Читать книгу Biggles of the Special Air Police - W E Johns - Страница 3

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“Sorry to seem unco-operative, but you can tell your Editor that for security reasons we don’t want any publicity. Goodbye.” Air-Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth hung up the telephone in the Air Police office at Scotland Yard and turned a mildly indignant face to Air-Constable Ginger Hepplethwaite, who was standing near him. “Some magazine wanted to make a photo-feature of us,” he explained.

“Anything wrong with the idea?”

“Plenty.”

Air-Constable Bertie Lissie chipped in. “But I say, old boy, you’d look top-hole in an illustrated magazine,” he bantered.

“I’m a policeman, not a film-star,” returned Biggles curtly. “There are crooks who would like to have photographs of us and our Operations Room,” he added.

Bertie whistled softly. “By Jove! I didn’t think of that. Of course, we may have enemies.”

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” answered Biggles dryly, turning to some mail that lay on his desk. He picked up a small parcel.

“That one is marked ‘Personal’, so I didn’t open it,” stated Ginger.

Biggles unwrapped the parcel. A dark object appeared. Everyone stared at it, Biggles included.

It was a black leather gauntlet.

Algy Lacey came in. “Hallo! What’s all this?” he inquired. “A present from a grateful client?”

Biggles smiled lugubriously. “One gauntlet? I happen to have two hands. What do I put on the other one?”

“Isn’t there a message with it?”

Biggles explored the wrapping-paper. “Not a word.”

“Are you sure it isn’t one of your own that you left somewhere?” queried Algy.

“If it were mine, I wouldn’t be likely to decorate it with this particular device,” returned Biggles, holding up the gauntlet, to reveal, on the back of it, a gold Swastika.

“Well, blow me down!” ejaculated Bertie. “Who’s your Nazi friend?”

“There was a time when a gauntlet was a challenge,” put in Algy. “It looks as if someone is after your blood. What d’you make of it? Have you seen this thing before?”

“Yes,” answered Biggles slowly, “It happens that I have. It was lying on the aerodrome at Marham, in Norfolk, during the war, when a squadron of American Fortresses was there. There was the skeleton of an aircraft, too, still smoking. As a matter of detail, I’d just shot it down.”

“What an extraordinary coincidence,” muttered Algy.

Biggles raised his eyebrows. “Coincidence? I don’t think this is coincidence.”

“Then what is it?”

“That,” answered Biggles thoughtfully, “is what I’d like to know. There’s a reason behind this. Maybe, if we have patience, we shall learn what it is.”

“Give us the gen about what happened at Marham,” suggested Ginger.

“That won’t take long,” agreed Biggles, reaching for a cigarette “I’d been out, intruding, in my old Spitfire. Coming home with the engine running a bit rough I looked in at Marham to find out what was wrong. I struck a bad moment. The Yanks were just taking off when out of a low cloud-layer dropped another Spit. No one took much notice. We waited for it to land. Instead of landing it opened up its guns. Obviously, the pilot was a Nazi, flying a captured machine. I went up and knocked him down. He crashed on the runway. I went out with the Yanks to try to put the fire out; but it was no use. Curiously enough, one object had been thrown clear. It was a gauntlet—this one, or one exactly like it. I took it to be the fellow’s mascot. He deserved all he got, because the trick was one no decent pilot would play. That’s all there was to it, except that the Yanks very nicely wanted to give me a decoration, which got my name into print, much to the annoyance of the Higher Command, who, as you know, take a dim view of personal publicity.”

“One of the Yanks must have sent you the gauntlet for a souvenir,” averred Ginger.

Biggles shrugged. “Possibly. I don’t like souvenirs—not this sort, anyhow. There are some things I’d rather forget.”

At this juncture the intercom buzzed. Ginger answered. “The Air-Commodore wants to see you,” he told Biggles, as he replaced the receiver.

“I’d better go along,” Biggles dropped the gauntlet into a drawer and departed for his Chief’s office.

Entering, he found that the Air-Commodore was not alone. He had with him, a tall, thinnish, middle-aged man, who rose with a smile of greeting.

Biggles returned the smile and held out a hand. “Well, well!” he exclaimed “If it isn’t the Wizard himself!”

The Air-Commodore nodded. He, too, smiled. “Of course I’d forgotten that’s what we used to call Gainsforth in the old days, when he ran the Photographic Reconnaissance Unit. He finished as a Group-Captain, you know. He’s now in charge of the Crown Film Corporation.”

“Still taking photos, eh?” remarked Biggles.

“Yes, but not the same sort,” confirmed Gainsforth sadly. “Making mosaics of enemy airfields was easy compared with making films for a critical public.”

A curious, puzzled expression came over Biggles’ face. “By the way, weren’t you at Marham, in Norfolk, the day I shot down a Spitfire?”

Gainsforth nodded. “That’s right. I photographed the wreckage.”

Biggles was staring hard at the man “What a queer thing coincidence is,” he muttered. “Believe it or not, I was talking about that very incident not five minutes ago.”

“How extraordinary!”

“Never mind about past history,” broke in the Air-Commodore. “Gainsforth has come here with a proposition. It’s a Crown Film job, so it’s okay with us if you’re interested. He’ll explain. Go ahead, Gainsforth.”

“It’s really very simple,” complied the photographic officer who was now in the film business. “I’ve been asked to make the most important air picture since The Lion Has Wings. If it’s up to standard it will be shown at the International Peace Film Festival at Geneva. A big prize is offered for the best film.”

“Good. I hope it keeps fine for you,” returned Biggles blandly. “What has this to do with me?”

“I’d like you to be the Technical Adviser of the air-combat shots.”

“Combat? I thought you said this was to be a peace film?”

“So it is. But it struck me that the most effective way of showing the value of peace might be to illustrate the heartbreak of war.”

Biggles nodded. “You may have something there,” he agreed. “So what?”

“I want you to help me to plan the most exciting and authentic air sequences ever filmed, and advise generally on Service details.”

“You don’t mean you want me to fly?”

“Not necessarily, although one or two demonstration flights might be useful.”

“Why pick on me? What’s wrong with getting a serving officer?”

“No use. The Air Council has ruled out the employment of active members of the armed forces.” Gainsforth studied Biggles’ face anxiously. “Come on, now! You can’t let an old comrade down. I promise you’ll find it quite exciting, and you’ll be in interesting company.”

“Meaning what?”

“Well, Max Petersen, the stunt pilot, is in the show; and the girl who plays the leading part, the Nazi woman who loves war and suffers for it, is the top-line German film-star, Thea Hertz. I had a job to get her, believe me.”

Biggles looked puzzled. “What’s the idea of using a German girl?”

“There were several reasons. In the first place, she’s a brilliant pilot. She was a professional test-pilot at one time. Secondly, she’s the big noise in Germany at the moment. Don’t forget the propaganda angle of the film. Part of the idea of it is to be a popular handshake between Germany and the Western Powers.”

Biggles shook his head. “I still don’t get it. Does this girl fly in the film?”

“Of course,” answered Gainsforth impatiently. “She flies a Messerschmitt 109. That’s the basis of the story. You can’t have a film without a girl in it, anyway.”

“I suppose you know your job,” said Biggles sadly.

“Don’t worry about Thea Hertz,” went on Gainsforth, “There’s no nonsense about her. Incidentally, she did a certain amount of work for the Americans during the war. She’s a fine actress, and will only work under first-class direction. How about it?”

Biggles tapped the ash off his cigarette. “All right,” he said quietly. “But I still think there’s something queer about this set-up.”

“Of course! Film making always looks daft to outsiders,” declared Gainsforth. “But wait till you’ve seen the finished job. It’ll be a sensation. As a matter of fact, it’s nearly finished. We left the war-flying stuff until last.”

“Okay,” agreed Biggles. “I’m no film expert, but I’ll do my best.”

“That’s the spirit,” cried Gainsforth, enthusiastically.