Biggles Sees Too Much Page 4

  ‘Does he own a power boat?’ asked Algy.

  ‘If he does the Yard didn’t mention it. Perhaps they wouldn’t know. Of course, if he has one it needn’t necessarily be registered in his own name.’

  ‘Hold hard,’ put in Bertie sharply. ‘I’ve just remembered where I saw the name Brunner. It’s over the door of our pub in Polcarron. I’ve seen him about once or twice, but I’ve never spoken to him. He lives over the hotel. I once heard him speak to Tom, the barman. He has a bit of a foreign accent.’

  ‘It isn’t the same man,’ stated Biggles. ‘I noticed the name on the registration plate over the door of “The Fishermen’s Arms”. It’s Stephen Brunner. The man who owns the Daimler is Julius Brunner.’

  ‘Is that a coincidence?’

  ‘Could be. He might be a relation, a brother, perhaps. We’ll find out what hotels Julius owns. Come to think of it, a chain of hotels would be useful in the sort of business we suspect Julius really runs. I mean, they could be used to accommodate the people he picks up at sea. I agree the names are too much of a coincidence to be ignored.’

  ‘If Stephen at “The Fishermen’s Arms” is in the racket,’ said Bertie, ‘it may have been he who planted that box of tricks in the hall this morning.’

  ‘I hadn’t overlooked that possibility,’ replied Biggles. ‘But this is all guess work,’ he went on. ‘Let’s get some facts. Tom, the barman, should know if the man who runs our pub is any relation of Julius Brunner. After all, he’s in the public house business himself. But we shall have to be careful about how we ask questions. Tom may know something about the racket that’s going on, even if he isn’t in it himself, which is not impossible. I don’t trust anybody these days.’

  Ginger broke in. ‘Whether he is or not, I reckon the sooner you shake the dust of “The Fishermen’s Arms” off the soles of your shoes, the more likely you are to live a bit longer.’

  ‘You may be right,’ conceded Biggles. ‘But the man who runs our pub has no reason to suspect how much we know. I feel like hanging on to have a good look at him. If he’s in the racket, it shouldn’t be long before he gives himself away.’

  ‘Yes, by putting a spoonful of arsenic in your soup,’ stated Ginger with cold sarcasm.

  ‘We shall have to do our best to see that doesn’t happen,’ returned Biggles evenly. ‘I may have second thoughts about staying on at Polcarron; but let’s not argue about that now. I suggest we go and have a look at Penlock Grange, from the outside of course. We can all go. Let’s get weaving.’

  As they all went to the car Biggles went on. ‘I think you’d better drive, Algy.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Algy, looking surprised, for it was customary for Biggles to drive his own car.

  ‘We’re going into what we’d better regard as hostile country,’ Biggles answered. ‘If Bertie and I sit in the back, we’re less likely to be seen by the chauffeur of that Daimler should we bump into him, as might happen. We must reckon he lives at Penlock Grange, or in the village.’

  ‘I get it,’ Algy said, taking his place at the wheel.

  Ginger sat beside him. Biggles and Bertie sat in the rear seat and in that order they set off.

  Biggles guided Algy back down the road he had taken to reach the aerodrome, as far as the signpost he had mentioned; but after that the ground was new to all of them. However, by following the road for two or three miles through typical Cornish countryside, they came to the village of Penlock, as was revealed by the name over the post-office-cum-shop. Here the road forked. So far there had been no sign of a big house that might be The Grange.

  ‘Now where?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Stop here,’ ordered Biggles. ‘Before we take the wrong road and lose ourselves, I’ll step into the village shop for a packet of cigarettes as an excuse to ask the way to The Grange; otherwise we might wander about for hours without finding it.’

  Algy brought the car to a halt.

  Biggles got out and walked the few yards back to the post-office-cum-shop. To the elderly woman behind the counter he said, ‘Packet of cigarettes, please. Any sort will do.’ Then, as she reached to a shelf behind her for the cigarettes, he went on. ‘Am I going right for Penlock Grange?’

  ‘Straight on. Take the left fork and you can’t miss it,’ was the polite answer. ‘It’s about half a mile. You’ll see the iron gates at the entrance to the drive.’

  ‘Thank you,’ acknowledged Biggles, picking up the cigarettes and paying for them. An afterthought struck him and he continued. ‘Is there anywhere here where one could put up for a day or two? I’d like to stay here for a little while.’

  The woman answered. ‘Mrs. Cator sometimes does bed and breakfast for hikers in the summer. That’s at Fernside, the cottage at the far end of the village, on the right.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Biggles said again. ‘Good afternoon.’ He went out. Or rather, he moved to go out, but the door was pushed open from the outside and he collided with a man coming in. A man in uniform. It was the chauffeur of the Daimler. In the collision a letter he was carrying fell to the floor. In a flash Biggles had stooped and picked it up, address side uppermost. ‘So sorry,’ he said, as he handed it over.

  As the two men looked at each other, it would be hard to say who was the more surprised. For a moment the chauffeur looked startled, an expression that was not missed by Biggles, who was the first to speak.

  ‘So it’s you,’ he said smoothly. ‘Well — well. So we meet again. What are you doing here?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ inquired the chauffeur in a brittle voice.

  ‘Oh, just having a jaunt round to look at the landscape as a change from the sea,’ explained Biggles. ‘Nice part of the country. Do you live in these parts?’

  ‘Me? No fear. I was just passing through and stopped for a packet of cigarettes.’

  ‘Same as me,’ Biggles said, smiling.

  ‘You still staying at Polcarron?’ inquired the chauffeur.

  ‘Yes, I see no reason to move,’ replied Biggles.

  ‘Be seeing you again then, perhaps.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  The chauffeur went on to the counter. Biggles noticed he was evidently a regular customer, for the woman handed him a packet of cigarettes as if she knew the brand he smoked; which of course gave the lie to his denial that he lived near. He did not wait to renew the conversation, but returned to his car, passing the Daimler on the way.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ Algy said. ‘There was nothing I could do about it. The Daimler came round the bend and pulled up tight against me.’

  ‘Okay. Drive on,’ answered Biggles, shortly.

  ‘I don’t think he saw me,’ put in Bertie. ‘As soon as I saw the Daimler coming I bobbed down.’

  ‘Unfortunately he saw me,’ returned Biggles. ‘There was no avoiding it. I was coming out as he came in and we bumped into each other. We had a few words.’

  ‘What did he come in for?’

  ‘A packet of cigarettes; also, I think, to buy a stamp for a letter he had in his hand. I managed to get a glimpse of the address. At this moment he’s probably asking the postmistress what I came in for. If she tells him I came in to ask the way to The Grange, that should give him something to think about. If, in addition, she tells him I asked about lodgings in the village, he won’t be long reporting it to his boss.’

  ‘Why did you ask her that?’

  ‘I had ideas of staying here for a little while; but in view of what’s just happened, I shall have to think twice about that. Unless our chauffeur friend is a fool, which I doubt, he’ll realize I wasn’t here by accident.’

  ‘What was the address on the letter he came in to post?’ asked Algy.

  ‘It was addressed to Mr. S. Brunner, “Fishermen’s Arms”, Polcarron,’ stated Biggles succinctly. ‘And that gives us something to think about. It pretty well confirms what we suspected. There’s a hook-up between The Grange, here, and “The Fishermen’s Arms”. Take it slowly, Algy. According to the woman in the shop there are iron gates at the entrance to the drive leading to The Grange. Here they are, on the right. They’ve been left open, for the Daimler, I imagine. Don’t stop, but slow down enough for us to see up the drive.’

  ‘The Daimler’s coming up behind us,’ informed Bertie after a glance through the rear window.

  ‘Carry straight on, Algy,’ ordered Biggles. ‘Don’t slow down.’

  They carried on for perhaps half a mile. Then, on Biggles’ orders, the car was brought to a stop. ‘We’ll wait here,’ he said. ‘If it doesn’t pass us we’ll know the Daimler turned up the drive. To make an excuse for stopping, get out and open the bonnet as if you’re having trouble with the engine.’

  Algy did this.

  When they had waited for five minutes and the Daimler had not appeared Biggles said, ‘Okay. That’s all we want to know. It must have turned up the drive. No doubt the chauffeur was in a hurry to get home to report to his boss that we were in the village.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’ asked Algy.

  ‘Cruise back as if we’ve discovered we were on the wrong road. We’d better not hang about here in case we’re being watched.’

  ‘How about dropping me off to have a prowl round?’ suggested Ginger. ‘Nobody knows me, so it wouldn’t matter if I was seen.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ agreed Biggles, after considering the proposal. ‘You get out and walk back. We’ll wait for you in the village. But for goodness’ sake be careful what you get up to. Don’t take any chances. These men are dangerous. They’ve demonstrated that.’

  ‘Okay.’ Ginger got out.

  Algy reversed the car and took it back over the road they had just covered, towards the village. They passed the iron gates. They were now closed. A bend in the drive cut off any view of what lay beyond.

  ‘When we get to the village stop outside the pub,’ Biggles told Algy. ‘I saw one as we came through. We might be able to get a cup o’ tea. I could do with one.’

  Algy drove the car to the village inn. A few drops of rain from a passing storm were now falling, so they sat in the car until it had cleared.

  They were glad to learn that the proprietor did ‘Teas in the Garden’ and were soon seated round a table with one of the renowned Cornish teas in front of them. They did not hurry over it, expecting Ginger would be some time. They had plenty to talk about. But when an hour had passed and Ginger had not appeared, Biggles announced that he was getting worried.

  After another hour of waiting he said: ‘I don’t like this. What can he be doing? I can only hope he hasn’t landed himself in trouble. We can’t leave the car standing outside here any longer, or people will begin to wonder what we’re doing. Don’t forget what I said about us being in hostile country.’

  ‘What else can we do except wait?’ asked Algy.

  ‘There’s one thing we might do,’ Biggles replied. ‘Bertie could drive you back to the aerodrome. I’ll wait here. When he’s taken you home he can come back here for me. Ginger should be here by then. If he isn’t, we shall have to find out why. We can’t push off leaving him here.’

  ‘That means making two journeys to the aerodrome, taking Ginger there,’ Bertie pointed out

  ‘Why not? We’re in no great hurry.’

  ‘Okay, if you say so, old boy,’ agreed Bertie. ‘Come on, Algy, I’ll waffle you home.’

  They departed, leaving Biggles alone. Presently, for something to do, he paid the bill. He then returned to his chair in the garden.

  CHAPTER 5

  COMPLICATIONS

  ALTHOUGH it was now the twilight of sunset, Biggles was still sitting in the garden of the public house when Bertie returned, alone, of course, having dropped Algy on the airfield as had been arranged.

  Bertie looked around. Not seeing Ginger he said: ‘Isn’t he back yet?’

  ‘Not a sign of him.’

  ‘You haven’t heard anything of him?’

  ‘Not a word.’

  Bertie looked serious. ‘What on earth could have happened to him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t even try to guess.’

  ‘This isn’t like him. He must have run into trouble.’

  ‘I’m afraid that’s the only answer.’

  ‘What can we do about it?’

  ‘Not much, as far as I can see.’

  ‘Do we stay here, or do we go back to Polcarron for the night?’

  ‘If we go back to Polcarron and come back here in the morning, if he’s run into trouble the position will be the same as it is at this moment.’

  ‘Where could he have gone?’

  ‘He might be anywhere.’

  ‘The Grange?’

  ‘It’s not much use going there to make inquiries. If he is there, they wouldn’t be likely to tell us. If he isn’t there, the answer would be the same. They’d deny all knowledge of him.’

  ‘I see what you mean,’ Bertie said pensively. ‘Is it any use going to look for him?’

  ‘In the dark? Not a hope.’

  ‘We can’t just push off leaving him to his own devices, as they say — whatever that may mean.’

  ‘One of us might stay in case he turns up,’ Biggles said. ‘Even if I could find lodgings, and the post-office told me of a woman who sometimes lets rooms, I couldn’t arrive, without it looking queer, without any sort of luggage; not even a rucksack.’

  ‘Yes, I see that,’ agreed Bertie. ‘But if you feel like staying here, I could slip back to Polcarron and fetch your small kit; just the essentials, if you follow me.’

  ‘It’s an idea,’ Biggles conceded. ‘I’ll tell you what. You wait here while I slip along to Fernside, the cottage where the woman lets rooms, to find out if she can fix me up with a bed. A Mrs. Cator. If she can’t, that settles the question.’

  ‘Fair enough, old boy, you do that,’ Bertie said.

  Biggles got up. ‘You wait here. I shan’t be long. By the way, I’ve paid the bill.’ Biggles departed.

  He was back in five minutes. ‘That’s okay. I’ve fixed it,’ he reported. ‘Mrs. Cator has only one single room, so she can’t put up both of us. You go back to Polcarron and fetch my kit. You can get as much as I shall need in the haversack. Be as quick as you can. When you’ve brought my stuff, you’ll have to go back to Polcarron for the night and come back here for me first thing in the morning. You’ll find the cottage about a hundred yards along. The name’s on the gate.’

  They left it at that. ‘Be seeing you,’ Bertie said, and hurried off.

  He wasted no time returning to Polcarron. It was of course quite dark by the time he arrived at “The Fishermen’s Arms”. As he would soon need the car again, he did not put it in the hotel garage, but left it close to the front door. It took him only a few minutes to collect Biggles’ pyjamas and toilet things and pack them into his haversack. He was on his way out when the thought struck him; to save the hotel staff unnecessary trouble, it was only right that he should warn them that he might be in late for the evening meal and that he would probably be alone. Thinking Tom could take the message to the kitchen, he turned into the bar. Tom was not there. To his surprise he saw his place had been taken by a man he had never seen before. A slim, swarthy fellow who certainly looked anything but English.

  In the circumstances he asked the most natural question. ‘Where’s Tom?’

  ‘Gone,’ was the laconic answer, with an accent that confirmed he was not English.

  ‘Gone! Gone where?’

  ‘He’s left.’

  ‘You mean — left altogether?’ Bertie was astonished.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That was a bit sudden, wasn’t it?’

  The new barman shrugged. ‘He walk out.’

  ‘Extraordinary thing to do after being here for so long,’ Bertie said. ‘He said nothing to me about leaving. Ah well; I suppose he had his reasons.’

  ‘They come and go,’ said the man behind the bar, polishing a glass.

  Bertie went on. ‘I only looked in to say I might be late in for supper. You might let them know in the kitchen.’

  ‘I tell. You want drink?’

  ‘Not now. I’m driving.’

  More than a little puzzled Bertie went out. But deciding the sudden departure of the old barman was no concern of his, by the time he had got into his car and started the engine he had dismissed the matter from his mind. He drove off.

  He had got no farther than the last street lamp, a matter of not more than a hundred yards, when his nerves were jolted by a voice close behind him. Obviously from the back seat. He brought the car to a skidding stop beside the kerb and looked round.

  ‘It’s all right, sir. It’s me. Tom,’ said the voice.

  ‘What are you doing in my car?’ demanded Bertie, annoyed by the delay.

  ‘I was hoping to have a few words with you, sir, in confidence.’

  ‘Why here?’

  ‘I didn’t want anyone to see us talking.’

  ‘Talk? What about? The new man in the bar told me you’d just walked out at a moment’s notice.’

  ‘That’s a lie. I was fired,’ stated Tom in a hard voice.

  ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘The Boss came in, gave me a week’s wages in lieu of notice and told me to get out.’

  ‘He must have had a reason. What had you been up to — fiddling the till?’

  ‘I don’t do that sort of thing,’ declared Tom, coldly. ‘He said I talked too much.’

  ‘To whom?’

  ‘I don’t know. You and Mr. Bigglesworth, I suppose. Who else is there to talk to? The locals don’t talk much to me.’

  ‘When you say the Boss, who do you mean?’ inquired Bertie, now taking an interest.

  ‘Mr. Brunner.’

  ‘The man who owns the place; lives upstairs.’

  ‘He doesn’t own it. He runs the pub for another man of the same name; a Mr. Julius Brunner; a relation, I fancy, as they seem to be pretty thick when I’ve heard ‘em talking on the telephone.’

  ‘I see,’ murmured Bertie, thoughtfully. ‘But what has all this to do with me? Do you want me to take you somewhere?’

  ‘No thanks. I’ve managed to find a room in the village for the time being; till I can find another job.’