Читать книгу Ringed by Fire - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 4

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“Got a bee in his bonnet, that speed cop!” exclaimed Grey. “What are you going to do about it, old son?”

Under other conditions Standish might have felt inclined to “lead the Midland Air Constabulary a dance”; but it was imperative that he should be in Dorset well before sunset.

He touched a button on the dashboard. Above the centre of the wing-span a small oval disc appeared displaying the Royal Coat of Arms and the letters R.A.C. This was the identification disc used only between Royal Air Constabulary machines.

The green light ahead was switched off, only to reappear five seconds later. It was an acknowledgment that the disc had been observed; but it also meant that the biplane’s crew were not satisfied, for some reason.

Standish held on. He felt peeved. The action of the Royal Air Constabulary’s crew seemed inexplicable. Had they wanted to communicate any information they could have done so by wireless, without ordering him to volplane to earth as if he had been a suspect.

His blood boiled when a few seconds later his engine konked out. The other machine had released a ray that had polarized the magneto of his engine. Until that numbing influence was removed the monoplane was not even as efficient as a mere sailplane.

The only thing to be done was to dive steeply, alight, and get the exasperating business over. He tried to think of the blistering remark he would make to that unknown sub-inspector when they met.

Swooping swiftly earthwards, Standish kept his eyes skinned for a suitable landing-ground. Fortunately he was over the rich grazing district of the Trent valley, where it was easy to descend. In the distance he could see the factory chimneys of Leicester and the surrounding industrial hamlets. The way the smoke was blowing enabled him to land head to wind.

He swung his bus eastwards. So did the pilot of the monoplane. Below was a large, gently sloping field, surrounded by hedges and with a row of tall trees and a wide ditch dead to wind’ard.

“I’ll make ’em sit up!” he muttered. “The bone-heads!”

He reckoned that if he could prolong the volplane and time his descent to enable his bus to stop within a few feet of those trees the biplane would have to zoom, clear the tree tops, and come to earth at least two hundred yards away. He pictured the wrathful indignation of the sub-inspector and his men at having to wade through what was probably a muddy ditch and force their way through a thick-set hedge before they could get to him.

Apparently the pilot of the biplane divined his purpose. Banking steeply, he swung round until he was almost on Standish’s tail. The paralysing rays held Colin’s bus in their inexorable grip.

The monoplane bumped gently, taxied for about fifty yards, and came to a standstill with her nose almost touching the hedge. For taking off Standish could hardly have chosen a worse place.

Indignantly Standish and Grey alighted. In the event of an argument a person sitting down is at a disadvantage. They saw the biplane descend and a uniformed sub-inspector and five constables alight.

“What does this mean?” demanded the sub-inspector, a big, beefy-faced individual who struck Standish as being a blusterer. “You saw the stop signal. Why didn’t you obey at once?”

“You saw our identity disc,” rejoined Colin. “If you had anything to communicate, why didn’t you do so by wireless?”

“None of your lip, my fine fellow,” exclaimed the other. “You claim to be Royal Air Constabulary officers. Where are your warrant cards? I’m too old a bird to be caught by chaff!”

“You certainly look an old bird,” retorted Standish coolly. “Here you are; now are you satisfied?”

The sub-inspector looked at both Standish’s and Grey’s warrant cards, the constables peering over his shoulder as he did so.

“H’m: Inspector Colin Standish and Sub-Inspector Donald Grey—perhaps,” he remarked with a sneer. “I’m placing both of you under arrest. Get the bracelets on ’em, men!”

This was wholly illegal. It was not even the usual police procedure of making an arrest, since the charge was not stated.

“One moment!” exclaimed Colin authoritatively. “Where’s your warrant card?”

“Here!” snapped the fellow, pointing to a pair of handcuffs held by one of his subordinates. “Come on, now; no nonsense!”

If either Standish or Grey had had their doubts they were now convinced. Their would-be arresters were not members of the Royal Air Constabulary. For some reason—and the thought flashed through Colin’s mind that there were several—they were attempting to kidnap two genuine officers.

“They’ve streaked after us all the way from Hawkscar,” he thought. Then aloud:

“Stand back! Put your hands up!”

He whipped his automatic from the side pocket of his flying-coat. Don did the same.

The five men drew back but made no attempt to obey the second of Colin’s orders.

They knew perfectly well that an air constable is not entitled to use firearms except in self-defence, and then only if he has reasonable ground for suspecting that his life is in danger.

Probably the would-be kidnappers were armed too. Either they were afraid to shoot or else afraid to draw, covered as they were by the pistols of two now cool and determined men.

“You’ll hear more about this!” snapped the bogus sub-inspector. “Come along, you men!”

He swung on his heel and walked back to the waiting biplane, his companions following his example. There was no chance of their being shot in the back.

Colin was thinking hard.

Since this country differs very considerably from the “wild and woolly west”, it is not within the right of the civil law to round up criminals at the point of the pistol. Physically he and Don were strong, but not capable of tackling eight desperate men; since those who had remained in the biplane would almost certainly come to their friends’ assistance.

Yet for the honour of the Royal Air Constabulary something must be done.

“Come on, Don!” he exclaimed in a low voice. “We’ve got to cripple that bus.”

The would-be kidnappers retired in good order and climbed into the biplane. Their trouble in taking off, if they succeeded in so doing, would be similar to Standish’s. They must turn, taxi down-wind to the other side of the field, turn again and gather sufficient ground speed for the take-off.

The question was, how to stop them? Damaging the rudder and tail fins might do; on the other hand, a triple-engined bus can steer by throttle control. Several instances occurred during the War of pilots bringing their machines down in safety even with the tail of the bus shot away.

The vulnerable part of the biplane was her petrol tanks. These, in order to economize space, were built into the metal wings of the upper plane—of strong, though light, rustless steel. Was the metal stout enough to stop a ·230 nickle-coated bullet?

Keeping “well from under”, Colin fired. A stream of petrol gushed through the bullet hole. Then he ought to have left well alone and directed his attention to the other wing tank. Possibly it was excitement, probably the determination to do the business thoroughly. At all events he fired a second shot.

The result exceeded his expectations. A spurt of reddish flame issued from both bullet holes, rapidly increasing in intensity until the petrol-fed tongues of fire soared twenty feet or more into the air.

“Get your fire-extinguishers to work!” shouted Standish to the crew.

He had disabled the bus right enough. There was no need to turn it into a huge bonfire. Technically, he had committed the crime of arson.

His exhortation fell upon deaf ears; or, if the crew did hear, they were too astounded to take action. Their whole desire seemed to be to get clear away.

They jumped and took to their heels across the field, with Standish and Don in hot pursuit.

Now, at last, was the chance to make an arrest or two by pouncing on the stragglers at the tail-end of the fugitives.

Standish in the course of his duty had been one of several constables in pursuit of a gang. Invariably the fugitives had scattered. In this case there was no attempt to disperse. The rascals could run. They outstripped their pursuers even though the two chums had hastily thrown off their flying-coats; and they kept together in a pretty solid group so that there were no laggards who could be overtaken and captured.

Through the first hedge the fugitives forced their way with only a slight loss of lead. They had more than regained it by the time they were across the next field.

Their pursuers stuck it grimly. It looked like a losing game for them, but something might happen to enable them to overtake their quarry.

This went on for over a mile.

Colin and his chum were getting their “second wind” when, to their dismay, they saw that the eight men had gained a high road. Actually it was in the Fosse Way running between the outskirts of Leicester to Newark in an almost straight line and with hardly a village on it for nearly the whole of that distance.

Usually there was a large amount of motor traffic on it. Now it was almost deserted except for a lorry proceeding towards Newark.

From a distance of about two hundred yards Standish and Grey saw the end of the pursuit, as far as they were directly concerned.

The gang stopped the lorry, jumped in and compelled the scared driver to make it travel far in excess of the legal speed limit. By the time the two sub-inspectors had gained the tarmac the lorry and their quarry were out of sight.

About a minute later a saloon car came along in the same direction. Standish signalled it to stop. The driver accelerated. How was he to know that these two civilians were Royal Air Constabulary officers?

The next car was a sports model driven by a bare-headed youth of about eighteen. He pulled up and grinned cheerfully at the two perspiring, panting chums.

“Too warm for a marathon, eh?” he remarked. “What’s the bright idea? Want a lift?”

Briefly Colin explained the situation.

The youth’s eyes gleamed.

“Hop in,” he exclaimed. “Hang on tight—she’ll do seventy easily.”

It was a tight squeeze—three in that little sports model, but it was a job after the youthful owner’s heart.

How that car moved! Even Standish, accustomed to speed up to two hundred miles an hour, hung on tightly and shut his eyes as the road appeared to move past them at breakneck speed. At the crown of a low bridge she leapt with all four wheels clear of the ground. A gentle curve she took with the off-side wheels a foot in the air. Other cars she simply left standing.

Thought Standish: “Now, if a tyre bursts——”

Although they didn’t overtake the lorry or even get a glimpse of her, Standish and Grey found themselves in the police station at Newark, having accomplished the twenty-three mile run in nineteen and a half minutes. They had to harden their hearts and firmly refuse to let their young amateur chauffeur accompany them into the station. There were things to be said that were not for his ears, even though he had played no mean part in the interests of Law and Order.

The telephone and wireless telegraphy got to work. Police cordons were thrown out; mobile police patrols searched a wide area.

All to no purpose.

The lorry in which the gang had made their escape was soon discovered. The pale and agitated driver told how he had been compelled to turn off the main road into a lane leading to Farndon Ferry. There they had left him with a blood-curdling threat as to what would happen to him if he dared to move or raise an alarm within the next twenty minutes. Actually he waited five; then he made his way towards Newark, only to be challenged by a mobile police officer.

Police were immediately dispatched to scour both banks of the River Trent, but, meanwhile, after a brief consultation with the Chief Constable, Colin and Don returned by car to the spot where they had left the fields.

They were feeling rather down in the mouth over the whole business. Not only had they been greatly delayed—it was now close on six o’clock—but an unpleasant fact was evident; some gang, probably in touch with other similar organizations who use aircraft for the maturing of their nefarious schemes, had made a determined attempt to kidnap them. The attempt had failed; the miscreants had got clear—and they were in possession of the fact that Inspector Standish and Sub-Inspector Grey, in civilian clothes and flying a disguised machine, were on their way southwards.

The audacity of the rogues had been astonishing. They had gained possession of a machine that could not readily be distinguished from a Royal Air Constabulary patrol plane; they had contrived to acquire or else construct a magneto neutralizer—a contrivance hitherto sacred to the fighting and police air forces of the Realm.

Apparently they had gone to all this length merely in an attempt to capture Standish and Grey. For what reason? Revenge, or did they regard these two as a positive menace to their activities?

It looked as if from now onwards Colin and Don were marked men.