Biggles Sees Too Much, page 7
part #98 of Biggles Series
It was hard to see how any harm could have come to Ginger provided he had obeyed orders, but it was perhaps natural that when he went out he should turn in the direction of the Grange, or the drive that led to the house; for this was near where he had left Ginger, so he would be bound to see him should he be making a belated return to the village.
It was a fair night with a clear sky and the moon nearly full, so he strolled on, deep in thought, pondering the situation. He saw no one. Not a soul. Not even a late vehicle; and in due course found himself at the iron gates at the entrance to the drive leading to the house of the man in whom he now had an interest. Mr. Julius Brunner. Naturally, he stopped. The gates were shut. He tried them and ascertained they were not locked. He rested against them, peering between the bars up the moonlit drive, wondering if Ginger could have been so foolish as to risk using the drive. It seemed most unlikely. He could not see far up the drive, first because of the elbow bend in it, and again because it was accompanied on the right hand side by a hedge of evergreen shrubs, laurels, rhododendrons, or something of that sort. The other side was a plain open meadow. So much Biggles could see. He had no intention of making a closer inspection, seeing no purpose in it. That would be better done in daylight, if it had to be done at all. So there he stood, thinking, satisfied that from whichever way Ginger might come, down the lane or up the drive, he would be there to intercept him. He stood there for some time, content to be doing nothing. Everything was dead still. Occasionally some of the usual night sounds came from a distance. The bark of a dog. The lowing of a cow. The cry of a night bird. The whistle of a distant train.
After a while he found himself staring at a small spot on the ground just inside the gates. It shone white in the light of the moon. Actually, he was looking at it for some time without being aware of it. Then, suddenly, he became conscious of it and he wondered what it could be. It was not a pebble. Had somebody dropped something? A silver coin, perhaps. That was what it looked like. He was still not particularly interested, and being disinclined to move, he continued to gaze at the object. Then he noticed a second white spot close to the first. This was too much. His curiosity had to be satisfied.
Quietly, not allowing the iron latch to rattle, he opened one of the gates and walked through. Stopping, he picked up the object of his attention, to find that, after all, it was only a tiny piece of paper. Or to be precise, pasteboard. He nearly screwed it up there and then and put it in his pocket to dispose of later, thinking some litter-bug had passed that way. On second thoughts, still more from curiosity than any real interest, he looked at it closely. There seemed to be some sort of mark on it; printing. The moon did not give sufficient light for him to read it, so still actuated by curiosity he flicked on his petrol lighter. For a moment he gazed uncomprehendingly; then, realizing what it was he held in his hand, his muscles went taut. It was the name of a small restaurant close to his flat in London. One he often used. The one they all sometimes used.
There could be only one answer as to how it came to be there. A piece torn from a packet of book matches. Only Ginger could have dropped it. The chances of anyone in the locality using the restaurant were too remote to be entertained seriously. Two strides and he had picked up the second piece. In doing this he saw two more pieces. He picked them up and put them together in the palm of his left hand. They fitted exactly. The slip of cardboard, with the name of the restaurant, was complete. It was the flap of a packet of book matches.
With his brain now active, Biggles went back through the gate and closed it behind him. This, he decided, was no accident. Nobody except Ginger could have had such a packet of matches; and he could not imagine Ginger wantonly tearing up the flap and making a litter at the entrance to a private drive for no reason at all. Even if he had used the last match, he would not have done that, detesting, as he had often said, people who make a mess of the countryside. No. This had been deliberate. He had torn off the flap of a book of matches, and tearing it into quarters thrown the pieces on the ground. Why? It did not take Biggles a minute to work it out. There could be only one reason and it was obvious. Knowing the pieces, if they were found, would be recognized, he had left a mark to show he had gone up the drive. Should he be prevented from returning, it would be an indication of where he was. But why had he gone up the drive? That was a question not so easily answered. In fact it was beyond Biggles’ imagination. He could hardly be expected to visualize the events that had occurred on the spot where he now stood.
Why had Ginger taken such a precaution? He must have known that in going up the drive he would be taking a risk. There must have been more to it than that. Had he been afraid that he might not be allowed to return? That suggested he had been forced to do what he had done. It seemed that his fears had been justified. He had not returned. Had he done so, he would have picked up the litter he had dropped, if for no other reason than the tell-tale mark was no longer required. It followed, therefore, he was still somewhere up the drive, in the grounds if not actually in the house. The reason why he had not joined the others in the village was now explained.
Biggles perceived he was now in a difficult position; one that called for serious thought. First and foremost was the clear indication that Ginger was in danger. This was the dominating thought in Biggles’ head as he sat on the bank and lit a cigarette while he considered what he should do about it. He saw there was more than one course open to him. He could do nothing at all; just sit at the gate to await Ginger’s return. If he did return. He might not, in which case valuable time would have been wasted. Even if he did appear, it might not be for some considerable time, in which case there was Bertie to consider. He would be completely in the dark, not knowing what to do when he returned to the village and failed to find him.
Another course, Biggles pondered, would be for him to go back to the village to await Bertie’s return, when he would tell him what he had discovered. They could then take some action together. There would be difficulties about that though. What could they do with the car? There was no garage in the village. Bertie had no lodging, so where could he spend the night? Sitting in the car? That did not seem a satisfactory arrangement, and in any case it would serve no useful purpose. They couldn’t leave the car standing on the road without anyone in it. The battery might run out, leaving the car without a light, when it would be a danger to anyone else on the road.
The truth is, for once Biggles did not know what to do for the best. In the meantime, if nothing was done, Ginger might be in mortal danger and any delay might be fatal.
There was one other course open. It was perhaps the obvious one. He, Biggles, could go up the drive alone hoping to find Ginger, or some clue that would solve the mystery of his disappearance. Reveal where he had gone. There might, Biggles thought in a fever of apprehension, be time for him to do that and get back to the village to catch Bertie when he returned from Polcarron with his pyjamas. He would be some time yet, for not only was there the journey each way, but there would be a delay while he collected the toilet things he had gone to fetch. The snag here was, should he return to Penlock and fail to find Biggles at his lodging, he would be at a loss to know what to do.
Biggles dropped his cigarette and put a foot on it. There seemed to be an argument against whatever he did; but he felt it was time he was doing something. He went back to the gates and looked up the drive. There appeared to be no difficulty in getting to within sight of the house on account of the evergreen hedge that ran parallel with the drive. This would provide cover for a cautious approach. He made up his mind suddenly. He would do some preliminary exploring, anyway, if nothing more. Near the house he might see something, somebody, that would give him an idea of what had become of Ginger. Bertie would have to wait. He did not lose sight of the possibility that, if Ginger had fallen into a trap, he might make the same blunder.
Opening the gates quietly and closing them behind him, he moved on to the hedge, prepared to dodge into it should anyone appear from either direction. There was enough moonlight to give him warning of that. The air was still, with no wind to drown the sound of footsteps or an approaching car. He had not forgotten that the Daimler lived here and it might be on the move.
He made good progress, and rounding the bend in the drive came to within sight of the house. It was not as far as he had supposed; but it was larger. Not that he could see much of it. All he could really see was its bulk silhouetted against the night sky. He could, however, just make out the front door, or the porch that protected it. This, he noted, was supported by columns up which some sort of creeper had been trained.
Chinks of artificial light at the edges of blinds or curtains showed that four rooms were at present occupied, and he paused to consider them. There were two on the ground floor, a large room and one he took, from a fanlight over the front door, to be the hall. A light showed on the first floor, presumably an upstairs sitting-room or more probably a bedroom. There was another light higher up that could have come from an attic, perhaps a servant’s bedroom.
He continued to advance, slowly, until he was brought to a halt by the fact that the hedge along which he had been moving came to an end; or rather, it straggled out into what appeared to be a rose bed. He could see some flowers showing faintly white in the light of the moon. Here the gravel drive swung round past the entrance porch in a way that would enable a car, calling at the front door, to leave without having to reverse. This of course was a common arrangement with large houses.
Biggles stopped. There seemed to be nothing more he could do short of going boldly to the door to ask if Ginger was there, a procedure which he thought would not serve any useful purpose, particularly if Ginger was being detained against his will; and he could not imagine him staying there for so long for any other reason.
He waited, listening intently. No sound came from the house. He looked around. He could see no one. There seemed no reason why he shouldn’t go nearer, close enough to hear movements, or voices, inside the house. He crossed the open drive swiftly and took up a position close to the outside wall of the porch, which was as near as he dare go without taking an unwarranted risk. Hardly had he reached his immediate objective than there came a sound that sent him ducking into the corner where the wall of the porch joined the house. The creeper on the pillar, which he had previously noted, turned out to be a climbing rose, as he discovered painfully from the usual thorns. However, it provided a certain amount of cover.
The noise that had alarmed him was that of a car coming up the drive. For a moment he thought it might be Bertie, coming brazenly to look for him; but this notion was soon dispelled. The headlights of the car came round the bend, for a few seconds lighting up the lower part of the house. Biggles bowed his head to conceal his face as the glare of light swept across him. One thing was already evident. From the speed at which the car was travelling the newcomer was no stranger. It came to a dry skid. The driver got out. Risking a peep Biggles saw he was alone. The man advanced quickly to the door and rang the bell. The door was opened. Biggles heard the new arrival say: ‘Good evening, Bates. Is my brother in?’ He could not see the man, but he recognized the voice. It was Stephen Brunner, the landlord of ‘The Fishermen’s Arms’, at Polcarron. So the two men, Stephen and Julius, were brothers, he noted.
‘Yes, I’ll tell him you’re here,’ replied Bates. And again Biggles recognized the voice. Bates was the chauffeur, the man who drove the Daimler.
CHAPTER 9
A LONG WAIT
THERE was a brief interval of silence broken only by the sound of retreating footsteps; then Biggles, crouching uncomfortably in his corner behind the rose bush, caught the aroma of cigar smoke and guessed another person had arrived on the scene; the caller’s brother, presumably. Julius Brunner. The first words he spoke practically confirmed this.
‘Hello, Stephen. What brings you here at this hour?’ said the voice from the house. ‘I was just thinking of running over to see you. I have a bit of a problem on my hands.’
‘So have I,’ returned Stephen, harshly.
‘Oh! What’s the trouble?’
‘I have reason to think those two men staying with me at Polcarron are police spies,’ stated Stephen. ‘I thought you had better know about it. We shall have to do something.’
‘All right,’ replied Julius shortly. ‘There’s no need to panic. We should be able to deal with them. But there’s no reason to stand talking here. Come in.’
For a moment Biggles thought this was to be the end of a conversation which he found exceedingly interesting. But to his satisfaction Stephen replied: ‘No, I won’t come in. I’m in a hurry to get back. I have things to do. What’s your problem?’
Julius answered. ‘These two men you’ve had staying with you. I think there are more than two. There’s another. I’ve got him inside.’
‘What! How did that happen?’
‘I was walking down the road and caught him spying on the house. Anyhow, that was what it looked like. So I brought him in. He didn’t give any trouble. Why did you have to come here? If you wanted advice what was wrong with using the telephone?’
‘Not with those cops about. It isn’t safe. I don’t know where they are at the moment; but when they come in I’ll tell them their rooms have been let, so they’ll have to get out.’
‘Is that wise? It might be better to keep them under your nose where you can see what they get up to.’
‘I’ve seen enough. They’ve been talking to my barman. He’s been with us too long. He may have noticed something, so I’ve sacked him. He’s been with one of them tonight. I’d like to know what they were talking about. But never mind about that. I’ll see to it he doesn’t do any more blabbing.’
‘Your trouble, Stephen, as I’ve told you before, is you’re frightened of your own shadow,’ said Julius, critically. ‘Just go on behaving normally.’
‘If I were you I’d get rid of everybody,’ said Stephen. ‘This house might be raided any day. How many clients have you got here?’
‘Only two. They’re all set to go. In fact, you might take them with you and drop them off at Portwin Cove where they’ll be all ready to go across in the morning.’
‘Not me. I’m not going to Portwin Cove tonight. I’ve got other things to do.’
‘All right. I’ll send Bates over with them. Then they’ll be all ready for a day’s fishing tomorrow.’
‘Where will you put them?’
‘The usual place, till I’m ready to take them across to the island. They can wait there. They’ll be safe enough.’
‘I wouldn’t bother with them; it’s too risky with these coppers about. I’d turn ‘em loose, now; let ‘em go where the hell they like.’
‘They’d take a poor view of that,’ returned Julius. ‘Don’t forget they’ve each paid five hundred pounds for their tickets. No, we can’t let ‘em down at this stage. Word would get round that we weren’t to be trusted and that would ruin the whole business. We’d never get another customer, and I have in view one or two that should be little gold mines.’
‘I still don’t think this strip of coast is safe any longer,’ muttered Stephen.
‘Don’t worry. They should know me well enough by now, and the boat,’ answered Julius easily.
‘What are you going to do with the cop you’re holding here? Are you sure he’s a cop and not just a stray hiker?’
‘Bates saw him this afternoon in the village with one of the two men you’ve got staying at your place — what’s his name — Biggleswick, or something like that. So he must be one of the party. I fancy he was left to keep an eye on the house.’
‘What are you going to do with him?’
‘Let him go.’
‘You must be mad.’
‘He doesn’t know what happened to him. I’ll tell him he had an accident, or a heart attack, and was brought here to be taken care of.’
‘I’d silence him for good. He might talk.’
‘He can talk as much as he likes. He doesn’t know anything that matters. You may be sure I took good care of that.’
‘I’d make certain he couldn’t talk,’ Stephen said curtly.
‘That’d be a crazy thing to do,’ argued Julius. ‘It would start something. If the police planted him here, should he disappear, they’d never rest till they found him. And suspicion would fall on this house. Don’t you see, by letting him go, it would give the impression that we’ve nothing to hide; nothing to be afraid of.’
‘All right. You please yourself, but I know what I’d do,’ retorted Stephen, grimly. ‘Now I’ll be getting along to make sure everything is okay at my end.’
‘I’ll have anyone here who matters out of the house by the morning,’ promised Julius.
Here the conversation ended abruptly. Stephen Brunner returned to his car. He slammed the door: he started the engine: the lights came on and he drove off. The front door of the house was closed. Footsteps retreated down the hall and silence returned to Penlock Grange.
Relieved, Biggles stretched his cramped limbs and removed a trailing rose briar from the back of his neck. With what profound interest he had listened to the enlightening conversation between the Brunners can be imagined. He waited for a minute or two to make quite sure that the coast was clear, and then made his way to the hedge by the drive to think things over. And he had plenty to think about; so much that his brain was racing as it strove to put the information he had just overheard into its proper perspective. He looked at his watch and observed it was now after midnight.
He found a convenient spot at the bend of the hedge from which he would be able to watch the front of the house and digest what he had heard and what he should do for the best. His first inclination was to hurry on in the hope of finding Bertie still waiting for him, so that he could tell him what he had learned, after which they could perhaps act together. It would obviously be unwise to keep such important information to himself in case he should run into trouble. The others should know as soon as possible what he now knew: that the two Brunner brothers were definitely engaged in some illegal traffic.
