Читать книгу Ringed by Fire - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 5

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Not that Standish and his chum worried very much about that. They had been threatened over and over again. Like most of their brother officers, they had received several anonymous letters which, on the principle that “threatened men live longest”, they had treated with indifference. Their successful efforts in laying the Down ’Em and the Moss gangs by the heels had resulted in several attempts against their lives.

Up to within recent years the habitual criminal in this country was unique in this respect: he rarely, if ever, harboured resentment or revenge against the policeman who had effected his arrest. He regarded it all as part of a game—desperate, it is true. It was a contest between the cunning of the law-breaker on the one hand and the protector of Law and Order on the other. Should the former lose he “took his medicine” more or less cheerfully, and in many instances the ’tecs who had been responsible for his arrest also made themselves responsible for looking after his family while he did his “stretch”.

Latterly criminals have changed both their character and their methods. They enlist the latest scientific discoveries in their aid. They are no longer an almost wholly British type. Criminals from the States, from the Continent and from the farthermost regions of the earth have flocked into the country—men who do not hesitate to resort to violence both in the commission of their crimes and in their efforts, successful or otherwise, to effect their escape.

The motor-car was found to be a valuable ally, and latterly that means of locomotion has been largely superseded by the aeroplane, especially in the execution of schemes planned on the Continent by international crooks.

“I have an idea,” observed Don, as they tramped across the fields towards the place where they had left their monoplane. “Those fellows weren’t really after us.”

“Weren’t they?” queried his chum. “Then who in the name of goodness were they after?”

“It seems to me as if they were after someone else,” continued Colin. “I’ll have to make inquiries from Divisional Headquarters. As likely as not they disguised themselves as R.A.C. men in order to stop and rob someone in a bus resembling ours. They’d hardly go to all that trouble merely to kidnap us.”

“They’ve found out who we are, though.”

“Yes, worse luck.... Hallo! What a gallery!”

The biplane that Standish had set on fire (grimly he recollected that his task was to attempt to stamp out arson and he himself had committed that offence) was by this time nothing but a mass of twisted metal and a pile of white embers from which smoke was still rising. Two or three Leicestershire County Constabulary policemen were examining the wreckage, their actions being watched with deep interest by a crowd. It seemed strange where all that number of people could have come from considering that the district was a sparsely populated rural one.

Fortunately the flames had been confined to the would-be kidnapper machine and a small circle of grass. The chums’ monoplane was untouched by fire; but it was certainly being touched by a crowd of yokels. Three or four urchins were dancing about in the cockpit and fiddling with the controls, to the evident satisfaction both of themselves and their parents.

Fortunately the crowd appeared honest, for no one had “pinched” the chums’ leather flying-coats, which they had thrown off at the commencement of the pursuit.

Seeing the two airmen approach, the urchins hurriedly abandoned their new plaything. One of the constables strolled up, produced a notebook and assumed an inquisitorial air.

“Which of you two is in charge of this machine?” he demanded.

“Neither,” replied Standish. “I always understood that the police take charge of abandoned property. You’ve neglected your duty by allowing those children to jump all over this machine instead of——”

“Do you think you’re going to teach me my duty?” interrupted the policeman angrily.

“I really think I am,” rejoined Colin coolly. “Just cast your eye on this.”

For the third time that day he produced his warrant card.

The policeman wilted.

“Very sorry indeed, sir.”

“That’s all right,” said Standish. “We all make mistakes sometimes. Ask the other constables to come here.”

He questioned the trio and discovered that they knew nothing about the affair except that they had been informed by a neighbouring farmer that an aeroplane was on fire.

Standish told them of what had occurred, suggested that they should get into communication with their Chief Constable, and that they’d better get an aeronautical expert to examine the wreckage.

He and Grey then overhauled their monoplane. Hardly any damage had been done, although the youthful intruders had been monkeying with the wireless apparatus. Fortunately the spraying gadget had been overlooked, while the controls, although they had been tampered with, were intact.

With the help of some of the onlookers they swung the bus round, started up and taxied across the field. Then, after a short run, the monoplane resumed its interrupted journey.

Without further incident the monoplane hurried southwards, crossed the Thames just below Oxford and, skirting Salisbury, entered upon the last phase of its flight.

The prolonged spell of hot, dry weather looked like breaking up. In fact, a few miles from the Dorset boundary they encountered a heavy hailstorm.

Standish regretted the change, for two reasons. He hated rain like a cat, even though he had known what thirst means in more than one arid desert. He revelled in the exceptionally fine weather with which Great Britain had been favoured. The second reason was that a heavy downpour would effectually put a stop to the heath fires. That, of course, would relieve a great many people from anxiety, but it would also deprive Standish of any possible chance of arresting the suspected incendiary.

He had previously telephoned to Far Eastern Airways Aerodrome at Bere Regis asking the manager to reserve a private hangar for him for at least a fortnight.

Just before sunset—and an angry looking sun was visible through a rift in the dark wind-torn clouds—the monoplane skimmed the summit of Woodbury and came to earth on the well-known stretch of tarmac from which Colin and Don had taken off on their memorable flight to Bakhistan and to the Egypto-Sudanese frontier.

“Back again, then, Mr. Standish!” exclaimed Symes, the veteran ground foreman. “Don’t say you’ve chucked the Royal Air Constabulary and are coming here to sign on again?”

“Hardly,” replied Colin. “We’re having a sort of spot of leave. I suppose there are some of the old pilots still here. Where’s Mr. Truscott?”

Symes informed him that the managing director was in town and would probably return by car that evening. The curious fact about Mr. Truscott was that he’d never go anywhere by air, preferring the older method of locomotion.

“All right,” continued Standish; “you’ve reserved the hangar? Good; we’ll trundle the bus in. I don’t think we’ll want her to-morrow, do you, Don?”

Grey, glancing up at the rain-teeming clouds, opined that it didn’t look like it.

The monoplane was housed, the chums removed their suitcases, the door of the hangar was locked with a Yale. Standish was given one key, the other Symes retained, and in no circumstances, except in a case of danger from fire, would he open those doors without Standish’s permission—not even at the request of the resident managing director.

“Who’s in the mess?” asked Standish.

“Only Mr. Evans and Mr. Brown,” replied Symes. “You’ll not be knowing them. They joined after you left.”

“Then we’ll push straight on to the Bear,” decided Standish. “You might get a taxi.”

In choosing to stop at an hotel at Wareham—a distance of eight miles from the aerodrome, Colin knew that he and Grey would not be recognized as former pilots in the Far Eastern Airways or as officers of the Royal Air Constabulary. The little town was in the centre of the heath on which a series of mysterious fires had occurred. They stood a good chance of picking up information without their informants knowing that they were on official duties. For the present they would be two tourists exploring the district.

It was a weird drive through the darkness and the rain across the heath. For miles the undulating country had been devastated. The air was thick with the reek of burnt gorse. Here and there the peaty soil was emitting dense smoke in spite of the downpour.

Next morning the rain had cleared away and the sun shone from an unclouded sky.

“Ground’s too damp yet for a heath fire,” remarked Don.

“So we can take a holiday,” rejoined Colin. “We’ll run up to Bere Regis and have a yarn with Truscott; then we may as well go on to Poole and see the customs people there. Colonel Robartes wouldn’t have suggested our doing so unless there’s something in the wind.”

Arriving at the aerodrome they learnt that Mr. Truscott had not returned. He had telephoned from London stating that he had been detained and would probably arrive just before noon.

“May as well hang on,” decided Colin. “There’s no violent hurry. Look here, Don! While we’re waiting I think I’ll have a go at the throttle control. It seemed a bit on the coarse side. Perhaps those kids stretched it.”

They went to the lock-up hangars, threw open both doors to admit plenty of light and ventilation.

Standish swung himself on board.

His chum heard him give a little gasp of astonishment.

“What’s up?” asked Don.

“Look here,” said Colin, pointing to the instrument-board.

Pinned to it was a piece of paper on which was written in red ink and in block capitals:

“WE KNOW WHAT YOU ARE AFTER, INSPECTOR STANDISH. UNLESS YOU WANT A BROKEN NECK YOU HAD BETTER TRANSFER YOUR ACTIVITIES ELSEWHERE. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED!”