'Even if he doesn't come himself he'll send someone,' declared Biggles.
'If we can go on nibbling bits off his organization it'll shake him - and his pilots, who'll wonder what they're running into.'
The Air Commodore agreed.
The cable was sent from Forest Row. Biggles, Ginger and Bertie took up residence in the now empty house by the landing strip, Algy having been detailed to reconnoitre the sands of The Wash for wheel tracks. Biggles sat by the telephone.
The call from Luftmann came through at ten the same night. The passwords were exchanged, Biggles imitating Brail's voice as well as he could. He was smiling when he hung up. 'He says he'll be here at noon tomorrow,' he told the others. 'We might as well go to bed.'
Eleven o'clock the following morning saw a reception party in position, Biggles having been reinforced by plain clothes men from the Yard. These remained out of sight.
At eleven-fifty, Ginger, who had been watching from an upstairs window, reported a Rolls coming down the road. It turned in the drive and stopped at the front door, which had been left open. Three men got out. One was short, burly, sleek and immaculate. The others, acting like bodyguards, were rough types. Together they strode into the lounge where Biggles was seated at Brail's desk.
'Who are you?' demanded the well-dressed man, speaking with a pronounced accent. '
Where's Brail ?'
'He's been unavoidably detained,' answered Biggles smoothly. 'Are you Mr.
Luftmann?'
'Yes. I was Luftmann. I speak with Brail last night. He say he has something important to tell me.'
'Actually, you spoke to me,' corrected Biggles. 'And what I have to tell you is this. The man you arranged to fly to France two nights ago is in prison, and very angry. Your traffic manager here is also under arrest.
Between them they have told us quite a lot about you, with the result that you, too, are under arrest.'
Luftmann was staring stupidly, jaw sagging.
'To save unpleasantness I should tell you that this house is cordoned off by police, so resistance on your part will serve no useful purpose,' went on Biggles imperturbably. '
Finally, I must warn you that anything you say may be used as evidence against you.'
Luftmann choked something in a foreign language. His companions drew pistols and started backing towards the door, eyes active.
'Drop those guns,' ordered Biggles sternly. 'Shoot a policeman in this country and you'll hang, I promise you.'
He ducked as one of the bodyguards took deliberate aim at him. But the shot was never fired. Through every door surged policemen.
Luftmann, ashen, dropped into a chair. 'I can explain this,' he cried desperately.
'I doubt it,' replied Biggles dryly. He turned to the Air Commodore who now walked in. 'I think Mr Luftmann wants to make a statement, sir.'
But Mr Luftmann had fainted.
For a week Algy and Bertie had taken turns to patrol at dawn the wide sands of The Wash after low tides had occurred during the night. So far they had not seen a mark.
Radar had nothing to report.
The purpose of these flights was to ascertain if the sands were still being used as a landing ground by unregistered aircraft, and if so, the precise spot where the landings were made. Also, by examination of the tracks, perhaps identify the type of aircraft being used.
Conditions were now near perfect: the weather, the moon, the wind and the time of low tide, all were right, so on his next patrol Algy was not surprised to find what he sought.
As he sideslipped steeply towards twin sets of double wheel tracks he realized how well chosen was the spot for what was going on. The sands stretched for miles without an obstruction. Towards the tracks at almost unbelievable speed raced the incoming tide, each wave was overlapping the last, so that in a matter of minutes the tell-tale marks would be erased.
When he landed the advancing water was a mile away, yet even so he had barely time to finish what he wanted to do. In fact, at the end he had to run for it, and, with the water at his wheels, take off in a cloud of spray.
An hour later he was reporting to Biggles in the Ops. Room. 'The machine that landed on those sands last night was no type I've ever seen or heard of,' he declared. 'It had double tyres on each leg of the undercart and the tyres had no tread pattern. The wheel track was ten feet three and a half inches. The machine had a fixed tail skid yet it could turn in its own length, which means at least twin power units.'
Biggles drew thoughtfully on his cigarette. 'I'd say that machine was equipped for the job
- designed to tell anyone who saw its tracks precisely nothing. No treads. Why? Because the tread of a tyre names its maker. As individuals can't build special machines it must have government backing. Which government? Your guess is as good as mine. With conditions perfect it should be here again within a day or two - or not for another month.
The question is how to catch it in the act - bearing in mind that the crew carry guns.'
'What about laying on the brolly act?' suggested Bertie.
'Too dangerous. Don't forget what happened to King John. When I land I want to be able to get off again.'
'To land in a machine will be asking to be shot up,' Ginger pointed out.
'That's a game that two can play. If I had my way I'd shoot these sneak raiders out of the sky; they're a menace to honest pilots; but of course the Chief won't hear of that.'
'So we have to let them shoot at us before we can shoot back,' murmured Bertie. 'Jolly good.'
'All we can do is sit around on the coast, and when we hear this prowler come in, fly out and make a grab at him - or something of that sort. I'll think about it. We start tonight.'
'What do you suppose this machine's doing?' queried Ginger.
'Putting down somebody who prefers not to come into the country through a normal port of entry. Which means we've got to be careful not to start an international rumpus.'
'Let's catch these birds for a start,' suggested Bertie.
For three nights the police Auster, based on an R.A.F. station in Lincolnshire, watched and waited by the sands, standing at alert only when landings were possible. Two watchers from the Security Division were on duty on the Norfolk side, in touch by high frequency radio.
The fourth night came, with the moon riding high and shreds of cloud being hounded across the sky by a stiffish easterly wind. The tide had ebbed, leaving a vast grey plain of glistening sand with here and there a sheet of shallow water from which was wafted the reek of seaweed and the melancholy cries of gulls.
Biggles looked at his watch. 'Low water,' he remarked. 'If they're coming it should be soon.'
Hardly had the words left his lips when all were brought to their feet by the drone of aero engines, the sound seeming to come from the sea.
'He's coming in low to beat radar,' said Biggles. 'Okay, let's go.'
Almost at once it was possible to see the machine, black against the pallid background, the only moving thing in a scene that was as lifeless as a picture. It turned into wind, slowed to a crawl, stopped.
'We've got 'em, the fools,' muttered Biggles, racing for the spot. 'They daren't take off down-wind in this breeze, and they haven't room to get off into it without hitting that pool of stagnant water. Have the gun ready, Algy,' he ordered, as he throttled back and swung round to make his approach from behind.
Another minute and his wheels were grumbling as, tail up, he sped to dose the gap. Only at the last moment, as the tail dropped and dragged, did he turn broadside on to enable Algy to bring a Sten gun to bear.
Jabbing flecks of flame and the vicious smack of bullets told Ginger they were under fire. Algy's gun chattered and the target began to move.
What followed provided a subject for argument for weeks to come. The pilot tried to take off. So much was apparent. Whether he was hit by one of Algy's shots; whether he had forgotten the pool in front of him or was blinded by the reflection of the moon on it; whether he struck a patch
of soft sand or lost his nerve were all matters for surmise.
What certainly happened was, the machine, running tail up, suddenly tried to turn. No undercarriage, designed for forward movement only, could be expected to stand up to such a cross-strain. It collapsed. A wing tip tore into the sand. The machine cart-wheeled, and was in flames before it had stopped rolling.
Without fire-fighting appliances there was no question of rescue.
For Biggles it was a disappointing end to the affair, for it left the identity of the aircraft, and its occupants, unrevealed.
The sands were watched for weeks, but there were no more visitors.
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