Читать книгу Ringed by Fire - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 3

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“I’m having you transferred at once, Standish,” announced Colonel Robartes, Superintendent of the North-Eastern Division of the Royal Air Constabulary.

Colin Standish tried not to show his disappointment. He had been very happy at Hawkscar. It was not pleasant to think of parting from his brother officers, staunch comrades all in peril and stout adventures, especially his chum—Don Grey.

“I shall be sorry to leave Hawkscar, sir.”

“No doubt,” rejoined Colonel Robartes drily. He, too, knew that comradeship, especially comradeship of the air, is a bond not easily broken. “No doubt; but duty before everything, Standish!”

“Exactly, sir.”

“Glad to hear you say that, Standish,” continued the superintendent briskly. “However, you won’t be sent very far away, and if you have your usual luck you’ll be back here within a month or so. You know Dorset pretty well?”

Of course Standish did. He had spent most of his boyhood days in that county. He had commenced his air career at the Far Eastern Airways’ principal aerodrome at Bere Regis. From there he had flown on his two adventurous missions—that of the Amir’s Ruby and the affair of the Westow Talisman.

“Yes, sir.”

“Of course. You were at Bere Regis Aerodrome. Shows I haven’t refreshed my memory by studying your dossier. You start your next job with the great advantage of knowing the district in which your work lies. It may not sound very exciting; but, as often happens, there may be a lot behind it. You’ve heard about all these heath fires in Dorset?”

“Seventeen last week, I understand, sir.”

“Seventeen if not more. Now, even taking into consideration the prolonged dry spell, that number of fires—serious all of them—cannot owe their origin to natural conditions. The heat of the sun and spontaneous combustion of peaty ground can be safely ruled out. Sparks from a railway engine might account for three of the conflagrations, but in other cases the scene of the outbreak is remote from railways and roads. Hikers have been blamed; but people of that sort appreciate the countryside too much to destroy its beauties, even through carelessness.”

“Is anyone suspected, sir?”

“I should certainly think so, but so far the county police have nothing to go on. They’ve applied for Royal Air Constabulary co-operation. That’s why I’m sending you.”

If the truth be told, Standish did not feel particularly keen about the job. It seemed a dull sort of business flying aimlessly over miles of desolate heathland looking for—in all probability—a half-witted youth or a man of unsound mind whose amusement it was to set fire to patches of gorse and heather. Yet it would be pleasant to be down in Dorset again—his boyhood’s home county. A sort of mild relaxation after his wild adventures with gangs of desperate international crooks.

“Do you wish me to take one of the H machines, sir?”

“One of the H machines, and advertise the fact that you’re a member of the Force to anyone who chances to lift up his eyes and gaze into the sky? That would be a deterrent to the incendiary, but he’d just lie low until the air patrol was withdrawn and then start his merry game all over again. What I want you to do, and what you must do, is to surprise the fellow in the act, keep him under observation while you wireless the nearest police station, and see that they get him. That’s simple enough, isn’t it?”

“No, sir.”

“Eh?” The superintendent raised his bushy eyebrows and glanced sharply at his subordinate. He wasn’t used to having his judgment criticized. “What do you mean, eh?”

“You imply that I am to fly solo, sir, in a bus that is indistinguishable from private light aeroplanes.”

Colonel Robartes waggled his forefinger accusingly.

“Now, I know what you’re angling for, young man!” he exclaimed. “You want me to send your chum Grey with you?”

Colin Standish was too honest to deny this implication. At the same time, any other member of the flying police would serve his purpose.

“I’d like to take Grey, sir,” he replied. “We sort of understand each other. And for observation purposes, sending out wireless reports, and——”

“And what?” inquired the superintendent, noticing the other’s hesitation. “Carry on, I’m listening.”

“Well, sir, supposing the fires are being started by a gang operating in a car——”

He paused again. It seemed rather absurd to suggest that a gang would have nothing better to do than to roam a certain district and set fire to heathland. There seemed to be no object in it, and yet—he remembered that there was a vast naval cordite factory at Holton Heath, surrounded by acres of highly inflammable gorse.

“That probability cannot be overlooked, Standish.”

“What then, sir? With an H machine we could bring the magneto-cutout apparatus into action and hold the car up while some of our crew could land to effect an arrest.”

“Too obvious, employing a service machine, as I said before,” objected Colonel Robartes. “I’ll spare Grey to go with you. I had meant him to investigate that fish-poaching case off Whitby, but I’ll detail Willis for that. You’ll take a two-seater observation bus—I’ll leave you to make your own arrangements with the Air Ministry concerning the identification markings—but you’d better take the spraying apparatus. You may find that handy. By the by, I shall not require any reports from you until the business is settled one way or other.”

“Very good, sir.”

“And another thing. When you get south it would be as well to pay a call at the customs office at Poole. They’re a bit worried about something that may or may not be connected with the fire-raising business. That’s all, I think. I’ll see that Murchison gets your papers through by midday and then you can start off immediately. Good luck!”

Crossing the parade-ground on his way to the officers’ mess, Colin caught sight of his chum Don, who, in civilian garb, was carrying a small suitcase.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Standish. “What’s up?”

“Off for the week-end,” replied the other. “Had to apply for special leave. I meant to look you up and tell you before I went.”

“Very urgent?”

“Very.”

There was a pause—a sort of uncomfortable silence.

Grey, usually so communicative, had made no effort to give explanations.

“Well, I’m sorry,” observed Standish.

“You needn’t be.”

“But I am.”

Curiosity got the better of Don’s reticence.

“Why?”

“Because I’m off on special duty. Just had instructions from Colonel Robartes. I wangled it that you should breeze along too.”

“Right-o. I’m on it!” declared Grey.

“But your urgent leave?”

“Can wait,” replied Don crisply. “Come along. I’ll tell the taxi fellow I shan’t want him. Now, what’s the latest stunt?”

Standish explained.

“Doesn’t look as if we’re going to add to the ‘hurt aggregate’,” observed Don. “Pretty tame business, I think.”

In referring to the “hurt aggregate” he implied that he did not consider the undertaking a risky one. In the orderly-room a record is kept of the number of days lost in that branch of the Royal Air Constabulary owing to officers and men incapacitated through “hurts” and sickness. This record showed how hazardous was their work in combating crime and how healthy the life was in other respects. During the first year of its existence, Hawkscar showed nearly two thousand days “hurts” and ninety-four days on the sick list.

“Well, if it is, then it will be a sort of rest-cure,” said Colin. “We can both do with that after the Down ’em Gang set-to. If it isn’t—and Robartes hinted at something behind it—then all I hope is that we have our usual luck.”

By two o’clock in the afternoon the chums were ready to take off. Their machine, a two-seater single-engined monoplane, had been given a distinguishing letter and number, as in the case of privately owned buses. It was otherwise indistinguishable from thousands of its type; but there was a difference.

In the floor of the after-cockpit was a small box-like arrangement on a swivelled mounting and with a nozzle projecting downwards through a slot. This was what Colonel Robartes had referred to as the “spraying apparatus”. Actually it was a modified form of a quick-firing gun—the propellent being compressed air. But instead of discharging metal shells it fired circular missiles made of celluloid. These contained strong aniline dye which, spreading upon impact, covered their object with an indelible stain.

Underneath the deck and close to the observer’s seat was a small but efficient wireless set capable of sending out and receiving messages over a radius of two hundred miles by day. Ready to hand were a pair of earphones, while in the coaming in front of the bucket seat was a small lamp that showed a red light whenever a message intended for the occupants was sent out on this particular wave-length.

Stowing their personal belongings under the deck, the two chums, both of whom were now in plain clothes, made a brief but comprehensive test of the engine and controls, boarded their bus and, giving their confrères a cheery farewell, took off into the blue.

Or, rather, into the clouds, for the sky was obscured by a flat layer of fleecy vapour in suspension, which was just what Standish wanted.

Outside the unclimbable iron fence enclosing the aerodrome there were at least fifty people watching the proceedings. Quite possibly most of them were there out of pure curiosity. On the other hand, there might be some with other intentions. They might take more than ordinary interest in the monoplane that differed from the huge H-type aircraft that formed part of the standard equipment of the Royal Air Constabulary.

So, climbing steeply, Standish headed his bus northwards until she was well above the bank of clouds. Then, secure from earthly observation, he swung her round and headed southwards.

Half an hour later, in a now cloudless sky, the two chums noticed that they were over a large river. They knew exactly where they were. The river was the Trent; they had flown over it several times.

“We’re out of the North-eastern Area now,” said Don, speaking through the voice-tube. “Not doing so badly.”

There were at least a dozen aircraft within sight—a liner bound from Croydon to Edinburgh and Aberdeen, a Post Office plane conveying letters and parcels from South Wales to Lincoln and Hull, and the rest seemed to be private machines.

Suddenly—for neither of the two sub-inspectors had glanced astern—a huge triple-engined biplane overtook them at at least one hundred and eighty miles an hour.

Colin recognized it as one of the Royal Air Constabulary machines belonging to the Midland Area, and which differed considerably in design from the H’s of his division.

He waved. There was no response. Swiftly and majestically the other machine drew ahead, swerved slightly, and took up a position less than fifty yards ahead.

From the tail of the fuselage a green light, clearly visible in the strong sunshine, suddenly flashed. It was a signal known to every airman.

It meant: “Stop, land immediately!”