Читать книгу Ringed by Fire - Percy Francis Westerman - Страница 6

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It was not the threat that had given Standish a nasty jolt. He was used to receiving anonymous letters couched in lurid terms.

What did astonish him was the fact that the missive had been affixed to the instrument-board of the monoplane after the machine had been placed behind locked doors. There were, he felt sure, only two keys to the Yale lock. He held one; Symes the other. Symes was a veritable Cerberus, vigilant, impeccable and above suspicion.

Carefully withdrawing the pin and handling the rectangular piece of paper by its edges, Colin examined the writing. The block letters had been deliberately made—no hurried scrawl. The fact that they were in red ink pointed to the suggestion that the person who had penned the threatening notice had done so at his leisure, and in some place where he had not been liable to interruption. A pencilled scrawl could have been made on the spot. An intruder would not carry red ink about with him. The writing had not been blotted—another fact that showed that the writer had been deliberate.

Probably a microscopic examination might reveal finger-prints. On the other hand, the writer might have worn gloves in order to prevent such incriminating evidence.

Without creasing the paper, Colin placed it carefully in his pocket-book.

“What do you make of it, old son?” he asked.

“Do you remember when we took a stowaway from this very aerodrome?” rejoined Grey. “Some other blighter might have concealed himself when we left the bus yesterday. You didn’t notice her dipping by the stern, did you?”

“No; she was in perfect trim. Your theory won’t hold, though. If there were someone stowed away we must have locked him in here. The lock’s intact.”

“Well, someone’s been in and out; that’s certain,” declared Grey. “Pretty cool customer, too. There doesn’t seem any place where he could have broken in or out.”

They made a careful examination of the hangar. The floor was of concrete, the walls of breeze brick with three small louvre ventilators fifteen feet from the ground, and a few air bricks an inch or so above the floor. The roof was of curved galvanized iron on steel trusses. The whole building was fireproof and without means of egress or ingress except by the door, unless a hole had been made in either the walls or the roof. There was no hole, nor any signs of one having been made.

Surrounding the aerodrome was a so-called unclimbable fence—a metal spiked barrier sufficient to deter most people who had any regard for their skins or their clothes; but one that would present little difficulty to the average cat-burglar. All the same, unless the intruder had entered the main gate under some pretext and had concealed himself until after midnight, he would have not only to scale the fence but to find his way into the hangar by some means that at present was an unsolved mystery. In so doing the chances were that he would have creased the paper. There were no creases. The paper was as fresh as if it had just been taken from a packet.

Throwing off his coat, Standish tackled the job he had in mind—the adjustment of the throttle control.

Then they relocked the hangar doors and made their way to the mess-room.

There were now half a dozen pilots, four of whom Colin and Don knew. They greeted the newcomers boisterously, chaffing them at being so bored stiff with a flying policeman’s job that they were only too glad to re-engage with Far Eastern Airways and see life.

“You haven’t met these two birds,” said Dixon. “Bright lads both of them—this is Evans, this is Brown. Standish and Grey were pilots here when you were being licked into shape at school.”

“Of course we know of you,” said Evans smilingly. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”

Conversation became general. Presently, without any leading question by either Standish or Grey, the subject of the recent heath fire was brought up.

“No joke making for the ’drome a few days ago,” declared Dixon. “I was bringing a crowd from the south of France. You couldn’t see Bere Regis a mile away. Smoke from acres of burning heath rising a thousand feet up. You mayn’t believe it, but there were bits of burning wood thrown up into the air well above the smoke cloud.”

“Windy?” asked Standish laconically.

“Rather. Burning embers drifting into the cockpit make you wonder what might happen if there’s any leaking petrol pipe union. A few weeks ago I had the job of flying over the crater of Vesuvius. London press photographer’s stunt. By Jove! It was child’s play compared to dashing through that smoke cloud.”

“Worse than a sandstorm, then,” remarked Colin. “Any chance of another fire?”

“We’ve had quite enough around here, thank you,” replied Dixon. “ ’Sides, the ground’s pretty sodden with last night’s rain. All the same, if there should be one I’d advise you to keep clear, even if you have a gas-mask, which I bet you haven’t. But when there was a big blaze at Sandford the other day—there were three quite distinct heath fires that afternoon—there were half a dozen buses buzzing around.”

“What for?” asked Grey.

“Aerial photographs for the press, of course,” replied Dixon. “What do you think they were—a fire brigade?”

“What do you think is the cause of all these outbreaks?” asked Standish.

“Dunno: seems too big a thing to be accidental every time.”

“I know for a fact that someone’s been starting them,” declared Evans.

“What do you mean?”

“Last Monday week I was coming back from Wool in my car. I was alone,” explained the young pilot. “On the bend near the top of Gallow’s Hill I surprised a fellow deliberately firing the gorse. He’d got down from a car to do it.”

“And what then?”

“He hopped back into his car and drove off like mad.”

“And you chased him. Didn’t you get the number of the car?” asked someone.

“I did neither,” explained Evans. “I thought it was the best thing to stamp the fire out. Wouldn’t you?”

“You informed the police, I suppose?” asked Standish.

Evans grinned.

“I don’t mind admitting that you’re the first policeman I’ve mentioned it to,” he answered. “You see, I’d forgotten my driving licence. I should have been asked for it, and as I didn’t feel like being touched for ten bob by the local beaks, I gave the police a wide berth.... Hallo! Here’s the boss! Looks as if he’s had a night of it.”

Through one of the windows Standish caught sight of his former employer. Mr. Truscott had just returned from town in his saloon car. His face was flushed. He walked somewhat unsteadily. Somehow he looked different from the pompous, self-confident resident managing director of the days when Colin and Don were under his orders.

“He’s taken to bending his elbow a lot recently,” explained Dixon. “Bad example to pilots, only none of us has imitated him so far.”

“I suppose we’d better see him,” said Standish, picking up his cap. “Come along, Don; cheerio, you fellows. We must try to arrange an evening in Bournemouth before my leave’s up.”

On their way across the tarmac to Truscott’s private office Standish remarked:

“Dixon was right. Our old boss has been imbibing a bit too freely. It’s a pity; he used to be very abstemious in the old days.”

“He certainly surprised me,” admitted Grey.

“I meant to take him into our confidence and to tell him why we’re here,” continued Colin. “It wouldn’t be safe to do that now. ‘When wine’s in wit’s out’, you know. We’ll have to pitch the same yarn as we told the others.”

There was a strange messenger-boy in the lobby. The chums gave their names.

“Appointment? ’Cause Mr. Truscott won’t see anyone except by appointment.”

“Loyal lad,” thought Standish. “Trying to boom off visitors while the boss is like that.”

“Yes, appointment,” he replied.

The resident general manager was sitting in a low armchair. He made an effort to rise, but gave it up.

“My word, you two!” he exclaimed. “Until I got your telephone message yesterday I didn’t expect to see you here again. ’Scuse my not rising; touch of lumbago or something. Take a chair, each of you. Spot?”

The chums sat down, but declined the offer of a drink. There was an awkward silence.

“Well; sorry you left the company and became Air cops?” inquired Truscott. “Not thinking of asking for re-engagements, eh?”

“No; sort of holiday,” replied Colin.

“Sort of holiday? Does that mean you’ve what they call a case on down this way?”

It was a point-blank question. Standish hesitated and wondered whether the manager in his present slightly bibulous state would notice it.

“If there had been anything of that sort you would have heard of it,” he rejoined. “I suppose you are of the opinion that the local heath fires are the work of an incendiary?”

“I’m not,” replied Truscott, raising his voice. “And supposing they were, you’d better transfer your activities elsewhere. We don’t want the aerodrome set on fire as a protest because we’re harbouring two Royal Air Constabulary officers.”

He broke off and then uttered a cackling laugh.

“He, he! Can’t help pulling your leg, Standish. As if such a thing would happen. The cause is simple enough. Ground dry as tinder for weeks. A broken bottle acting as a sort of burning-glass would easily account for a fire. But proceed with your duty, only I hope you won’t spray me with aniline dye by mistake.”

Aniline dye! How did Truscott get to hear of the spraying apparatus? Of course it was standard equipment of certain types of R.A.C. machines; but Truscott was in London when their monoplane arrived. He had only just returned. He had had no time to have the hangar unlocked even if Symes had made a special concession—which was most unlikely.

“How did you know about the spraying apparatus?” asked Colin pointedly.

Truscott grinned fatuously and waggled his fat forefinger.

“Little bird told me,” he replied, and hurriedly changed the topic of conversation.

This unsatisfactory interview lasted about ten minutes, and the chums left the aerodrome in order to have lunch at one of the village inns.

“Silly old josser,” remarked Grey. “Trying to be funny. Of course that was a chance shot of his, mentioning the dye.”

“Of course,” rejoined Standish.

And that was all that was said about it for the present; but Colin Standish was doing some very hard thinking.