Biggles Sees Too Much Page 2

  The Air Commodore considered the matter. ‘I’ll speak to the Chief Commissioner and get his views,’ he decided. ‘You, too, can think about it and put forward a suggestion. I realize it wouldn’t be easy to find that boat, but if we have patience it may come to us. I mean to Polcarron. If it has used that harbour once, it may use it again.’

  ‘Limpy Logan isn’t likely to be on it. He’s already here.’

  ‘Never mind about him. I can deal with that. I’ll notify all stations to keep an eye open for him. It’s more important that we should put a stop to this illegal entry racket, and the only way to do that is catch the man who’s behind it. For the moment it might be a good idea if you extended your holiday at Polcarron for a few days, keeping your eyes on the harbour and your ears to the ground for local whispers.’

  Biggles’ smile broadened. ‘That suits me, sir. The pub has a good line in crabs and lobsters, which are right up my street. May I take somebody with me? Too much of Old Sam would get boring.’

  ‘Certainly. Take who you like. But don’t rush off today. Think about it. Work out a scheme. I’ll see you again before you leave. But I don’t think an aircraft will be much use to you in this case.’

  Biggles looked surprised. ‘On the contrary, I can’t see how we could do much without one.’

  It was the Air Commodore’s turn to raise his eyebrows. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Well, to get a conviction we’d have to catch these smugglers in human freight red-handed. It wouldn’t be much use trailing them in another boat. They’d spot they were being watched and there wouldn’t be any smuggling that day. They’d keep clear of their confederates from the French coast. But it’s unlikely they’d take any notice of a plane passing overhead. From the air it should be possible to watch the entire operation and jump on the boat when it returned home. Of course, the whole thing would be simplified if we knew the boat we were trying to catch, otherwise we might spend a lot of time shadowing innocent parties.’

  ‘Yes, I see that,’ agreed the Air Commodore. ‘All right. I’ll leave it to you to make what arrangements you like. But let me know what you intend to do before you start.’

  ‘I’ll do that, sir. Just one last thought. I wouldn’t say anything yet to the Coastguard or Customs Service. They could be brought in when we’re ready. If they knew what was afoot, it would be natural for them suddenly to be on the alert, in which case the word would go round and the gang would get to hear of it. They would then either lay off altogether for a while or take extra precautions, which wouldn’t make our job any easier.’

  ‘Very well. You can rely on me to keep the whole thing under the hat, for the time being, at all events,’ promised the Air Commodore.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Now I’ll get organized.’ Biggles left the room.

  CHAPTER 2

  A WAITING GAME

  A WEEK after the conversation in the Air Commodore’s office, Biggles was again lounging on the seafront bench at the little harbour of Polcarron. Keeping him company was police pilot Bertie Lissie. They had in fact been sitting there on and off for three days, and for all the good they had done they might as well have stayed at home. Bertie was getting bored with gazing at the same unchanging scene and made no secret of it. Even the coming and going of the few local ‘crabbing’ boats with their meagre catches of crabs and lobsters had become monotonous.

  ‘Patience,’ advised Biggles gently. ‘We knew when we started this was likely to be a waiting game played slow. You’re having a nice holiday and being paid for it. What more do you want? No doubt Algy and Ginger are getting a bit bored, too.’

  ‘This bally seat gets harder every day,’ complained Bertie.

  ‘Go buy yourself a cushion,’ chaffed Biggles.

  Although he did not say so, he was himself getting a little tired of watching the ever-restless ocean and the same few men and their boats that used the little harbour for their lawful purposes. Of the motor-boat he had hoped to find there had been no sign, and a casual reference to it, to old Sam Pretty who joined them every morning, elicited the negative information that he hadn’t seen it either since they had both seen it come in to pick up the party of shark fishers. He knew the boat but had forgotten its name, which was unfortunate, for this information would have saved a lot of trouble. Biggles did not pursue his questioning in case the old man, who was anything but a fool, became suspicious of their real purpose there. So they had no alternative than to wait for it to appear, on the assumption that if it had used Polcarron once, it would sooner or later use it again.

  Two days spent exploring the near-by coast had been enough to reveal the futility of trying to locate one particular boat, not even the name of which was known. In Falmouth harbour, for instance, one of the largest in Europe, there were craft of every description, both large and small. Here alone a short excursion was sufficient to show there were scores of places where a boat could tie up or drop an anchor without calling attention to itself. Not only in the main harbour. The River Fal and its tributaries ran inland for miles, even as far as the city of Truro. Apart from the river there were numerous secluded tidal creeks in which even great ocean oil tankers could find a safe berth when not in use. Some were provided with landing facilities. As a matter of detail, the size and depth of some of these waterways can be judged by the fact that they were large enough to hide part of the invasion fleet that assembled in readiness for D-Day in the last world war.

  Biggles wondered why, with all these mooring facilities available, the boat he sought should make use of a small harbour like Polcarron. Could it be on account of the coastguard station overlooking the entrance to the port of Falmouth, a position from which every vessel coming or going could be watched?

  He had made inquiries about a prospective shark-fishing trip, but here again he found there were more small boat owners engaged in the sport than he had imagined. As the weather was fine, most of them were at sea, anyway, and so could not be interviewed. Some of them advertised openly, and these, he thought, could be ruled out.

  Here again he dare not ask too many questions for fear of arousing suspicion as to the purpose of them. Anyhow, for these reasons he decided that the only safe plan would be to wait at Polcarron for the boat he wanted to reappear, although this might take time.

  For the rest, the arrangements he had made to deal with the situation were as uncomplicated as possible. He and Bertie would keep the little harbour at Polcarron under observation. They had come down in Biggles’ own car, the old Ford Pilot, which now stood parked at the end of the quay. A few miles inland, at the Morven Flying Club aerodrome, near the village of that name, Algy and Ginger were standing by with the Auster of the Air Police Flight. All they had to do was wait for the radio signal from Biggles that would send them into the air to shadow the boat under suspicion. This was assuming the boat would come into the harbour. From there it would be followed out to sea and a check kept on its movements. Biggles and Bertie would, of course, watch anything that happened ashore. As Biggles was aware, there were weaknesses in this plan, but he thought that, apart from unforeseen circumstances, it should work.

  Biggles had elected to do the watching at Polcarron because he was the only one of the party able to recognize the motor-boat should it appear, although it must be admitted he was by no means sure of this. As he had told the Air Commodore, his knowledge of such craft was limited.

  Radio contact could be made at any time between the two parties by means of portable short wave equipment, which in Biggles’ case hung from a strap over his shoulder. Being in a leather case, it might have been taken by a passing stranger for a camera or a pair of binoculars, both of which are commonly carried on seaside holidays. Apart from testing the radio to make sure it was functioning properly, there had as yet been no reason to use it, so as Biggles remarked to Bertie,

  Algy and Ginger were no doubt also becoming more than somewhat bored with so much time on their hands and nothing to do except listen for the call signal.

  T
his is how matters stood as we found them in their usual positions on the quayside bench, Biggles smoking his customary cigarette and Bertie, with the local daily paper at his feet where it had fallen, half asleep in the warm sunshine.

  Suddenly Biggles became alive. With his elbow he gave Bertie a hefty poke in the ribs. ‘Here we are,’ he said tersely. ‘Look what’s arrived.’

  Bertie looked, and saw a large black car coming to a stop a little farther along the quay, actually at the foot of the ramp that formed a sort of slipway to the road above.

  ‘A Princess,’ he murmured. ‘Is that the one you saw?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Biggles answered. ‘I imagine so. There can’t be many of ‘em in a place like this.’

  Nobody got out of the car, but a man in a peaked cap could be seen sitting at the wheel.

  ‘What do you suppose he’s doing?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘If he is our bird he should be here to meet someone,’ replied Biggles.

  ‘Shark fishers off the boat?’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘Where’s the boat?’

  ‘Obviously it isn’t here yet, or we’d see it. If this is an appointment, something seems to have gone wrong. Either the car is early or the boat is late.’

  ‘The car hasn’t brought anyone here, so it must have come to pick up somebody.’

  ‘That’s what it looks like,’ agreed Biggles. ‘I’ve got the number of the car. You’d better memorize it, too. Get ready to move. When it leaves here I want you to follow it to its destination, wherever that might be.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I shall stay here to see what happens. I’ll give Algy the signal if the boat shows up. It doesn’t need both of us to follow the car. I’ll leave that to you.’

  ‘Okay. Shall I move off now?’

  ‘No. Wait for the car to go. Hello! What’s he doing?’

  The driver of the big car had got out and with binoculars to his eyes was either adjusting them or scanning the seascape.

  ‘He’s looking for the boat,’ guessed Bertie.

  ‘My scheme seems to have gone cockeye,’ stated Biggles. ‘I reckoned that the car, when it came, would bring a passenger. It looks as if it has only come here to collect someone.’

  The next development was the last thing he could have anticipated. The chauffeur cased his binoculars, strolled along the quay and joined them on the bench. ‘Could you oblige me with a match?’ he asked Biggles civilly, producing a packet of cigarettes.

  ‘Sure,’ answered Biggles, offering his lighter, which gave him an opportunity to have a good look at the speaker without making his scrutiny conspicuous.

  He was a rather small middle-aged man, clean shaven with a lean face, high cheek bones and dark, deep-set eyes that had a penetrating quality about them. His nose was slightly misshapen, flattened, as if he had been involved in an accident, or perhaps had been a boxer.

  ‘Thanks,’ acknowledged the man, returning the lighter. ‘Down here on holiday?’ he went on, casually, a natural remark in the circumstances.

  Biggles nodded. ‘For what other reason would one be here?’ he said whimsically.

  ‘Staying at the local pub?’ was the next question, as if to make conversation.

  ‘Of course,’ Biggles had to admit, for as far as he knew there was no other accommodation.

  ‘Ever do any fishing?’

  ‘Can’t say I have.’

  ‘Good way of passing the time. Besides, if you’re lucky you get fresh fish for breakfast.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here?’ inquired Biggles, blandly.

  ‘Not me; my boss is dead keen on it, though. Pretty good at it, too. He’s out there now.’

  ‘What does he catch?’

  ‘All sorts, although his latest craze is shark-fishing. Seems they give you a hard fight.’

  ‘So I would imagine,’ Biggles said dryly.

  This conversation had been carried on in a manner so natural and congenial that no offence could be taken at the questions, or the answers.

  The man glanced at his wrist watch. ‘He’s late today,’ he went on. ‘He should have been in by now. I was here to meet him. The sport must be good to keep him, unless they’re having trouble with the engine.’ He stood up and looked out to sea. ‘I don’t see him coming, so I might as well be having a pint while I’m waiting. So long.’ The chauffeur walked away in the direction of the little hotel.

  ‘Well, what do you make of all that?’ Bertie asked, when the man had gone some distance.

  ‘That’s what I’m wondering,’ answered Biggles. ‘There could be more than one answer.’

  ‘You’re sure it’s the same car you saw last time?’

  ‘Almost certain, although I couldn’t swear to it. Of course, that fellow may be perfectly innocent, and doesn’t know what his boss is really doing.’

  ‘You don’t believe that,’ challenged Bertie.

  ‘No, frankly I don’t. He struck me as a cool customer. If you want my opinion, I’d say he saw us sitting here, and wondering who we were and what we were doing in a place like this, came along to have a close look at us. To ask for a light for a cigarette is always a reasonable excuse to get into conversation. I believe he must have been telling the truth when he said his boss was late back, otherwise he wouldn’t have brought the car here yet.’

  ‘Unless part of his job is to come early for a scout round to make sure the coast is clear,’ suggested Bertie.

  ‘You could be right, at that,’ conceded Biggles.

  ‘And now, having given us the once-over, he’s gone along to the pub for a drink.’

  ‘He may have a pint while he’s there, but if you asked me to guess his real purpose, I’d say he’s gone to get our names from one of the hotel staff, or from the visitors’ book on the hall table.’

  ‘Would it matter?’

  ‘It might. That could depend on how far back he looked in the book. Don’t forget the Chief has often been here. That’s why he was able to recommend the place to me. My name might mean nothing, but if our amiable chauffeur friend is a crook, he’d almost certainly have heard of Air Commodore Raymond of the Yard, in which case the game would be up as far as we’re concerned. We wouldn’t see that car for dust.’

  ‘That’s a sobering thought, old boy,’ returned Bertie, seriously. ‘What can we do about it?’

  ‘Nothing, that I can see.’

  ‘The Daimler is still here.’

  ‘It’ll be interesting to see how long it stays here. I imagine that whatever the chauffeur may think he’ll have to wait for his boss. There’s no need for us to get in a flap. We’ll stay where we are. The drill is the same. When the car goes you do your best to follow it.’

  Bertie was gazing out to sea. ‘I can see a boat coming now. Looks like a fast motor-boat from the wake it’s churning up. Seems to be heading in this direction.’

  ‘I see it,’ Biggles said, looking. The chauffeur will spot it, too, from the pub, no doubt. Yes, here he is, coming back, presumably to be on the spot when the boss arrives. He seems to be in a hurry.’

  ‘Then why is he getting into his car?’

  ‘To move it nearer to the landing stage, I suppose.’

  ‘No. That isn’t the answer. It looks as if he’s moving off altogether.’

  ‘By thunder!’ exclaimed Biggles, staring. ‘I believe you’re right. Off you go. Get after him. I’ll watch what happens here. Buck up or you may lose him.’

  Bertie strode briskly towards their own car.

  CHAPTER 3

  LUCK WORKS TWO WAYS

  IN no small perplexity Biggles watched the departure of the Daimler followed not too closely by Bertie. He couldn’t understand what was happening. What was going on? The chauffeur was there to meet his boss. He had said so himself, and as that was expected there had been no reason to think otherwise. Yet now, with the boat, presumably the one he had come to meet, in sight, he was leaving? In fact, he had gone. What had caused the chauffe
ur to change his mind? What had gone wrong? What could have gone wrong? Up to this point everything had worked out according to plan, yet now, with the departure of the Daimler, the bottom seemed to have fallen out of it. Biggles was bemused and bewildered.

  With his brain racing in top gear, he turned his attention to the oncoming power boat, still too far out for details to be observed. What he saw only made his confusion worse. It had changed direction and was now on a more westerly course. For a moment he thought, and hoped, this was merely to avoid an obstruction; but he soon saw that this was not so. The boat, throwing behind it a foaming wake of white water to show the speed at which it was travelling, held steadily on its new course. It was evident that whatever port it was making for, it was not Polcarron.

  When he realized this, Biggles was assailed by a feeling of frustration and helplessness. It looked as if the boat had in some way been warned to keep clear of Polcarron. How had that been done? Who had done it? Something must have happened, for the boat had certainly been heading for Polcarron. The chauffeur of the Daimler must have known about the change of plan. That was why he had gone instead of waiting on the quay as had obviously been his original intention. Could the chauffeur have had some hand in this? wondered Biggles, thinking fast.

  One thing, he realized, was all too apparent. He had missed the boat. Literally as well as figuratively. And without transport there was nothing he could do about it. To try to intercept the boat by travelling on foot was obviously out of the question. Already it was out of sight beyond the headland to the west of Polcarron. It would have reached one of the ports farther along the coast long before he could get there. To look for it amongst the scores of other small craft would be futile.

  For the same reason it seemed pointless to call up the plane on the radio. Algy and Ginger would need a few minutes to get into the air; and when they reached the coast, how were they to recognize one particular craft among the many that would be on the water in harbours or close inshore?