot became entangled in his dressing gown. The man squirmed free and again lifted the knife, this time to bring down on Ginger. Frecks, though, with great presence of mind, picked up the now-empty vase and hit the assailant on the head with it, screaming for help as she did so.
As the man slumped, half-stunned, Ginger pushed him aside and tried to wrestle the knife from his grasp. Biggles appeared, roused by Frecks’ screams, and between them they forced the weapon to the floor. The man, though, twisted away from them and made for the door.
‘Stop him,’ called Biggles as others started to arrive.
‘Leave ‘im to me,’ said a grim Cockney voice. Copper’s big fist completed what Frecks’ vase had begun and the intruder lay unconscious. Only then was Ginger aware that the figure in the bed was Air Commodore Raymond.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ Biggles was asking.
‘Just about, I think,’ the Air Commodore reported. ‘Thanks, you chaps. How on earth did he get in here?’
‘Came through during the day, I suppose, and managed to slip away. Hiding up here, biding his time, presumably.’
‘Actually it was Frecks you should thank,’ said Ginger. ‘She threw the vase. I’d have been too late. Then she used it to save me.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Raymond, lugubriously, ‘Miss Worralson will never let me forget that.’
Worrals looked round from where she was comforting Frecks, who, with the action over, was shaking, and simply smiled.
‘So what are we going to do with him?’ asked Biggles.
‘Handcuff him to begin with,’ Raymond decided. ‘It’s imperative he doesn’t escape. He’d better spend the night in the cells and we’ll question him in the morning. Notice anything about him?’
Biggles nodded.
‘Unless I’m mistaken he’s a Melanesian, probably from the Solomon Islands,’ he said grimly, ‘ one of those quiet areas of the globe you were telling us about.’
‘I wonder if he’s alone,’ put in Gimlet.
A wary search took place but unearthed no other lethal visitors.
‘There may be people waiting for him outside,’ Biggles suggested when they were together again. ‘A police car arriving now would alert any watchers to the fact that the attempt failed and their man has been captured. There’s enough of us to mount a guard over him in two hour shifts and, if a police car and an ambulance turn up in the morning, we may be able to convince them that the attack succeeded.’
‘They’ll guess there’s something wrong when their man doesn’t return, won’t they?’ said Algy.
‘Guessing isn’t knowing,’ Biggles pointed out. ‘Letting your enemy wonder for a while can be useful.’
‘I should take a look round, perhaps,’ offered Trapper, whose years in the backwoods of Canada, frequently in the company of Canadian Indians, had made him a stalker par excellence.
‘Good idea,’ said Raymond. ‘See what you can find. Take care, though.’
‘I’ll give two owl hoots when I’m back,’ said Trapper and slid away.
‘In the meantime,’ the Air Commodore resumed, ‘we must hope this little episode hasn’t compromised our plans. Did they know about the meeting or was this just an attempt to get me? Coincidence is stretching rather too much. Good heavens, he could have killed all of us if Miss Lovell hadn’t been so alert.’
‘I had a headache,’ Frecks explained, now recovered. ‘It seems to have gone now.’
‘Could you have been followed?’ Biggles asked.
‘Must’ve been,’ Raymond replied. ‘I’ve known the Earl for years – went to school with him. Often down here. That’s why I thought it would be a good cover, rather than you all obviously coming to Scotland Yard.’
‘It was certainly a murder mission,’ said Biggles. ‘Three lucky escapes in one day – we really are receiving fortune’s smile.’
‘Well, we’d better arrange the rota for guard duty,’ Raymond considered. ‘Apart from making sure our prisoner remains in situ, there may be others of his ilk, ready to second his attempt. I don’t feel much like sleep at present so Delaroy and I will take the first shift and Bigglesworth and Captain King can arrange the others from their groups.’
‘Are we to have a share in this task?’ enquired Worrals, acidly, ‘or do you think two women with guns are incapable of guarding one dazed and handcuffed man?’
‘I think Miss Lovell has already performed her guard duties for the night,’ said Raymond, diplomatically, ‘and done them very well too. You’re welcome to join the arrangements, though, if you wish.’
The clear sky had clouded over, as Trapper emerged from the building, and the moon, which could have been a hindrance to any unseen progress, was now obscured. The grounds were extensive but his guess was that any more of the murder team would be waiting outside – any car involved would be trapped by electronically operated gates otherwise.
He followed the fence around till he found a place where a branching tree allowed him to climb over, then stiffened as he reflected that such a place might be where the assassin had planned to escape and that his associates might be near at hand. A blood-curdling screech by his ear might have unnerved many but Trapper recognised it as emitting from a real owl and continued unperturbed. He thought he sensed a bat go by but his ears were alert to other than the normal noises of the night.
His eyes registered the first sign of a presence, though – the flicker of a match followed by the dull red glow of a cigarette. Long experience had honed Trapper’s night eyes; he made out the dark shape of a car and also of a thick tree beside it. Swinging himself easily into its branches, he sat in a crook of the trunk immediately above the vehicle and waited. A murmur of voices wafted up to him.
‘He should have done it by now,’ said one,
‘Maybe the old man stayed up late,’ said the other.
‘Hope nothing’s gone wrong,’ said the first. ‘I thought I saw lights over there a little while back.’
‘If he hasn’t returned by the morning, we go in with the crowd and see what we can find. Any police presence will tell some sort of story.’
‘And if they’ve got him?’
‘We take him out before they can question him.’
‘Let’s hope this is the last time we have to stay here on watch. I know all their daily routines by heart now.’
‘If he doesn’t show it’ll mean plan B and those wretched timetables,’ the second man complained, ‘and an uncomfortable reception from Arragon.’
‘Arragon, Hamlet, Prospero!’ the first man snorted. ‘Why do they have to be so flipping cultural?’
‘Shows their sense of superiority over the likes of us – and Caliban inside.’
Trapper listened intently. There was nothing distinctive about the voices – both London accents. It began to rain again, which made his present position unpleasant and the conversation more difficult to hear with the pattering of drops on the roof, though this made it less likely that he himself would be noticed. Dampness could induce a cold, though, and, deciding that he had heard enough, he edged himself back round the trunk and on to the ground. Then he crawled to the back of the car and ran his fingers over the numberplate. Once he was sure of that, he inched his way into the trees. As he did so, the car window opened and a cigarette butt was thrown out.
‘These are not very clever men, I think,’ Trapper assessed. Wearing dark gloves, he felt around from behind the bush and came across three such butts. Having scooped these up, he crawled away to report. Reaching the fence again and feeling quite wet, he sneezed violently before he could climb over.
‘Mon Dieu,’ he breathed, when the fit had passed, ‘a good job that didn’t happen any earlier.’
Morning began much the same as usual for the Stately Home. A milk float arrived as the first streaks of dawn were shredding the sky and that was followed not long after by a baker’s van. Groceries were delivered next but the grocer’s departure was accompanied by a flurry of warning bells as a police car and ambulance came squealing up. The grocer waited for them to go on to the mansion before driving out.
Some time later the ambulance left and, accompanied by a second police car, drove with urgency along the Oxfordshire lanes. They were passing through a wood when, rounding a bend, they almost collided with a fallen tree, sprawled across the road; indeed the police car skidded into a bush to avoid it. The two ambulance men leapt out hurriedly but, instead of running to the tree, dived for cover on opposite sides of the road. Their alertness was justified for seconds later a huge explosion turned their ambulance into a blazing wreck. Nearby an unseen vehicle could be heard driving away. As the two policemen emerged shakily from their car, the crew of the stricken ambulance met up by the fallen tree and gazed back at their vehicle.
‘Lucky there weren’t nobody left in that, my oath it was.’ said Copper. ‘Looks like your friends in the car have been busy.’
‘Tiens!’ said Trapper. ‘at least they left the baker alone.’
The early queue of cars at the entrance had gone by the time a faded green Viva drove up. The driver tendered his half-crown and moved on. When he was out of sight, the attendant, noting its number, reached for a phone.
The van, which had taken Raymond, Biggles and their prisoner out, had also brought more plain clothes detectives in. Once the green Viva had parked, the two men it contained were monitored as they progressed through the building. Predictably they moved away from the main throng and had penetrated the mansion as far as the laundry room, catching a glimpse of some bloodstained bedclothes, before an official arrived and escorted them back to the public area. Here they joined the tour again and had no further opportunity to drift off into the private apartments.
For a while they investigated the grounds before finally departing. An unmarked police car followed them, part of an elaborate shadowing exercise, which involved a number of cars and a helicopter. All those concerned needed to be at their most alert.
The pair drove south for almost an hour before they reached a large town. Here they parked the car and mingled with shoppers for a while before making their way to the railway station where they caught a train for the west. They alighted at Exeter, which boasts two main railway stations, and took a taxi between these before boarding another train heading for Waterloo. There were many minor stops on the way, though, and, indeed, their destination proved to be a station in Somerset so small that the plainclothesman following them found it difficult to leave the train without being seen. They were on foot to begin with but, after a while, an ancient lorry picked them up, and it was Biggles, from the helicopter, who observed their final journey along a country lane to a lonely house.
‘So now we know what they meant by timetables,’ he commented, turning for home in fading light.
‘Good job the boys on the ground knew their stuff,’ said Bertie. ‘This pair has been ducking and diving like a fox fleeing hounds.’
‘Let’s hope they’ve gone to earth now, then.’
They were back in the Air Police Office before more information came through from the local police. The two men had been picked up from the house by a small van and driven to a larger residence on the other side of the village. They had returned two hours later.
‘Good work,’ complimented Biggles. ‘I think we should take a closer look at this latest establishment.’
‘Quiet sort of place,’ said Ginger as Biggles drove into the village the following morning.
Biggles nodded.
‘Just what these people like, according to what Raymond said, ‘ he replied, turning a corner. ‘Should be close now.’
‘So what do we do when we get there? Organise a raid?’
‘On what pretext?’ asked Biggles. “We’ve no search warrant and not enough evidence for an arrest. And no idea what we might hope to find. Trapper’s night work has given us a lead. How useful that is remains to be seen but any hasty action now might close it off.’
They passed a large, rambling, ivy clad house – a respectable retreat for a successful businessman. Behind wrought iron gates a black Rolls Royce adorned the drive, flanked by the remnants of roses that would have made a rare showing a month or so before. The owner was evidently a keen gardener or, at least, employed those who were.
‘Sir Simon Villiers-Silver, Chairman of Villiers Industries,’ said Biggles, anticipating Ginger’s question. ‘Engages in a variety of activities. Some involvement in arms manufacture, which may be significant. And, if you remember your Shakespeare, the character in The Merchant of Venice who chose silver was called Arragon.’
‘Raymond hasn’t let the grass grow under his feet,’ said Ginger with satisfaction.
‘He’s lucky to have feet for it to grow under after last night,’ said Biggles drily.
Chapter 3 - Opening Moves
‘Portugal is one of our oldest allies,’ the Air Commodore had said, ‘and whatever we might think privately of its current regime, we don’t want to do anything to upset it. Tread carefully.’
‘At Flores in the Azores, Sir Richard Grenville lay,’ quoted Frecks, recalling a schooldays rhyme.
‘We’re in San Miguel,’ Worrals corrected. ‘Right group, wrong island.’
‘No problems so far – except from the rain.’
‘Why should there be? Tourists bring money and dictators have never been averse to that. But it’s certainly wet and windy.’
The streets of Ponta Delgado were narrow and busy and it was hard to avoid being splashed by passing vehicles. The two women ducked into a side street to the unpretentious entrance to their hotel and climbed the stairs to the reception. A smartly dressed policeman was talking to the receptionist. He turned and smiled at them as they approached.
‘Ah, the English ladies,’ he said. ‘Welcome to the Azores.’
‘Thank you,’ said Worrals.
‘Captain Pereira, at your service. I hope you have a pleasant stay.’
‘I’m sure we shall. Do you usually drop in to wish the guests well?’
‘I have to keep an eye on our visitors. Part of my job.’
‘Very kind of you.’
‘Not at all. A pity you are here in the wrong season. It is wet and cold in December.’
‘Warmer than England,’ Worrals assured. ‘This is like our summer at times. And we can’t always choose when we can get away.’
‘Will you be seeing much of our island?’
‘We’ll be touring around. Why? Any parts we shouldn’t go?’
‘No, no.’ He reached for his cap. ‘Enjoy your stay, ladies. And have no fears. We shall ensure you come to no harm.’
A final farewell smile and he descended the stairs. The receptionist looked anxiously after him.
‘Does he usually do that?’ queried Frecks.
The woman shook her head and handed Worrals her keys.
When they were alone, Worrals gave Frecks a warning sign.
‘They may have bugged the room,’ she whispered. ‘Careful what you say.’
When they emerged again the rain had ceased but the wind was persisting, especially when they came out by the harbour.
‘Well,’ said Worrals as they walked beneath cheery Christmas lights, ‘what did you make of that?’
‘Do you think he was checking up on us?’
‘I’m sure he was. The question is on whose behalf.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You saw the receptionist. She was chatty enough when we arrived. Now she’s terrified to say a word. Police have a lot of power in dictatorships, partly because their bosses are usually paranoid. Whether Salazar is like that or not, I don’t know, but he was in a fair way to being ousted by a popular general not so long ago and prevailed in very dubious circumstances. Now the general is no more but you can bet there’s a sharp eye being kept out for any potential successors. Our friendly policeman may just be a zealous servant of his official master. On the other hand. .’
‘You think . . .’
‘Dictatorships also breed corruption. He could be here on the payroll of the people we’re here to seek – and making sure we don’t get too close.’
‘He seems to be something of a womaniser, too. He was being very familiar with that receptionist when we came in and you could see she wasn’t happy about it.’
‘That could work to our advantage. That type of male usually underestimates female capacities because he thinks of us only as passion fodder. Let’s hope that’s the case this time.’
‘Best make sure we don’t underestimate him,’ pointed out Frecks.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Worrals grimly, turning towards a multitude of lights, defying the approaching darkness, ‘I’m not likely to do that.’
There was a minor surprise the next morning, when the clouds of the previous day had cleared away and the sun shone brightly. Worrals and Frecks were walking by the harbour again when Frecks suddenly stopped.
‘Look at that,’ she said, a note of incredulity in her voice as she stared out to sea. ‘Am I dreaming or is that an island out there?’
‘It’s an island all right,’ Worrals confirmed. ‘Wonder why we didn’t see it yesterday.’
‘Not so clear, presumably.’
An unwelcome voice came from behind them.
‘Ah, the English ladies. What is so interesting to you?’
‘Good morning Captain Pereira,’ Worrals said, turning round. ‘We were discussing the island. Neither of us spotted it yesterday.’
The policeman smiled.
‘Ah, that is Santa Maria. You see it today and tomorrow it is gone. A good trick, hah?’
‘Sea haze, I suppose,’ said Worrals, quite willing to talk about such a safe and trivial subject.
‘Yes. The island is 50 kilometres away. If it is not a clear day, it cannot be seen. Luckily we police can see whatever the weather.’
He saluted extravagantly and left them. Worrals watched his departure suspiciously.
Biggles eased his aircraft on to the grass runway at Auki, the main settlement of Malaita in the Eastern Solomon Islands, gauging the wind so that he could straighten up the nose of the plane at the precise moment needed to make a smooth landing. He and Ginger jumped out and watched the others follow them in. He looked around. A tin hut was the only evidence of a terminal building.
‘Hardly Heathrow,’ said Algy coming up to him. ‘Any signs of life?’
Biggles frowned.
‘Wonder if it’s safe to leave the planes here,’ he mused.
‘We can’t take them with us, old boy, if you see what I mean,’ commented Bertie.
Smyth, who for years had acted as their mechanic and had been added to the party, joined them.
‘I can always stay around and keep an eye on things,’ he offered.
‘It might have to come to that,’ considered Biggles. ‘It means tying a man down but I can’t see an alternative at present.’
‘Here’s someone at any rate,’ Algy reported as an ancient truck snorted its way towards them.
‘Good,’ said Biggles, a note of relief in his voice. ‘I thought we were supposed to be met.’
A grizzled white-haired head looked at them from the driving window.
‘Hi,’ said the driver. The voice was American and the ruddy complexion told of a long sojourn in the tropics by its owner. ‘You’re smack on schedule.’
‘So this is your airport,’ said Biggles. ‘Not much activity.’
‘Nope. If you wanted to sneak in unobserved, this wasn’t the way to do it.’
‘What’s in the hut?’
‘Fuel! I’m Joe Hunt, by the way. You’ll be Bigglesworth, I take it.’
‘Yes!’
Biggles introduced the others.
‘We were wondering what we should do about the aircraft,’ he confessed.
‘Lock ‘em and leave ‘em,’ was the succinct reply. ‘They should be all right. My instructions are to take you home for a meal.’
‘Whose instructions are they?’
Joe’s face creased in a grin.
‘My wife’s,’ he said. ‘Jump on the back. It isn’t far.’
Five bumpy minutes later, Joe’s wife, dark-haired and vivacious, was welcoming them.
‘Dump your kit in the spare bedroom,’ she said. ‘Two of you can sleep in there, the others in the long room at the front.’
‘Sure you can cope with us all?’ Biggles queried. ‘We can always find a hotel.’
‘People usually stay with us. Look strange if they didn’t. Sit down and prepare to eat.’
An appetising smell supported her comments.
‘The word is,’ Joe began, when the second helping of meatloaf had been consumed, ‘that you’re over here to advise our local police. You can tell that to the canaries but I’m not probing into your real reasons. Officially I know what I’ve said. Unofficially I think you’ll want to be heading south soon. If anything strange is happening, it'll be there.'
Biggles looked at him carefully.
‘I take it flying’s not an option,’ he said.
‘Only by helicopter. Flying boat’d be difficult because of the reefs. The main problem you have is that, out of Auki, there aren’t many police for you to train. If you’re after someone, you won’t catch them by surprise.’
Biggles watched two geckos manoeuvring past each other on the ceiling.
‘Hmm,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I’ll need to sleep on this.’
‘I don’t suppose it really changes anything,’ he said later, when they were sitting in a police Land Rover, parked by a quiet stretch of road. ‘We always knew we’d stand out whatever we did.’
‘There is this about it,’ said Bertie, ‘whoever’s trying to contact us won’t have any problems of recognition.’
‘How they’ll do that without being spotted themselves will be difficult,’ Biggles considered. ‘We’re bound to be watched.’
‘Even if we aren’t,’ said Algy, ‘word’ll go around about the places we stop and the people we talk to.’
‘But if we stop a lot and talk a lot,’ suggested Bertie, ‘there’ll be too many to check up on.’
‘That’s what we’ll have to do,’ decided Biggles with a sigh. ‘It’s going to be a long job.’
Some days later Biggles and Ginger had arrived at their fifth village, settled by the shore with another part across a small lagoon. Biggles stopped the Land Rover and gazed anxiously at the water.
‘I don’t like separating,’ he said unhappily, ‘but can’t help feeling that we’ll need to be available in both these places. One of us will have to go out to the island.’
‘I’ll go,’ Ginger offered. ‘Will you stay by the Land Rover or sleep in one of the huts?’
‘Should be safe enough to accept their hospitality. We’ve been okay so far.’
A villager approached to greet them.
‘Wanem name belong you?’ he asked.
Biggles told him.
‘What name belong you?’ he asked in turn.
‘Name belong me, Patrick,’ said the man, unexpectedly. ‘You go long where?’
‘Me come village belong you?’ Biggles requested, drawing on his limited stock of Pidgin.
The man turned and walked towards the huts. Biggles and Ginger followed. Another villager joined them.
‘One feller canoe, him catchim island quick time?’ Biggles queried.
Evidently it did for, a few minutes later, Ginger had his kit in the back of a tiny canoe and Patrick was paddling him across. Biggles gave him a wave and returned to the Land Rover.
Ginger attempted to engage Patrick in conversation as the canoe traversed the tiny stretch of water but he soon abandoned the effort, contenting himself with watching the muscular arms wielding the paddles. The water was clear and populated by a multitude of many-coloured fish, mainly small and moving with apparent equanimity as if in a natural predator-free aquarium.
They arrived and he scrambled ashore. Patrick explained to some curious villagers why he had come and he was escorted to the guest hut, where he was to stay, by a bevy of young boys, wearing only faded grey shorts, in contrast to their vibrant black skins.
Ginger paused at the door of the hut to thank his hosts for their hospitality at such short notice. A small group had gathered and on one face there was no smile. Ginger caught his breath as he noticed it for it reminded him forcibly of a face he had seen before. This might be some relation. The last time he had been close to such features, though, they had been glaring over the sleeping form of Air Commodore Raymond and there had been a knife upraised in the hand. This must be the very village from which the would-be assassin had sprung.
‘Postcards,’ said Worrals, when their attentive policeman had gone.
She and Frecks entered a small shop opposite the harbour. A slim, dark-haired young lady smiled at them. Worrals and Frecks selected their cards and took them to the counter. To their relief the girl spoke English.
‘I understand there is a house that can be rented,’ said Worrals after she had paid over the money and placed the cards in her handbag.
‘Yes!’ the girl confirmed.
She mentioned the name of a small village on the north side of the island and showed Worrals where it was on the map.
‘May we rent it for a week?’ Worrals asked.
‘But yes. It is vacant at present. You may have it from tomorrow if you wish.’
‘Thank you,’ said Worrals. ‘That is what we would like to do.’
Next day, after a long bus ride, they moved in. The house was large and white and stood on its own, a little apart from the rest of the village, up some steep steps from the road.
‘This’ll keep us fit,’ gasped Frecks, struggling up with her cases.
‘We may need to be,’ said Worrals, grimly. ‘Let’s go in.’
The large country house on the Devonshire/Somerset border was well lit up when Gimlet arrived.
‘Thought your pal lived in Sussex,’ said Copper, who was chauffeuring.
‘He does,’ said Gimlet. ‘This is his uncle’s place. Freddie’s looking after it and him while his cousin’s away.’
Copper went off to park the car after delivering his chief to the front door. His evening would then be spent commiserating with other chauffeurs about the injustices of the class system and how some masters were a sight better than others.
Gimlet had been here before and the butler’s greeting combined respect with cordiality.
‘Good evening, Captain King,’ he said, ‘may I venture to hope that you are well.’
‘I’m fine, thank you, Jenkins,’ said Gimlet. ‘You are well, I trust – and the family.’
‘Yes sir, thank you, sir. Captain Ashton is in the library at present. He requests that you join him there for a word or two before the evening begins. Only a few guests have arrived so far.’
‘Thank you, Jenkins,’ Gimlet acknowledged. ‘I’ll find my own way there.’
‘Very good, sir.’
The library door was open and Gimlet walked in. A middle-aged man, who had been sitting in one of the armchairs, reading a book, got to his feet and strode towards him, hand outstretched.
‘Hello Lorry, old man,’ he said familiarly. ‘How’s things?’
‘Fine thanks, Freddie,’ Gimlet returned. ‘You’re looking in good order.’
‘Can’t complain. Take a pew. Drink?’
‘Not just yet, thanks. I need to stay alert tonight.’
‘How’s Lorrington Hall?’
‘Damned expensive to run.’
‘Same here. Upkeep of these big properties is becoming impossible. Then you have that place in the Highlands, too.’
‘I was there last week,’ Gimlet admitted. ‘You must come up some time.’
‘Thanks I’d like that.’ Freddie leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘Your man’s coming,’ he confided. ‘Well enough known in these parts. Respectable enough by all accounts.’
‘I didn’t expect anything else.’
‘He’s been here before so the invitation won’t seem unusual. Pleasant enough fellow.’
They joined the other guests, many of whom Gimlet already knew. He chatted briefly for a while, commiserating with others about the plight of the landed gentry. Others arrived, dinner-jacketed like himself, and soon Jenkins was announcing Sir Simon Villiers-Silver.
Gimlet sipped his drink and watched Freddie making the introductions. Sir Simon was tall and distinguished. His hair was beginning to grey but his body was lean and lanky, bespeaking much exercise. Eventually he was brought over to Gimlet’s group, Freddie introducing Gimlet formally as Captain Lorrington King.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ a soft voice said. ‘Ghastly weather, what?’
Gimlet agreed. ‘Villiers,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘Wasn’t that the name of the Dukes of Buckingham years ago?’
‘Quite right, it was. I’m some kind of descendant, I think but one of my ancestors was something of a rogue, it seems, and we haven’t been able to pursue the trail beyond him.’
‘But for that you might have a peerage,’ Gimlet suggested.
‘Shouldn’t wonder. Lot of usurpers in the House of Lords these days, I expect. Lots of wrong people in positions of power. Not easy to shift them. How about you? Some sort of soldier, Freddie said.’