Biggles and the Dark Intruder

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1: NO ORDINARY PROBLEM

  CHAPTER 2: THE CONFERENCE

  CHAPTER 3: BODMIN MOOR

  CHAPTER 4: A MATTER OF DEDUCTION

  CHAPTER 5: FIRST INSPECTION

  CHAPTER 6: SINISTER DEVELOPMENTS

  CHAPTER 7: TREED

  CHAPTER 8: BERTIE BRINGS NEWS

  CHAPTER 9: A SHOCK FOR BIGGLES

  CHAPTER 10: A PLAN AND A PROBLEM

  CHAPTER 11: MORE SURPRISES

  CHAPTER 12: WHAT HAPPENED TO BERTIE

  CHAPTER 13: THE PIT

  CHAPTER 14: TOUGH GOING FOR GINGER

  CHAPTER 15: ENTER THE INTRUDER

  CHAPTER 16: EXIT THE MASTER-MIND

  CHAPTER 1

  NO ORDINARY PROBLEM

  DETECTIVE-INSPECTOR BIGGLESWORTH, CHIEF operational pilot of the Air Police based on Scotland Yard for investigation of criminal activities in Aviation, entered the office of his chief, Assistant Commissioner Air Commodore Raymond, closed the door behind him, took his customary chair in front of the desk and waited. The Air Commodore regarded him with pensive, harassed eyes. ‘Good morning, Bigglesworth,’ he said, without enthusiasm.

  ‘Good morning, sir.’

  ‘That unidentified aircraft was over again last night.’

  ‘I know. I was in the air for hours looking for it. So were my pilots.’

  ‘How did you know it came in?’

  ‘I got a signal direct from the radar boys.’

  ‘See anything?’

  ‘Not a sign.’

  The Air Commodore sat back in his chair. ‘What do you make of it?’

  Biggles raised a shoulder. ‘What can we make of it? All I can say, from what little we know, is this. Someone is working on a well-thought-out scheme; which means that an experienced pilot, who is also a first-class navigator, comes into the picture. That much is obvious. More than that would be guesswork.’

  The Air Commodore pushed forward the cigarette box. ‘Well, something will soon have to be done about it,’ he said wearily.

  Biggles took a cigarette. ‘You tell me what to do, sir, and I’ll do it.’

  ‘What can I tell you to do?’

  ‘With respect, sir, that’s your problem.’

  The Air Commodore went on. ‘I’ve just left the Air Minister. He’s getting really worried.’

  ‘What has he to worry about?’

  ‘It’s only a question of time before some member of the House of Commons gets wind of what’s going on and asks a question that the Minister won’t be able to answer. That could happen any day. No Minister likes to admit he doesn’t know. It’s a reflection on his ability. It’s his business to know. In this case it would amount to an admission that our national security precautions are not what they should be.’

  ‘Apparently they’re not. Let’s face it.’

  ‘Someone will have to take the blame.’

  Biggles smiled wryly. ‘Yes, and I can guess who that will be.’

  The Air Commodore shook his head. ‘This is a serious matter, Bigglesworth. Here we have an aircraft that comes and goes as it pleases and we’re faced with the disagreeable prospect of having to admit there’s nothing we can do to stop it.’

  ‘After all, that’s the plain, simple, unvarnished truth. You know it and I know it. If planes could come and go in wartime, with every anti-aircraft device in action, why shouldn’t they be able to do it now? We’ve been over all this before. If I had a reason, I could fly over any country in Europe any night that suited me and probably get away with it. Nothing short of a major operation involving searchlights, guns and fighter aircraft could stop me. Even with all that laid on I’d probably get through. In fact, as you know, I’ve done it.’

  ‘Is that what you’re suggesting I tell the Air Minister?’

  ‘That’s up to you, sir. I’m stating a fact and you know it.’ Biggles knocked the ash off his cigarette.

  ‘You realize that it isn’t only the Minister of Aviation who is losing sleep over this business. The Ministry of Defence, the Home Office, the War Office — they’re all asking what’s going on. Whatever it is, they want it stopped.’

  ‘I can understand that; but have they put forward any suggestions for stopping it? They’re the people with the power to do things.’

  ‘It isn’t practicable in peace-time, as in a war, to call in the entire anti-aircraft defences of the country — if that’s what you mean. The public would wonder what was going on. Some nervous people might panic, imagining a nuclear war was on the way. Think what fools we should look if the intruder turned out to be some hen-brained youth having what he thinks is fun, taking his girl friend for a sky-ride. We should be the laughing stock of Europe.’

  Biggles shook his head. That isn’t the answer.’

  ‘It might be.’

  ‘I doubt it. A young irresponsible fellow might play such a lunatic game once, but I can’t see him repeating it. An aircraft isn’t a motor bike. Night flying calls for something more than nerve. This plane has been over to our certain knowledge at least six times. Anyway, I’m sure this is no ordinary game. I’ve checked every flying club, and the entire list of private owners, for night flying, with no result. Even if someone was taking a chance, the machine would, or should, be showing navigation lights. Moreover, should such a pilot find himself off course he’d be bawling for someone to give him his position. Not only does this pilot fly without lights but he ignores signals to identify himself.’

  ‘His electrical equipment might have developed a fault.’

  ‘That’s always possible; but don’t let’s fool ourselves. Everything points to this being something more sinister than that. This plane has a definite purpose, and at present, from what little we know, to try to guess what that is would be a waste of time. I could think of several possibilities. To me, one thing sticks out like a sore finger. We’re dealing with a pilot who knows the ropes and all the tricks for dodging anti-aircraft devices. Witness the fact that he has never crossed the coast twice in the same place. Which means we can’t concentrate on any one particular area. He never comes at the same time or in any particular sort of weather. There isn’t much we can do with a man like that. I have four machines. They can’t watch thousands of miles of coast. Not that it would make much difference if I had a hundred planes.’

  ‘He’s been tracked, but never for very far. Then he disappears. How does he manage that?’

  ‘I’d say he glides in high with his engine cut. As soon as he realizes he’s in a radar beam he comes down like a brick and gets under it. That’s when we lose him. And I’ll tell you something else. He has always kept clear of any of the regular air routes — B.E.A., B.O.A.C., Air France and the rest. Don’t ask me to believe that’s a matter of luck. He must have studied the air line timetables. He’s a wily bird, whoever he may be.’

  ‘What the devil can he be doing?’

  ‘Without knowing where he starts his flight, or where it ends, it could be anything.’

  ‘Could it be a smuggling racket?’

  ‘Possibly. We know it’s a small, single-engined job; but even a light plane can carry a lot of contraband. It would have to be high-value stuff to make it worth while — gold, precious stones, paper money, something of that sort. Drugs, perhaps. They’re light and don’t take up much room. I gather there’s now quite a market here for dope — heroin, hashish and reefers. There’s no longer any point in smuggling cigars, cigarettes or brandy, which used to be the coastguards’ headache.’

  The Air Commodore threw out his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘What are we going to do about it? We shall have to do something. Of course, what the Security people are most afraid of is that
this might be a way of getting spies into the country, or the information they gather, out to the people they work for.’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘Could be. That, I fancy, has always gone on. It went on right through the War. But this is guessing. It won’t get us anywhere. We shan’t know the answer until we get this crafty bird on the ground. Perhaps not then.’

  ‘What do you mean — perhaps not then?’

  ‘Well, if he was forced down he might set fire to his machine and disappear before anyone could get to him. If he was shot down he might go up in flames; in which case we wouldn’t learn much from a few charred bits and pieces. Even then, if this business has a political angle it might not stop. We could expect the people behind it to replace the pilot and aircraft.’

  ‘That’s cold comfort, I must say,’ muttered the Air Commodore.

  ‘I agree, but it’s no use blinking at a possibility because we don’t happen to like it.’

  ‘Well, what are we going to do? We shall soon have to do something.’

  ‘Frankly, sir, I don’t know what more we can do. I’ve carried out the usual routine and a lot more besides. I’ll have a conference with all hands right away. We may be able to think of a new approach to the problem.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake do something. I’m scared the Press will get hold of the story. When they growl, ministers tremble.’

  ‘And start looking round for a scapegoat,’ added Biggles cynically.

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘And we can guess who it will be. Just one point about that while we’re on the subject. If someone starts kicking up a fuss it’s likely to do more harm than good.’

  ‘Why? In what way?’

  ‘It will tell the intruder his activities have been spotted and he will tighten up his precautions not to get caught. Left alone, thinking all is well, he may become careless and drop us a clue; something, anything for us to work on.’

  The Air Commodore nodded. ‘I take your point. Very well. I’ll do my best to keep the soft pedal on the business but I can’t promise to hold it down for very long. Do the best you can and don’t waste any time. Call on me for anything you need. What have you actually done so far?’

  ‘It didn’t seem much use waffling about the sky night after night, haphazard, on the off-chance of meeting this fellow who’s making a nuisance of himself. I haven’t enough pilots or machines for that sort of lark. It seemed to me that our only hope was to know when he was over and the area he was in; so I established direct contact with the radar chaps, and the main airports, and asked them to send me a signal if they saw or heard anything. I would always have somebody standing by. Apart from that, whenever possible I’ve had a machine on patrol ready to move fast to the district concerned should such a signal be received. It’s hard to see what more we can do.’

  ‘And that has had no result?’

  ‘It has worked up to a point. When Algy was out last Wednesday night he picked up a signal that the plane was over. He rushed to the place where it was said to be, but he couldn’t find it. Radar lost it, too. That’s what happens every time. This pilot, whoever he is and wherever he’s coming from, is no novice at evading tactics. He’s bound to realize that we shall be after and knows what to do about it.’

  The Air Commodore nodded. ‘That’s pretty obvious. Naturally, a good man would be chosen for such a job. That’s what makes me think this is no ordinary affair. Well, carry on. Do what you can and let me know at once if you get a line on what’s happening. I’ll tell the Air Minister that we’re doing everything possible to put an end to this intrusion.’

  ‘Okay, sir.’ Biggles got up, left the room and returned to his own office.

  CHAPTER 2

  THE CONFERENCE

  BACK in his own room Biggles found his three assistant pilots waiting for his news.

  ‘Well, what was all that about?’ questioned Algy Lacey.

  ‘I’ll give you one guess,’ returned Biggles lugubriously, dropping into his chair.

  ‘This intruder?’

  ‘Of course. I was expecting the balloon to go up.’

  ‘I suppose some official sitting with his feet up in front of the fire wants to know what we’re doing about it?’

  ‘The Air Minister wants to know why we haven’t done something about it.’

  Bertie Lissie chipped in. ‘But look here, dash it all, old boy, what does he think we are — a party of wizards?’

  ‘He, too, has a job to do, don’t forget. He’s responsible to the Government. Don’t worry. The Chief knows our limitations and no doubt he’s explained them to the Minister.’

  ‘And a lot of good that’ll do if I know anything,’ put in Ginger, coldly. ‘Let ‘em call in the Air Force and see what they can do about it.’

  Biggles ignored the remark. ‘We can rely on this,’ he went on. ‘If the Air Commodore gets the sack for failing to do his job properly he won’t bleat about it. I mean, he won’t try to push the blame on to us. He was a wartime pilot himself years ago so he knows what we’re up against. But instead of sitting here moaning, let’s put our heads together to see if we can hit on a scheme for nobbling this smart guy, who must think he’s got us baffled.’

  ‘It seems he has,’ said Ginger gloomily.

  ‘Not yet,’ disputed Biggles. ‘Take it from me, he’ll play his trick once too often, get careless and make a boob.’

  ‘Fair enough. Where do we start?’ inquired Algy.

  ‘We’ll start with you,’ answered Biggles. ‘You were the last man to get a line on his track. Get out the file, Ginger.’

  Ginger produced it and laid it open on Biggles’ desk.

  Biggles went on, speaking to Algy. ‘Three days ago, when you came in you told me what had happened, but let’s go over it again rather more carefully to see if we can get a line, if only a rough indication, of what goes on. This plane has been over six times to our certain knowledge — maybe more — and always manages to do the disappearing act.’

  Biggles took from the file a sheet of paper on which had been roughly sketched the outline of the south-west comer of England. He picked up a pencil and a ruler. ‘Go ahead, Algy,’ he requested.

  Algy began. ‘It was last Wednesday. You sent me to do a night patrol between Weymouth and Land’s End. You said, if you remember, that the plane had been reported on both sides of the Cornish-Devon peninsula and it might try that area again; but as I couldn’t cover both the north side and the south at the same time I’d better keep to one side or the other.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘At 2.0 a.m. I was off the Lizard heading east. It was a fair sort of night, clear, still, starlight, but no moon. There was a thin layer of alto-cirrus but on the whole I’d call it a perfect night for flying. I had climbed to eight thousand, keeping an eye on the Eddystone Light for a line, when I had a flash from London Airport to say an unidentified aircraft showing no lights was approaching the coast from the south at approximately six thousand. If it held its course it would cross the coast somewhere between St. Mawes and Fowey. London had got the tip from the coastguard station at Falmouth. They were still tracking it. Well, that wasn’t far away from me, so having asked them to keep in touch and report any change of course I went flat out downhill for the area named. Having height of this mystery bird I thought I might catch up with it and spot although if it wasn’t showing lights that could only more by luck than judgement. I’d have to be pretty close.’

  ‘You had your lights on?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Which means he’d spot you before you saw him.’

  ‘Naturally. There I was at a disadvantage, because if was up to any dirty work, if he spotted me it wouldn’t be difficult for him to give me the slip. That’s what must have happened.’

  ‘You didn’t see him?’

  ‘Not a sign. Inside five minutes, down to six thousand, I struck the coast at a little port which I took to be Mevagissey, although I couldn’t be sure of that because at that hour there wer
en’t many lights showing on the ground, and what there were were scattered. There wasn’t much traffic on the road, either.’

  ‘What made you think you were over Mevagissey?’

  ‘I knew it was a fishing port. A number of small craft were putting out to sea and I took them to be fishing boats. Presumably the tide was right.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘I went inland for a little way, cruising up and down, searching the sky, but I couldn’t find an aircraft. Then had a signal to say Falmouth had lost the plane in the region of St. Austell. It was then losing height fast.’

  Biggles nodded. ‘That’s how he does it every time. Went down to get below the beam, I suppose. Anything else?’

  ‘No. I hung about for as long as my petrol would allow; then I came home.’

  ‘You didn’t by any chance see any lights on the ground that might have marked a landing area?’

  ‘Nothing like that.’

  ‘May I butt in?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I know Cornwall pretty well, and I was only going to say that if this perisher dived below the beam near St Austell he’d have to keep his eyes skinned or he’d bump into the Cornish Alps. He wouldn’t be likely to land there.’

  Biggles looked puzzled. ‘What are you talking about? There aren’t any alps in Cornwall.’

  ‘Aren’t there, by Jove! That’s what they call ‘em.’

  ‘Do you mean mountains?’

  ‘Pretty nearly. And they keep their snow all the year round. They’re whiter than white. I’m talking about the china clay workings. They pile the stuff they don’t want in tips running to hundreds of feet high, some of ‘em. They look like the peaks of the Swiss Alps. Mention of St Austell reminded me. That’s the centre of the china clay industry. That’s where this intruder disappeared. No one but a lunatic would try to land there. But there is this about it. If a pilot needed a landmark he wouldn’t find a better one than these artificial mountains. They’re white and they shine. Moreover, they’re the only ones in the country.’

  ‘Thank you, Bertie,’ acknowledged Biggles. ‘You see the advantage of several heads working together. We’ll keep that in mind.’ With the pencil he drew a line on his map. ‘At all events, if this machine held on its track its objective must have been somewhere in the centre of Cornwall. That ties up with previous reports. All tracks so far known converge on that area. The R.A.F. base at Milford Haven picked up an unknown plane in the Bristol Channel area. It was heading in the same direction.’