‘A dark, slim girl about seventeen?’

  ‘That’s right. Do you know her?’

  ‘I’ve met her. Did she do any flying here?’

  ‘He gave her a joy-ride once or twice after he’d got his ticket. Nothing wrong with that, was there?’

  ‘Not as far as I’m concerned.’ Biggles got up. ‘Well, I think that’s about all. We won’t keep you any longer. Nice to see you again. Oh! one last thing. Did Browning ask you to say nothing about him should anyone come here making inquiries?’

  Hale shook his head. He looked surprised at the question. ‘No. Why should he?’

  ‘I thought there was a chance that he might. It isn’t important. Anyway, he seems to have covered up his trail very smoothly. I’d be obliged if you’d let me know if you should hear from him. You know where to find me.’

  ‘Scotland Yard, they tell me.’

  Biggles nodded, smiling. ‘We all have to earn a living somehow. Take care of yourself.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’

  ‘Happy landings.’

  Followed by Bertie, Biggles went back to the car. ‘So that’s that,’ he murmured as he drove away.

  ‘You looked kind of shaken when Bunny said Browning had bought a plane.’

  ‘I was. That was something I did not expect. Never gave such a possibility a thought. I have a feeling that Browning had all this very nicely planned.’

  ‘Where could he have got the money, old boy? He’d hardly be able to save it out of his wages as a footman.’

  ‘We may be able to find the answer to that.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘At Forniers, the jewellers in Bond Street. As I told you, this whole thing blew up because Browning sold them a ring which Lord Langdon recognized as his. I imagine that would produce more ready money than Browning would need to buy the Martin. We shall see.’

  Three quarters of an hour later the car was outside the shop in Bond Street. As there was no room to park, Biggles told Bertie to take it back to the Yard; he’d follow later in a taxi. Having seen the car drive on, he went to the shop front and looked through the window. It took only a moment to ascertain the first thing he wanted to know. The ring had not been sold. It was still there, unmistakable and conspicuous by being isolated from the rest of the objects offered for sale; a magnificent, large red stone, surrounded by small glittering diamonds, in a black velvet-lined case. There was no price shown against it.

  He went in. To the man who came forward to serve him he said, showing his police identification card: ‘I would like to see the proprietor, or manager, if he’s in.’

  ‘Mr. Fornier is in his office, sir. Just a moment.’

  Within a minute Biggles had been conducted to the office of a man who said he was the owner of the establishment.

  ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong, Inspector,’ he said anxiously. ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘Thank you. I would like to ask you one or two questions,’ Biggles said. ‘You have in your window a ring, a fine ruby set in diamonds. You will know the one I mean. It’s exceptional. Is it yours?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you please tell me how it came into your possession?’

  ‘Certainly. It was brought to me by a man who wanted to sell it.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  ‘No. I had never seen him before.’

  ‘So you bought it.’

  ‘Yes. But not there and then, of course. You should know, Inspector, that a shop with our reputation doesn’t buy second-hand jewellery like that.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I told him that if he would leave the ring with me, and cared to come back in a week’s time, I would have the ring valued and offer him a price. Actually, of course, this was to give me time to check with the lists of stolen property which are sent to me from time to time by the police. I could find nothing like it, stolen or lost. I rang up Scotland Yard for a double check.’

  ‘Who did you speak to?’

  ‘Inspector Gaskin. I have been able to help him once or twice. He had no record of the ring.’

  ‘Quite right. He hadn’t. The loss of the ring has only just been brought to our notice.’

  Mr. Fornier changed colour. ‘I couldn’t do more, could I?’

  ‘No. You took all reasonable precautions. I assume this man said the ring belonged to him?’

  ‘No. He was quite frank about that. He told me he was acting on behalf of a lady who wished to remain anonymous. She did not want it known that she was being forced to sell the ring to meet financial obligations. That is quite common these days.’

  ‘You don’t know the name of this lady?’

  ‘No. In the circumstances I didn’t ask him.’

  ‘Did this man give you his name?’

  ‘He had to; and his address; otherwise I would have had nothing to do with him.’

  ‘What name did he give?’

  ‘Browning. Mr. Richard Browning. I have the address in my files if you want it. He asked me not to write to him there because he might be leaving any day. He would call back.’

  ‘Was it, perhaps, Ferndale Manor?’

  ‘Yes. That’s right. I remember now you mention it.’

  ‘What happened eventually?’

  ‘He came back as arranged and I made him an offer for the ring. He accepted without quibbling.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Four thousand pounds.’

  ‘How did you pay him—in cash?’

  ‘Oh dear no. I don’t keep that sort of money here. I gave him a bank draft payable to bearer. He cashed it later the same day. I know that because the bank manager went to the trouble of ringing me up to confirm that the cheque—a large amount—was in order. I said it was.’

  ‘Have you seen this man since?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He didn’t try to sell you any more pieces of jewellery?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he say he had any more?’

  ‘No. I suppose he had just the one piece.’

  ‘Would you recognize this man again if you saw him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Biggles took the photograph of Browning from his wallet and showed it. ‘Is this him?’

  The jeweller answered without hesitation. ‘Yes. That’s the man.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Absolutely. But tell me, Inspector. I’m getting worried. Is something wrong?’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you the ring was stolen.’

  The colour drained from Fornier’s face. ‘Oh dear! This is a blow; one that looks like involving me in a heavy financial loss. But there, this is a risk we have to take, otherwise we’d do very little business. I would have sworn the man who sold me the ring was straight. He answered my questions frankly, and he certainly didn’t look like a crook. Well, Inspector, I’m in your hands. What do you want me to do? I suppose you’ll want to take the ring?’

  ‘You can keep it for the time being until the question of ownership is definitely established. You’ll have to take it out of your window. Keep it in your safe.’

  ‘I will certainly do that.’

  ‘Has anyone tried to buy it?’

  ‘I have had offers, but nothing up to the figure I have been asking, which is four thousand five hundred pounds. A man is coming back tomorrow.’

  ‘You’ll have to tell him the ring has been withdrawn.’

  ‘I’ll do that. May I ask how you knew I had the ring?’

  Biggles smiled sadly. ‘Yes, I think I may tell you that. You were unlucky. The man who claims to be the owner of the ring, happening to pass your shop, noticed it in the window. Normally it was kept in his safe. He hadn’t missed it. Well, I needn’t keep you any longer, Mr. Fornier. I’ll leave the ring in your custody for the time being, but I may have to collect it later. Let me know if you see or hear any more of Mr. Browning.’

  ‘I will certainly do that.’

  Biggles went out wondering if he had done the right thing in leaving the ring with the jeweller. However, there was no longer any chance of it being sold. He would speak to the Air Commodore about it. Even as he stood on the pavement waiting for a taxi, he saw it taken out of the window.

  What he had learned threw some light on the case, but it puzzled him. On the face of what the jeweller had said Browning was undoubtedly the thief—unless he was really acting for Caroline; but why had he gone about the transaction so openly? Both at the aerodrome and at the jewellers he had used his real name. A professional thief would have used a false one. It looked as if he had suddenly wanted a large sum of money, so he had sold the ring. What about the other things? Why did he want the money? Was it to buy an aircraft? Why did he want a plane? Was it to make a quick get-away after the robbery? Where had he gone? Of one thing Biggles was convinced. This was no ordinary robbery. There was more behind it than had so far been revealed; or why was it that Lord Langdon merely wanted his jewels back and professed to have no further interest in the thief?

  Biggles stopped a taxi and returned to his office at Scotland Yard.

  CHAPTER 5

  AN UNEXPECTED CLUE

  THREE weeks had passed since the police had been called in, in somewhat unusual circumstances, by Lord Langdon, to solve the problem of the missing rubies. Since that day little progress had been made. Routine inquiries had continued, but no information had been received that the rest of the missing rubies had been offered for sale either at home or on the Continent.

  Browning, the obvious thief—too obvious Biggles was inclined to think—had disappeared, perhaps literally, into thin air, to use the common expression. The course of his plane, where it had stopped to refuel, had been checked; Casablanca, Dakar, Brazzaville, so it looked as if he had really gone to South Africa, his avowed objective before departure, using the West Coast route. Why the West Coast, Biggles wondered. The East Coast is more usual. It was after Brazzaville that the Martin had disappeared.

  Beyond that there was no further news. He had not arrived in Cape Town. What had he done, or what had happened to him? Had his plane let him down, leaving him stranded in some remote spot with a fortune in jewels on board? Or had he deliberately flown to some outlandish place where he could quietly bury himself until the rubies were forgotten? Either could have happened. Biggles was inclined to the former theory, because otherwise the robbery would appear to have been pointless. A pocketful of rubies would not be much use in the middle of Africa.

  There was, Biggles thought, one possible clue to where Browning might have gone. Somewhere in the region of the Kalahari Desert. He must know something of the country because he had apparently shot a leopard there.

  Biggles went in to see the Air Commodore about it—not for the first time. He said: ‘Whether he’s crashed, or simply gone to ground, we’re not likely to hear any more of him for a long time, if ever.’

  The Air Commodore agreed. ‘What can we do about it?’ he asked helplessly.

  ‘There’s only one thing left to do as far as I can see,’ returned Biggles. ‘And that is for somebody to follow his track and try to locate his plane, either intact or in small pieces.’

  ‘That seems a pretty hopeless proposition.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, sir. Lost planes have been found. An aircraft isn’t an easy thing to dispose of, or hide. Even if you burn it you leave a mess. Sooner or later somebody stumbles on it. Even natives talk.’

  ‘That’s true. Would you like to have a go at it?’

  ‘That’s up to you, sir. I will if you want me to.’

  ‘All right. Go and see if you can find any sign of him or his plane. I’ll get your papers ready. Take someone with you in case of accidents.’

  ‘Okay, sir. I’ll do that.’

  Biggles had started making his arrangements the following day when the Air Commodore sent for him.

  ‘I don’t know quite what to make of this, but I’ve just had a phone call from Lord Langdon,’ informed the Air Commodore. ‘He says he has something to say, but he would rather not talk on the phone for fear of being overheard. I can’t get away myself as I have a meeting presently, so perhaps you’ll run down to see what this is about. Something must have turned up.’

  ‘I’ll do that right away, sir,’ Biggles said. ‘You might let his lordship know I’ll be with him in about an hour.’

  A little under an hour later he was cruising quietly through the main street of Ferndale village, although as a matter of detail, the village, like many villages, consisted of little more than one long straggling street. Observing that he had a minute or two in hand, he called at the post-office to check from the postmistress if she had noticed, by the stamps, if there had been any letters for the Manor from a foreign country.

  No, he was told, there had been only one letter from abroad in the mail. It had come in that morning and had been delivered. It was an air mail letter for Mrs. Smith. Nothing else. Who Mrs. Smith might be he did not bother to inquire. He went on his way, turned in the drive to the Manor and presently was being shown into the library, the same room as before. Lord Langdon was waiting for him.

  ‘I’m sorry to bring you down here again, but I am a little puzzled and I think you should know why,’ he began. ‘There may be nothing in it, but one never knows,’ he went on in his deep voice. ‘I could only use the telephone at the risk of being overheard; not necessarily by Caroline, but the servants, and they talk among themselves. I don’t want any tittle-tattle in the house.’

  Biggles nodded understandingly.

  Lord Langdon continued. ‘I think you should know that my daughter has taken to doing something unusual. Nearly every morning she goes out for a walk. She is away for anything up to two hours. As this is something quite new, I feel there must be a reason for it. Sometimes she walks down the drive as if she was going to the village; sometimes she takes a footpath through the woods.’

  ‘Don’t you know where she goes?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You haven’t followed her?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘And you haven’t asked one of your staff to watch her?’

  ‘Ask one of my servants to shadow my daughter! I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing,’ declared Lord Langdon indignantly.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir, but in the circumstances it seemed pardonable, and the easiest way to set your mind at rest.’

  Lord Langdon fixed his penetrating eyes on Biggles’ face. ‘Do you suppose she can be meeting Browning in the woods, or somewhere?’

  Biggles shrugged. ‘Without a hint of what she’s doing, I wouldn’t like to make a guess; but from what I know, although that isn’t much, in my opinion the possibility that she is meeting Browning is remote. It would surprise me if he was still in this country, never mind Ferndale. Do I understand you have taken no steps whatever to find out what she’s doing?’

  ‘Yesterday morning I made a point of being on the drive when she went out. Incidentally, she left the house by a side door, not the front door which she would use in the ordinary way.’

  ‘You got the impression she went out that way in order not to be seen?’

  ‘What else? However, making it appear accidental, I intercepted her and asked her, casually, where she was going. She said that as it was a fine day she was going to walk as far as the village shop to get one or two small things she required.’

  ‘That sounds reasonable to me,’ put in Biggles.

  ‘It may, but it doesn’t sound reasonable to me,’ stated Lord Langdon crisply. ‘Why should she suddenly make a practice of doing this? Why not take the car as she has in the past? Someone from the house goes to the village nearly every day to do any shopping that is necessary. If it comes to that why not use the telephone? An errand boy would deliver the things. No, there’s something behind this.’

  ‘I take your point, sir.’

  ‘Caroline is out again today. What can she want now?’

  ‘The shop is also the post-office. Can that be the attraction? Can she be going to the post-office to collect a letter?’

  ‘That thought occurred to me, but the post-office is not her objective.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Allowing her plenty of time to get to the post-office, making the excuse I wanted Lady Caroline to bring me some stamps, I rang the post-office and asked if she was there. She was not. She had not been in. What is she doing?’

  ‘You watched the mail as I suggested?’

  ‘Yes. To the best of my knowledge she has not received a single letter since you were last here.’

  Biggles got up. ‘I see, sir. You were right to tell me this. I shall soon know what she’s doing.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll follow her?’

  ‘Not me, personally. She knows me by sight. We have ways of doing these things. Leave it to me, sir.’

  With that Biggles left the Manor.

  Within a minute, after turning out of the drive into the village street, he saw the very person who had been the subject of his conversation with Lord Langdon. His daughter. The Lady Caroline. She was just leaving by the garden gate an attractive, old thatched cottage, waving goodbye to a grey-haired woman who was standing in the doorway. For this reason she did not see him. Turning his head away instantly, he did not stop. But he allowed the car to drop to a crawl. Watching in the reflector he saw the object of his interest walk on briskly towards the Manor drive, apparently on her way home.

  As soon as she was out of sight Biggles stopped his car and lit a cigarette to do some thinking. What he had seen, he thought, needed some serious consideration. He was still sitting there when a boy came along, apparently a village boy, whistling as he kicked an old tennis ball in front of him.

  Biggles called him over. Speaking through the open window of the car, he said: ‘Tell me, laddie, do you know who lives at the old thatched cottage that stands by itself a little way up the street?’

  ‘Mrs. Smith,’ was the instant reply.

  ‘Has she lived there long?’

  ‘As long as I can remember. Why?’

  A trifle disconcerted by the frank question, Biggles answered: ‘I’ve been hoping to buy an old cottage like that.’

  ‘Well you won’t buy that one.’

 

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