Chapter One: 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.'