CONTENTS

CHAPTER I: A POLICEMAN HAS A PROBLEM

CHAPTER II: MURDER

CHAPTER III: BIGGLES PICKS UP A CLUE

CHAPTER IV: MOSTLY SURMISE

CHAPTER V: FRAMLING TOWERS

CHAPTER VI: GINGER REPORTS

CHAPTER VII: A CADILLAC MAKES A CALL

CHAPTER VIII: BIGGLES MAKES PLANS, AND A TRIP

CHAPTER IX: CONFERENCE AT THE YARD

CHAPTER X: SHATTERING NEWS

CHAPTER XI: WHAT HAPPENED TO BERTIE

CHAPTER XII: WHAT HAPPENED TO BERTIE (CONTINUED)

CHAPTER XIII: GINGER GOES TO SOMERSET

CHAPTER XIV: A MATTER OF LUCK

CHAPTER XV: BIGGLES IS PUZZLED

CHAPTER XVI: WHERE IS GINGER?

CHAPTER XVII: JUST IN TIME

CHAPTER XVIII: A FEW LAST WORDS

CHAPTER I

A POLICEMAN HAS A PROBLEM

“A LITTLE bird tells me there’s trouble on the way.” So remarked Police-Pilot “Ginger” Hebblethwaite as he entered Air Police Headquarters at Scotland Yard, closed the door behind him and hung up his hat.

Biggles, working at his desk, hardly looked up. “What sort of bird was this — a parrot?”

“Much bigger. Detective Chief Inspector Gaskin, no less. He’s just stepped out of the lift and is coming this way. He seldom comes to this floor except to see us.”

A moment or two later the door was opened and the burly detective walked in. “Busy?” he inquired, looking at Biggles.

“My name isn’t Cato,” answered Biggles evenly.

“Who’s he?”

“He was a rather important Roman who died nearly two thousand years ago.”

“I asked you a question. What’s he got to do with it?”

“He once made the remark that he was never as busy as when he appeared to be doing nothing — or words to that effect. What’s on your mind?”

“Who said I had something on my mind?”

“I did. You didn’t just breeze in to wish us a bright good morning. Take the weight off your feet while you unfold your tale of woe.”

Gaskin sighed. He sat down heavily and felt for his pipe. “Can’t you ever be serious?” he protested.

“Only when I have to be. What’s the trouble?”

“It’s these blasted rustlers,” growled Gaskin.

Biggles shook his head sadly. “Rustlers! You’ve been looking at Westerns on the telly,” he accused.

“You don’t have to go to Texas to find rustlers,” announced the detective gloomily. “We have ‘em here. And I’m no cowboy with a six-gun to round ‘em up.”

Biggles smiled. “You don’t have to tell me that. What are these rustlers rustling, and where?”

“Don’t you ever read the newspapers?”

“When I have time.”

“Then you should know what’s going on.”

“I remember reading that turkeys were disappearing from country farms, but that was months ago — before Christmas.”

“You’re out of date. It’s time you got with it, as the kids say.”

“Sorry, Chief, but I’m as square as a lump of sugar. Tell me, to save time.”

“The rustlers have got more ambitious. Now it’s cattle.”

“You mean cows?”

“Cows my foot. What the hell would a thief do with a cow?”

“Milk it?”

“This isn’t funny.”

“Sorry, but I was under the impression that cows had to be milked.”

“Can you imagine a bunch of crooks employing milkmaids?”

“Frankly, since you ask me, no. Are you talking about the sort of cattle you eat? Beef? Bullocks, I think they call them, when they’re alive. They all look alike to me. So do turkeys, if it comes to that with or without their feathers. Still, you should be able to cop a bullock-snatcher. After all, you can’t slip a thing that size into your waistcoat pocket like you can a diamond ring.”

“I’m not talking about bullocks, either.”

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Bulls.”

Biggles’s eyebrows went up. “Are you kidding?”

“No.”

“You did say bulls?”

“I did.”

Biggles shrugged. “I’m nothing for bulls. Why tell me about it?”

“I thought you might give me a hand.”

“Why wait so long?”

“What do you mean?”

“These rustlers started on turkeys months ago, so that the birds could be sold for the Christmas market.”

“What’s Christmas got to do with it?”

“A lot. In mid-winter the country is bare, the roads open to the sky. From the air they could be watched. You wait till everything is growing, and the leaf is on the tree, and then you come to me. All I can see now are the main roads—”

“Wait a minute, let me finish,” broke in Gaskin. “Forget the turkeys. You don’t suppose I’m worried about a few birds? But this rustling has taken a new turn. It’s become big business.”

“What do you call big business?”

“A fortnight ago a bull disappeared from a farm in Suffolk. It was no ordinary bull. It was a champion British Friesian.”

“How much would it be worth?”

“Ten thousand quid, at least.”

Biggles pursed his lips. “That is a long step from turkeys.”

Gaskin went on. “The day before yesterday another bull, this time a Hereford, reckoned to be priceless, vanished from a breeding establishment in Norfolk. Now do you see what I mean?”

“Who said this particular beast was priceless?”

“The man who owned it. Lord Dubray, of Framling Towers. He told me money couldn’t have bought it.”

“Money will buy most things — if there’s enough of it,” returned Biggles sceptically.

“Not this animal. His lordship doesn’t need money.”

“Then what does he need?”

“His prize bull. You know how it is with some people. When they go in for something, even if it’s only onions at the local flower show, they get a kick from having produced the best of the best. Breeding prize cattle has been the main occupation of his lordship’s family for over a century; and it has taken nearly as long as that to produce the Pride of Dubray — that’s the name of the animal that has been pinched. It was world famous and, I may say, an important item in our cattle export market. It can’t be replaced. Lord Dubray is pretty sick about it. He’s creating a stink about losing it. How would you feel if some crook lifted the thing you valued most, something that has taken a hundred years and a lot of hard work to produce.”

“Savage.”

“So would I be. As he said to me, when I asked him why the bull wasn’t guarded, how could anyone have imagined such a thing happening? What can the thief do with the animal? I reckon he’s in the same position as a man who steals a famous picture from an art gallery. He daren’t let anyone see it.”

“Still, there’s a market for everything if you know where it is,” argued Biggles. “If you want my opinion I’d say the man who pinched these bulls knew exactly what he was going to do with them. A bull isn’t the sort of thing a man would steal just for the fun of it.”

“You think he knew where he could sell ‘em?”

“I think that’s a certainty — unless of course the thief has ideas of keeping the animals to improve his own breed of cattle. Tell me, from where exactly did the first bull disappear?”

“From a farm called Stowten Place, in Suffolk. The nearest town is Wickham Market.”

“Who owned this animal?”

“The man who lives there. His name’s Thellin. Oswald Thellin.”

“I assume he’s a stock-breeder.”

“Yes. And a nice old row he’s kicking up. He says this’ll ruin him.”

“Why? Wasn’t the bull insured?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t asked.”

“You might find out. I mean, if he gets compensation he hasn’t much to shout about. It looks to me as if farmers and stock-breeders will have to put their valuable property behind bars, provide guards, or take the consequences.”

“They say they can’t afford it. If they had to do that it would put up the price of farm produce. What can I do about it?”

“If it comes to that, what do you suppose I can do about it?”

“I thought you might give me a hand. You might have one of your bright ideas. Transport comes into this. With a plane you can get about faster and see more than I can in a car, or a village constable on his feet.”

Biggles nodded. “So what?”

“Will you help me to sort this out? How do you see it?”

“Oh, go steady,” protested Biggles. “I’m not a crystal-grazer. I haven’t had much time to think but one or two points seem pretty obvious. First, this racket isn’t being run by one or two country yokels — if there are such people nowadays. It calls for organizing ability and that demands brains. Let’s forget the turkeys for a moment. What do you reckon is happening to this pedigree bloodstock?”

“I can tell you one thing for sure. It isn’t being slaughtered for Sunday dinners. That’d be like eating gold, if you could in fact eat a tough old bull. And there wouldn’t be any profit in selling it as cats’ meat. These people know what they’re doing. They’re not interested in fat stock prices. That puts the butcher out of the picture. And I’ll tell you something else. You can’t keep an animal the size of a bull in your house and you couldn’t put it out to grass without someone spotting it. For which reason there isn’t a farmer or a breeder in the country who would touch one of these prize beasts with two barge poles joined together. They’re too well-known.”

“All right. Then what does happen to ‘em?”

“They’re being sold, otherwise what object would there be in rustling ‘em?”

“Sold where? In this country?”

“Not a chance.”

“I’m not a farmer. Where else is there a market for such cattle?”

“Almost anywhere abroad. Breeders come from all over the world to the sales in this country.”

“So you think these bulls are going abroad.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me this. How do you ship abroad a creature the size of a bull without someone noticing it?”

“That brings me to the point. I reckon the only way it could leave the country would be by air. There would be nothing remarkable about that. All sorts of animals travel by air nowadays, racehorses — even elephants.”

Biggles reached for a cigarette. “Could be,” he conceded.

“Can you think of any other way it could be done? You can’t disguise a full grown bull. Moreover, there are all sorts of formalities — certificates of registration, health, and so on. Picked up at night in a field, in a matter of hours a bull, or any other animal, could be in another continent.”

“And when it arrives — what then?”

“With the food position as it is any country in the world would be glad of the chance to improve its breeds of dairy and beef stock.”

“Are you suggesting that a foreign government might be implicated?”

“One of the Communist states might be.”

“Forget it.”

“Why?”

“Governments have plenty of money. They can afford to buy what they want. They think in millions, not thousands. Speaking from memory, more than one country, including Russia, has sent expert deputations here to buy bloodstock.”

“If this racket isn’t stopped where is it going to end?” questioned Gaskin moodily. “I wonder what sort of brain worked this one out? What will the crooks think of next?”

Biggles grinned. “Just to cheer you up; when an express train can be stopped and relieved of money bags stuffed with notes running into millions of pounds there’s no limit to what they may try next.”

Gaskin grunted. He relit his pipe which had gone out. “Well, are you going to give me some support?”

“What can I do that you can’t do?”

“You can fly.”

“Okay, so I can fly. What am I supposed to look for in the clouds — a flying bull?”

“There used to be a joke about pigs flying but there’s nothing funny about that now. Today anything can fly. Ask the circus people. They often fly their menageries from one place to another.”

“When,” said Biggles soberly, “when I see a giraffe stick its neck out of a cabin window I shall know it’s time I quit flying for good. How much do you reckon one of these prize bulls would weigh?”

“Around a ton. Mebbe more.”

Biggles looked pained. “Have a heart, Chief. I can’t see any pilot in his right mind waffling about with a ton of bull blowing steam down the back of his neck. Seriously, even from the air I can’t tell what another machine has in its cabin, no matter how big the machine might be.”

“You could keep an eye on the roads.”

“And what am I expected to look for on the roads?”

“A vehicle behaving suspiciously some place where it had no right to be.”

Biggles frowned. “Oh, come off it. I can’t keep track of the millions of trucks and vans that jam the roads from one end of the country to the other.”

“You might spot the bulls.”

“You have a queer idea of how much a pilot can see from the air. Have these stolen bulls any distinguishing marks by which they could be recognized?”

“To people like you and me, no. The Friesian was the usual black and white, and the Hereford, like all the breed, was brown and white with a white face. I can let you have photos of ‘em; you might be able to memorize the particular markings.”

“All right. Do that. Photos might be helpful. But I gather these raids take place at night. At least, I can’t imagine anyone being so daft as to try to pinch cattle in broad daylight, with people about. I can’t see in the dark.”

“Does that mean you don’t feel like helping me to sort this out?”

“I didn’t say that. I’ll do what I can. I’m only trying to point out there’s a limit to what a plane can do; and if anyone should know that—”

“It’s you.”

Biggles smiled. “You took the words out of my mouth. Let’s forget about the turkeys and come to the bulls. My common sense tells me they’re two different propositions; I mean, two gangs are at work. A bull is a very different load of swag from a brace of birds. I imagine a valuable bull wouldn’t be allowed to wander about at its own sweet will.”

“The two that have disappeared were kept in buildings with an outside pen adjacent.”

“That’s what I thought. Would you go into a barn or a pen in the middle of the night knowing there was a bull inside?”

“Not me.” Gaskin was vehement.

“Nor me. From what little I know about bulls they’re not exactly affectionate or even friendly; they’re usually unreliable if not actually vicious. It’s not uncommon for ‘em to gore their owners, a man they see every day. Yet apparently there’s someone, presumably a complete stranger, prepared to go up to a bull and take it away. It strikes me there’s something mighty queer about that. How’s it being done?”

“The thief must be able to charm ‘em. Or maybe he’s one of these fellers who has a way with animals.”

“He must have a lot of confidence in himself, and plenty of nerve, to risk having a horn stuck through his ribs trying to push a bull around in the middle of the night — or any other time if it comes to that.” Biggles stubbed his cigarette. “There’s something about this that doesn’t make sense. I wouldn’t mind taking on a turkey, or even an old cow, but a bull is a very different cup of tea. It’s one thing to look through bars at a dangerous animal inside; but to get it into a vehicle and take it away is another matter. I’m assuming that no one would be so crazy as to attempt to drive it down a road — I mean on foot.”

“These bulls weren’t driven. They must have been carried.” Gaskin looked disappointed. “Is this the best you can do?”

“What else do you expect me to do?”

“Help me catch these rustlers.”

“I’m not a thought-reader,” protested Biggles. “With thousands of animals in the country I wouldn’t try to guess where they’re likely to strike next.”

“No animal of any class will be safe. This racket will go on.”

“Of course it will. As it has been successful so far it would be stupid to expect it to stop.”

“In my shoes what would you do about it?”

“Since you ask me I’d concentrate on finding out how this apparent miracle is being worked. This bull angle puzzles me. I don’t believe in magic so there must be a trick in it somewhere.”

“And that’s all you have to say about it?”

“Frankly, Chief, it would be a waste of time and petrol for me to tear up and down the country looking for a van with a bull in it. You’ve more facilities than I have for that sort of thing. What have you done so far?”

“When this swindle started I did the obvious thing, which was to check for tracks and wheel marks at the places where the thefts occurred. It didn’t get me anywhere. It’s practically impossible nowadays to find a place where there aren’t any wheel tracks. And you know how ground round farm buildings gets churned up by animals.”

“Why not put up road blocks and check all heavy vehicles travelling at night?”

“The snag about that is, as you said yourself, we’re dealing with a gang that need never strike in the same area twice. It could be in Devon tonight and in Scotland tomorrow.”

Biggles agreed. “Still, they may get careless and do it once too often. Presently I’ll get down to some serious thinking. Meanwhile you carry on and let me know at once if there’s another raid.”

“If I do that will you fly down and have a look round?”

“Of course.”

Gaskin got up. “Okay. Let’s leave it like that.” With a nod to Bertie and Ginger he went out.

After he had gone, looking at Ginger and Bertie in turn Biggles said: “There’s a nice little problem for you to sort out. How do you man-handle a bull in the middle of the night without getting your pants torn off by a pair of horns?”

Fixing his monocle and speaking seriously Bertie answered: “You know, old boy, this is where you’re going to find me useful.”

Biggles looked surprised. “In what way?”

“I’ve never had occasion to mention it but I happen to know quite a bit about bulls.”

Biggles’s voice rose a tone. “Are you kidding?”

“Of course not.”

“How does this happen?”

“Well, before taxation — I mean these infernal death duties — knocked us for six, my father and his father before him were well known stock-breeders. Having plenty of land they did it as a sort of a hobby, as does Lord Dubray.”

“How do you know Lord Dubray does it for a hobby?”

“He often came to our place to speak about it with my father. I was only a kid at the time so he may not remember me, but I heard all the talk about pedigrees and what have you. When my guv’nor died and the tax collector jumped on us I had to pack up to pay off our debt. Anyway the war had started and I had to go. I can tell you this for a start. These bulls that have disappeared weren’t pinched by a man who wanted them to keep, to improve his own stock. They were stolen to be sold, but probably not to the same man.”

“How did you work that out?” asked Biggles, now looking interested.

“Because the bulls were not only of two different breeds but of different types of cattle.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Then let me set your clock right. Leaving out a few dual-purpose types cattle come into two main categories; one for dairy work — that is, milk production — the other for beef. Most breeders go in for one type or the other. They don’t mix breeds. Mongrels don’t win prizes. Big dairy farmers keep a herd of cows, mostly of the same type, as you can see in their pastures. Beef producers raise bullocks for our Sunday dinners.”

“Go on,” invited Biggles, in a curious voice. “In view of what’s going on I find this interesting. It may give us a clue.”

Bertie continued. “The first bull stolen was a Friesian. That’s a dairy type. The second bull was a Hereford, a beef producer. You see what I mean. A Hereford bull would be no use to a man running a herd of Friesian cows. It follows that the two bulls that have been stolen will eventually arrive at different destinations. We shall find that the Friesian bull is where there is a herd of Friesian cows, and the Hereford where they breed Herefords. Both types can be spotted a mile off, even from a high altitude. The Friesians are black and white, the Herefords brown and white with white faces. Now do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Jolly good,” congratulated Biggles. “That’s worth knowing. It should reduce the ground we have to cover.”

“Absolutely. That’s what I was thinking. I mean to say, we needn’t waste time looking for either of these bulls where they keep, say, Jersey cows, or Guernseys, for instance.”

Biggles nodded. “I can see that now you’ve pointed it out. I wonder if Gaskin has a slant on this angle.”

“I didn’t say anything in front of him because I didn’t like to interrupt,” explained Bertie.

“You’ve given us something to work on,” declared Biggles.

CHAPTER II

MURDER

Bertie chuckled. “Poor old Gaskin. He does get tied up in some knotty tangles.”

Biggles nodded. “This one will take a bit of unravelling if I know anything about it. Where do you start looking for a bull? And what do you do with it if you see it? I’m pretty sure of one thing: if those bulls have gone abroad the owners can say goodbye to them.”

“I don’t know,” said Ginger doubtfully. “Being the size it is I’d have thought a bull would be easier to find than a piece of jewellery or a wad of banknotes. That is, of course, supposing the beast is still alive.”

“I agree with Gaskin,” returned Biggles. “He thinks they are alive because dead they’d have no value at all. They wouldn’t even make decent sausage meat. There’s a point there we shouldn’t overlook. Turkeys could obviously be disposed of quite easily, in a few hours, as food; and once having been eaten all traces of their existence would have disappeared. A bull, alive or dead, is a very different proposition.”

“Where does that line of argument get us?”

“Well, compared with bulls turkeys would be kid’s stuff. Fifty turkeys, sold on the sly to an unscrupulous dealer might fetch — shall we say — a hundred pounds. Only a small-time crook would call that a good night’s work. I can’t see there’s anything clever in raiding a poultry farm. One would only need a car or a light van and a dark night. A pedigree bull is worth real money. My first impression, therefore, is that two different gangs are at work; nothing to do with each other. I don’t think Gaskin looked at it like that. He seemed to lump all these farm raids together. In my opinion, these different types of thefts are just coincidence. In the matter of the bulls I have a feeling that this is even bigger business than Gaskin has realized.”

“But listen here, old boy,” put in Bertie. “Where on earth could these bulls be going?”

“I haven’t a clue. Neither has Gaskin. That’s why he came to see us.”

“He seems to think an aircraft might come into the picture. Do you?”

Biggles shrugged. “I’m keeping an open mind about that.”

“Gaskin wants us to help him, but what can we do?”

“Wait for the next raid, assuming there will be one, fly down and have a look at the place from topsides. We must show willing. I suppose an aircraft could be used; the doubt I have about that is on the score of expense. Operating a transport plane of the size that would be necessary would require a lot of capital. It would certainly make the job of finding the stolen animals more difficult. Its base might not even be in this country. It might make its raids from abroad, landing near what we might call the target area. If that’s the case it should be possible to get a line on it through its wheel tracks. A heavy machine — and it would be heavy with a bull on board — couldn’t take off without leaving tracks, bearing in mind it would be on turf, with no concrete runway. Following up that line of thought it means there would have to be a big open field near the objective to make a night landing possible. Again, if I were the pilot I’d expect someone to be in the field to show a landing light.” 

Ginger came back. “That should narrow the number of high-class breeding establishments in the country where a raid would be possible.”

“True enough. But taking the country as a whole it would still leave a lot of ground to be covered. We can only watch one place at a time, or by using two machines, two at most. Actually, at the moment, I’m thinking on different lines.”

“What lines?”

“On how this business is being worked. You heard what I said to Gaskin. There are brains behind this racket, more and brighter brains than would be required to pinch a load of turkeys. I’m dashed if I can see how you fiddle about with a bull to induce it to do what you want it to do. I mean, whatever form of transport is used the bull has to be loaded into it. How do you do that?”

“You tell me,” requested Bertie, polishing his eyeglass. “It isn’t a job I’d care to tackle — no sir, not even for ten thousand quid.”

“It would have to be a docile beast for me to go near it,” declared Ginger. “How do you set about making a bull co-operative — by stroking it, or fondling it?”

“From what little I know of bulls I doubt if you’d get far by kissing one,” answered Biggles dryly.

“Then how’s it being done?”

Biggles sat back and lit another cigarette. “That’s what we have to work out for a start. The fact that it is being done shows that it is possible.”

At this juncture the door was thrown open and Gaskin strode in. “They’ve done it again,” he rapped out.

“Not another bull?” said Biggles.

“Yes. A champion Jersey.”

“Where from this time?”

“A place called Bramshot Hall, in Hertfordshire.”

“How do you know about this?”

“The county police have just come through on the phone.”

“Why tell you?”

“Because this time there’s more to it than a missing bull,” announced the detective grimly. “It’s murder.”

“How much do you know?”

“Not much. The bull, which took top honours at the county shows last year, was owned by a man named Harvey. He employs a bailiff named Johnson — had him for years—”

“Just a minute. When did this happen?”

“Last night — or early this morning. There was a cow due to calve. Johnson, who has a cottage near the Hall, said he’d sit up with her. He must have heard something. Early this morning when the men arrived for work the bull had gone, the paddock gate was open and Johnson was lying there dead.”

“How had he been killed?”

“They don’t know — yet.”

Biggles frowned. “What do you mean — they don’t know? If the man was murdered—”

“All I can tell you is, at eleven o’clock last night when Johnson left his house to go to the cowshed, according to his wife he was as fit as a fiddle. At six o’clock this morning he was dead and the bull had gone.”

“People do have heart attacks, you know.”

“Not Johnson, as far as is known. The only sign of injury is a black eye, which proves there had been violence. That, coupled with the fact that the bull had gone, points to murder.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“They’ve asked me to run down. Only take an hour. What are you going to do?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Fly over. This is your chance to look for signs of transport, from the air, at a place where a bull has just been pinched.”

“There’s not much point in me going unless there’s a place where I can land.”

“There is. The Hall stands in its own park, now actually a farm. I got that from the Chief Inspector. He’s on the spot. That’s why I’ve come to you. You could help me by having a look at that field for any signs of a plane having landed on it.”

“All right. I’ll do that. Do you want me to fly you down?”

“No thanks. I’ll go by road and meet you there.”

“As you wish. Where exactly is this place? How am I to find it?”

“It’s marked by name on the six-inch ordnance survey map. It’s a white-painted Georgian house in its own grounds about two miles north of the village of Bramshot.”

Biggles looked at Ginger. “Get the map out.” To Bertie he said: “Call the hangar and ask them to get the chopper out and warmed up. We’ll be there in an hour.” To Gaskin he said: “All right, Chief. I’ll see you there.”

“Thanks.” Gaskin departed.

Rather more than an hour later the Air Police helicopter was making its way northward from the built up outskirts of the sprawling metropolis with areas of open country beginning to appear ahead. Very soon these had expanded into the green woods and fields of rural England, a transformation that occurs more quickly to the north than the south of London. 

There was no difficulty in finding the objective, a conspicuous white building in well-wooded pastoral country within a tangle of secondary roads and lanes. As the aircraft passed over it at a low altitude it was possible to see a police car with Gaskin and some others standing near extensive outbuildings, stables, cowsheds or whatever they might be. As it was to be discovered later, the Hall was one of those minor stately homes which had been forced by reduced circumstances to farm what had originally been parkland. Some of it was under cultivation, the rest grass for grazing with an occasional tree or two. 

There were some large pastures near the farm buildings although, as Biggles remarked, none really big enough for a heavy commercial aircraft to land on without taking risks. A night landing would definitely be a hazardous undertaking. In one of the fields a herd of Jersey cows made an attractive picture. They took no notice as Biggles circled and criss-crossed looking for possible wheel tracks before putting the helicopter down on some well-grazed turf a short distance from the police car.

“See anything?” Biggles asked the others as they got out.

“Not a thing,” answered Ginger.

“How about you, Bertie?”

“Nothing on the grass, old boy, but I noticed a lane of sorts running topsides of the big field behind us. I know we’re not looking for lanes but it struck me that this one could be used by a van, or truck, wanting to get near the farm without using the main road.”

“I’ll remember it,” said Biggles, walking on. “We might have a look at it later.”

By this time they had reached the little group of men standing by the outbuildings some distance from the house. It comprised Gaskin and his uniformed driver, a police sergeant — presumably a local officer — and three civilians. Two of them were obviously farm workers; the other, from his clothes, was presumably Mr. Harvey, the man who owned the establishment. This was confirmed when Biggles was introduced to him. He was typical of the type known as a “gentleman” farmer.

“Well, did you see anything interesting?” asked Gaskin, looking at the airmen. “I told Mr. Harvey why I asked you to come over.”

“No marks such as a plane might make,” replied Biggles. “I’m prepared to stake my reputation that no aircraft of a size capable of carrying a heavy load landed last night within a mile of where we’re standing. If that’s what you wanted to know.”

“So that settles that.”

“As I’m here I might as well have a look round at ground level in case I missed anything from topsides.”

“Go ahead. I’m sure Mr. Harvey won’t mind.”

“Do anything you like,” invited the farmer. “Anything to catch these damn thieves even though I don’t get my bull back.”

“Where’s the body?” Biggles asked quietly.

“It’s been taken to Hertford for an autopsy.”

“Where was Johnson found?”

“There.” Harvey pointed to a spot near the open gate of a stoutly built pen by which they were standing. It was perhaps a dozen yards square, carpeted with trampled straw and adjacent to a brick building the door of which was also wide open. The one piece of furniture in the pen was an iron drinking trough.

“I take it this was where the bull was kept,” said Biggles.

“Yes. He could stay inside or come out as he wished. He usually spent the day in the pen and went inside at night.”

“He wasn’t allowed out in the field with the cows?”

“No. He was too dangerous to be allowed to run loose. Like a lot of Jersey bulls it didn’t take much to upset him. He was all right with me and Johnson but even we had to be careful. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch him. How anyone could take him away defeats me.”

“Who found the body of Mr. Johnson?”

“I did, sir.” One of the farm hands spoke.

“And the pen was open like it is now?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think had happened?”

“My first thought was Mr. Johnson had gone into the pen for something, to fill the water trough perhaps, and had been gored. But I couldn’t see a mark on him. When I saw he was really dead, and the bull nowhere in sight, I ran to the house to tell Mr. Harvey.”

“I went out and had a look at Johnson. Then I rang for a doctor and the police,” put in Harvey.

“There could be no question of the gate being left open by accident so that the bull could wander away?”

“None whatever. I always make a last check before going to bed to make sure everything is all right. I came out about half past ten. The bull was standing by the trough having a drink. He seemed quiet.”

“What’s your opinion of what happened?” inquired Biggles.

“I think it’s pretty clear. Johnson was in the cowshed. He must have heard something that brought him out. He would be suspicious because we’d discussed this disappearance of prize bulls having read about it in the papers.” Harvey smiled ruefully. “We didn’t imagine it might happen to us. I’d say Johnson saw somebody interfering with the bull and in trying to stop him was knocked down.”

“Had he a weak heart by any chance?”

“Not to my knowledge. If he had he never mentioned it to me.”

Biggles turned to Gaskin. “I suppose you’ve had a good look round for tracks?”

“What sort of tracks could you hope to find in this mess?” Gaskin pointed in turn to the trampled straw inside the pen and the muddy ground around it. It was soft from recent rain and had been churned up by tractors and the hooves of cows going to and fro at milking time.

“Has anything else been done?”

“The local police are out in force making inquiries, looking for someone who may have seen a cattle truck, or maybe a van, in the vicinity. There isn’t much more they can do till they get the result of the post mortem.”

“The whole thing beats me,” said Mr. Harvey. “I wouldn’t have believed it possible that the bull could have been taken away without a sound. The only way here is up my drive from the main road and that passes close to the house.”

“Are you a heavy sleeper?”

“Far from it. I’d say I’m a light sleeper. That makes the whole thing so inexplicable. I can imagine a burglar going about his business softly but how do you persuade a bull to do that? I would have thought that had anyone attempted to get that bull out of its pen at night, much less lead it to the road, it would have played hell.”

“There must have been a certain amount of noise or Johnson wouldn’t have left the cowshed.”

“That’s what one would think. All I know is I didn’t hear a sound, so if that bull went past my house it must have gone as meek as a lamb. It must have been walked away. I would certainly have heard a vehicle coming up the drive.”

“There’s a lane, or you might call it an accommodation track, on the far side of that big pasture. Could the beast have gone that way?”

“But that’s nearly half a mile from here! Even I would think twice before trying to coax the bull that distance, particularly as it would mean passing within sight of the cows. A man trying that would be asking for trouble.” 

Gaskin looked at his watch. “Well, I might as well be getting back for all the good I can do here.”

“After I’ve had a look round I’ll see you at the Yard,” said Biggles.

“You do what you like,” invited Mr. Harvey. “You’ll find me in the house if you want me for anything. Presently I shall have to go across to Johnson’s house and have a word with his wife. She’s taken the shock of her husband’s death badly.” He walked away.

So the party broke up, the farm hands going off to do their work and the local police sergeant departing on a motor cycle.

CHAPTER III

BIGGLES PICKS UP A CLUE

BIGGLES, pensive, his eyes on the ground, with movements that were automatic lit a cigarette. He took a step into the now vacant bull pen.

“What are you going to do?” queried Ginger.

“Have a look round.”

“I’d say Gaskin’s right. I can’t imagine what you hope to find in this mess.”

“Neither can I.”

“Then why waste time?”

“I shan’t find anything if I don’t look, that’s certain,” returned Biggles. “And the only place to look is here. We have a mystery on our hands and I shan’t sleep until the answer is forthcoming. There must be an answer.”

“To what?”

“How strangers, without a sound, can walk off with a big brute of an animal which even the owner daren’t trust. You heard what Mr. Harvey said. Yet it was done. How was it done? That’s at the root of these farm raids, and until we know how the miracle is worked we shan’t get far towards putting a stop to the racket. The thing was done here, so there’s just a chance, a remote one I must admit, that the crooks left something behind to tell us what we want to know.”

“What could it be?”

“Something practical. Believe me, there’s no magic about it. I’ve heard of human beings being hypnotized, but not bulls. Even matadors, those gentlemen who make a living by fighting bulls, have to finish the job with a sword. They end up either dead themselves or with a dead bull. The men who came here last night got away with a live one. To save time I suggest you and Bertie walk over to that track you saw from the air. There may be something there — wheel tracks, footprints, the odd cigarette end — anything, no matter how small. I’ll join you at the machine when I’ve finished here.”

“Okay.” Ginger and Bertie went off.

Biggles, without haste, now began a systematic search, both inside the pen and around it. First, inside the pen, he spent half an hour without a hint of success. He then moved outside and worked in widening circles round the spot where Johnson’s body had been found. After some minutes of this he stopped suddenly, and stooping, picked out of the mud in which it had been impressed by a foot, a small glass phial in the manner of a miniature test tube. It was empty, although it had been hermetically sealed with a skin of fine rubber stretched across the mouth. There was no label on it. After a close examination he rolled it carefully in his handkerchief, put it in his pocket and resumed his search, now concentrating on the fringe of straw under the stout horizontal poles enclosing the pen. 

He moved slowly, a step at a time, working with infinite pains particularly in the area, outside the rails, close to the water trough. His patience was rewarded. When from the ragged edge of loose straw he picked up a second glass tube identical to the first. With a deep breath of satisfaction he put it with the other and turning away walked slowly, deep in thought, to the aircraft. 

Bertie and Ginger were waiting. “Come on,” greeted Ginger impatiently. “You’ve been a long time.”

“What’s the hurry?”

“We may have found something.”

“Such as what?”

“A truck was on that track last night. There are plenty of ruts but the marks of a heavy truck override the rest. Another thing. The vehicle came in from the main road, about a quarter of a mile away. Reaching the field gate it stopped, turned and went back. Are you going over to have a look at it?”

Biggles hesitated. “I don’t think that’s necessary. I’ll take your word for it. Were you able to identify the type of tyres?”

“Yes. They were Greystones. There’s no mistaking that double criss-cross tread.”

 “Good. That’s important, because it begins to look as if the bull left here that way.”

“But Mr. Harvey was convinced no one could take the animal out that way. It was too wild to be led across the field.”

“Never mind what Mr. Harvey said. Naturally, he was thinking of the bull in its normal condition.” 

Ginger’s eyes opened wide. “Have you some reason for thinking it wasn’t?”

 “I have now. A very good reason.”

 “You found something?”

 “Yes.”

 “Was it what you expected to find?”

 “I would hardly say that. Actually, I wasn’t looking for anything in particular.”

 “What were you thinking of?”

 “I could think of only one way the bull could be made docile, or, at any rate, passive enough to be handled by strangers without the risk of being tossed out of the pen.”

 “And what was that?”

 “We hear a lot these days about drugs called tranquillizers. It might have been given one.”

 Bertie came in. “Oh here, I say, hold hard. How would you give a savage beast a tranquillizer? Stick it down its throat? It would probably take a poor view of that.”

 “I’d be sorry to try to stick anything down a bull’s throat if it was on its feet. No, that isn’t the way it was done — that is, if I’m thinking on the right lines. As a matter of fact I found something that clicked with a remark Gaskin made in the office.”

 “What was that?”

 “He said elephants might fly, or words to that effect. If a wild elephant can be made easy to handle why not a bull? Let’s get in the cabin and sit down. I’ll show you something.”

 When they were inside, as he took the handkerchief from his pocket Biggles went on: “Do you remember, some time ago, we watched a programme on television, a documentary, which we agreed was particularly interesting. It showed how elephants, wild elephants, were moved from one part of Africa, where there were too many, to another part where it was hoped to increase the stock:”

 “Yes, I remember it,” said Ginger. “A white hunter used a bow and arrow. The arrow head, not much more than a dart, was hollow, and filled with a drug that stupefied the beast that was struck; so much so that after a short while it lay down. In that state it was transported to its new home, where another drug, a different one of course, restored it to full consciousness.”

 Biggles nodded. “You’ve got it. If that could happen to an elephant why not a bull?”

 “Is that what you were looking for in the pen? A dart?”

 “Not until I found these.” Biggles exposed the two rubber-capped phials.

 Ginger whistled softly. “You think that’s how the trick is being done?”

 “Why not?”

 “But why two doses?”

 “This is only surmise, but I’d say the bull was tackled first. Then the instrument that discharged the drug, whatever it might be, was reloaded in case the first dose was not enough. While the crooks were waiting for the drug to do its work Johnson came along. Deliberately or by accident he got the second dose. It killed him. A dose required to put a full grown bull out of action might well have proved a fatal dose for a man if he did nothing about it.”

 “The post-mortem should reveal the wound made by the dart or needle or whatever held the drug,” said Ginger.

 “If it’s nothing more than a pin-prick, something that might have been made by a thorn, for instance, it could easily be overlooked.”

 “But not the thing itself, if it was still there.”

 “It’s unlikely it would be there. When the crooks realized what they’d done they’d probably remove the missile. It’s true that might depend on where it struck, and the size of it. To carry the dope a hollow needle would have to be larger than an ordinary sewing needle.”

 “Why are you so sure the thing was a needle?”

 “The drug was carried in these phials. They weren’t opened. In fact there is no cork, or stopper, apart from a thin skin of rubber. When a doctor uses one of these things he simply pushes the needle of his hypodermic syringe through the rubber and sucks out the contents. Both of these phials are empty, or nearly so. How else could the contents have been extracted except by a needle in a syringe? When these phials are examined in the forensic laboratory at the Yard a tiny puncture will almost certainly be found in the cap of each. It might be possible to ascertain the contents of the phials. Don’t touch them. There might be fingerprints. Somebody had to handle them.”

 “Just a minute, old boy,” put in Bertie. “I can see a snag to your theory.”

 “What is it?”

 “In that film we saw dealing with elephants the beasts tottered and then fell down. To move them, to be loaded on a truck, they had to be dragged in by a winch. If no truck came to the pen how was the bull taken away? If it couldn’t walk it would have to be carried somehow. It would need a big gang of men to lift a bull, never mind carry it any distance.”

 “I take your point,” answered Biggles. “The type of drug, or the quantity used, could have been only sufficient to deprive it of its energy. Not enough to knock it over. If it did fall, the injection of another drug could put it on its feet again. We saw that happen, too, in the film, when the elephant was released. Anyway, we must assume the bull was still able to walk. That would require judgement; and that’s why I fancy when we get to the bottom of this business we shall find not a butcher but a chemist, or even a doctor. We shall know more about it when the experts at the Yard have told us what was in these tubes.”

“You’ve no proof they were dropped by the men who took the bull,” Ginger pointed out. “All sorts of pills and tablets are on sale today in little glass tubes, pep pills, headache pills and what have you. Mr. Harvey might use some such medicine, aspirin for instance, and throw away the tube when it’s empty.”

“We can soon settle that,” answered Biggles. “Before we leave we’ll ask him.”

Bertie raised a question. “Assuming you’re right about these bulls being doped, how do you feel now about them being transported by air?”

“I haven’t changed my mind. The animal that was taken from here didn’t leave by air, I’m sure of that. The absence of a landing ground rules that out. It went from here by road. The next problem is to find out where it went, and that won’t be easy. It’s reasonable to suppose that all these pedigree stock raids are carried out by the same gang. That means the animals must go to a depot somewhere where they can be kept under cover, at least for the time being. Eventually they will go, if they haven’t already gone, to the man who is prepared to buy them. We’re told that no one in this country would dare to expose the beasts for fear of them being recognized. The chances are, therefore, that they will ultimately go abroad. That is when, in view of the difficulties of shipment in the ordinary way, they may do the journey by air. That implies that wherever they are at this moment there is a private landing ground available. The machine that is to transport them may already be there. On the other hand it may not arrive until the time comes for the bulls to be taken to their final home. They would probably be doped again for the journey to keep them quiet. That’s how I see the business at this moment so we have plenty to work on.”

“Doing what, exactly?” inquired Bertie.

“We can check private landing grounds; check the ownership of planes capable of transporting cattle. When the stuff that was in these tubes has been identified Gaskin can check the sources of supply and recent purchasers.”

“You’ll tell him what you’ve found?”

“Of course. He came to us for our assistance and there’s no point in keeping him in the dark. But that’s enough talking. Ginger, slip along to the house and ask Mr. Harvey if he ever carries tablets of any sort around with him. At the same time you can ask him if he owns a cattle truck or has any knowledge of a heavy vehicle being on that cart track recently. Oh, and one other thing. Find out if he possesses such an instrument as a hypodermic syringe. We’d better check that because I believe in modern farming methods animals are injected with all sorts of chemicals for one purpose or another.”

“Right. I’ll do that.” Ginger departed on his errand.

“I must say this is a queer business to be mixed up in, old boy,” observed Bertie while he was away. “We’ve looked for a good many things in our time but cattle on the hoof is a new one. You will have noticed this again is another type of bull.”

“Yes. With the modern criminal always trying to keep one jump ahead of the police, and with the type of man now taking to crime, nothing need surprise us,” returned Biggles. He smiled wanly. “However, it all helps to keep our brains from becoming addled.”

Ginger came back.

“Was he there?” asked Biggles.

“Yes. I’ve got the answers to your questions. First, he has never taken any medicine in his life, much less carried it about with him. Two. He doesn’t own a cattle truck. When he needs one he hires it; and he has no knowledge of any vehicle using that lane. If one has been on it, it wasn’t his. Three. He hasn’t got, and has never owned, such a thing as a hypodermic syringe, never having had an occasion to use one. He says he still employs the breeding methods taught him by his father.”

“Good for him,” acknowledged Biggles. “Well, that clears up those details. Now we know where we stand we might as well get back to the Yard. There’s nothing more we can do here. If another bull disappears we shall know what to look for.” He was reaching for the starter when Ginger stopped him.

“Hold your horses,” said Ginger. “I think they must want to speak to us.” 

Mr. Harvey and the police sergeant were hurrying towards them. They waited.

“The sergeant has just brought me an item of news that may interest you,” said Mr. Harvey. “Police inquiries locally produced it. At three o’clock this morning a boy saw a closed van — he thought it looked like a furniture van — not far from here.”

“Where, exactly?”

“Tewin. That’s where he lives.”

“What was he doing out at such an hour?”

The sergeant answered. “He’d been out looking for his dog, which has taken to going off poaching. He was afraid it might have got caught in a snare, or a trap. He’d found it and was just bringing it home.”

“Why should he notice a van?”

“It was travelling fast and nearly ran over the dog. Apart from that he says he thought it was a funny time for a van of that size to be on a narrow country road.”

“He could be right. Smart lad.”

“He tells me he’s a scout.”

“That could explain it. Did he get any particulars of the van — a name on it, perhaps?”

“No. He can’t help us much there. It was moonlight but the van was going too fast. He thought it was a plain van but he couldn’t be sure of it. He tried to see the registration but the rear light was weak and it didn’t show up.”

“What about the colour?”

“He couldn’t be sure. All he can say is it was dark and might have been black.”

“In which direction was it travelling?”

“Towards Datchworth.”

“In which direction is that from Tewin?”

“North. Only a mile or two away.”

“So it could have been making for the Great North Road.”

“Easily. It wouldn’t have far to go.”

“I see. Thanks, sergeant. Every scrap of information helps. There’s nothing I can do about the van now. It could be two hundred miles away and the roads will be choc-a-bloc with traffic at this hour. I’ll report what you’ve just told me when I get back to Scotland Yard. I was about to move off when you appeared so I’ll be getting along.”

 “One moment,” cried Harvey. “What’s this about medicine?”

 “I think I can tell you why your bull went off as quiet as a lamb — but keep it to yourself.”

“Why?”

“It was doped.”

Harvey stared. He swore.

Biggles smiled. “I can understand how you feel.”

“Are you sure of this?”

“Almost. If you can think of a better way of taking the steam out of a vicious bull you might let me know. Meanwhile, keep what I’ve told you under your hat. We don’t want that in the newspapers. Good morning.” Again Biggles reached for the starter — this time without interruption.

“I’d call this a pretty tame affair,” remarked Ginger as the helicopter headed for its base.

 “It isn’t finished yet,” returned Biggles evenly. “You may take a different view if you find a needle sticking in you somewhere. Never mind bulls. We’re dealing with murder.”

CHAPTER IV

MOSTLY SURMISE

BIGGLES reached his office at the Yard to find Gaskin there, apparently awaiting his return.

“Now what?” questioned Biggles, hanging up his hat. “Don’t tell me another bull has gone for a stroll and can’t find his way home.”

Gaskin tapped out his pipe. “Not yet, as far as I know. I’ve just got the preliminary report of the pathologist conducting the post-mortem on Johnson and thought you ought to know.”

“Well?”

“Not a mark on him, so it looks as if it wasn’t murder after all. He died of heart failure.”

Biggles walked over to his chair and lit a cigarette. “What caused his heart to fail?”

The question seemed to surprise the detective. “How the hell would I know? You’d better ask the doctor. Does it matter?”

“It might matter a lot. I needn’t ask the doctor. Maybe I could tell him.”

Gaskin looked interested. “Did you find something?”

Biggles nodded, and taking out his handkerchief allowed the two glass tubes to roll gently on his blotting pad.

Gaskin walked over. “Where did you get them?”

“Just outside the bull pen.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“You couldn’t have looked hard enough.”

“You must have known what you were looking for.”

“I did not; that would have needed a Sherlock Holmes and my brain isn’t up to that standard.”

“Then what were you looking for?”

“The answer, any answer, to the mystery of why a vicious bull allowed itself to be led away like a tame rabbit.”

“You reckon it was given some sort of dope?”

“That would explain how it was done. Had we been wide awake we should have suspected it. It was the obvious answer. These phials can’t be explained any other way.”

“You’re sure Harvey couldn’t have dropped ‘em?”

“Quite sure. We asked him.”

“So you reckon someone went into the pen and stuck a needle in the animal?”

“Only a fool would go in the pen. It wasn’t necessary. I found these outside. One can only suppose the dope was in a dart fired from a weapon of some sort, possibly an air pistol, something that made a slight noise. Johnson heard it. He came along and got the second dose, the first having already been discharged from outside the pen near where the bull was standing. Near the drinking trough.”

“What do you reckon was in these tubes?”

“I wouldn’t know. Presumably an anaesthetic of some sort — not a big enough dose to kill a bull but apparently enough to stop Johnson’s heart beating. This is where you can get busy. You might have these tubes examined for fingerprints, then take them to the forensic people for an opinion of what they contained. There’s a drop of fluid left in one of them, as you see. Ask them to check the rubber caps for needle holes.”

“I’ll do that. What else do you know?”

“There’s reason to believe the bull left the premises in a van of some sort. It didn’t drive up to the farm. It used a back lane. It left tracks. It was fitted with Greystone heavy duty tyres. The job was probably finished about three o’clock in the morning. At all events, a boy scout living at Tewin, out looking for his dog, saw such a vehicle. It was heading in the direction of Datchworth. I got this from the local police.”

“So there must have been more than one man.”

“I’d say at least two, possibly three, or even more.”

“And you think all these raids are being carried out by the same gang?”

“Where the bulls are concerned, yes. For two gangs to be at work doing the same thing would be a remarkable coincidence. I’m not concerned with the turkeys. That’s small stuff. There’s more to this bull angle than money. Someone wants them at any cost. You told me Lord Dubray said money wouldn’t buy the bull he lost. No doubt the man who now has the animal, or to whom it will finally go, knew that.”

Gaskin looked worried. “Who the devil can he be?”

“Someone who knows these pedigree animals by sight and reputation. It doesn’t follow that he takes part in the actual raids although he may finance them.”

“So he’s the man we’ve got to find.”

“Find him, and unless the bulls have gone abroad it’s likely you’ll find them at the same place.”

Gaskin fingered his chin. “How are we going to do that? Wait for another raid and then—”

“Lose another bull? That won’t improve your reputation. I wouldn’t gamble on the raiders making a blunder and so give themselves away. This whole thing has been carefully planned. The gang knows exactly what it’s doing. You’ve now got something to work on.”

“Does that mean you’re not going on with it?”

“You’ve more facilities for ground work than I have. See what you can dig up. Meanwhile, I’ll help you as far as I can by doing some hard thinking.”

“What, in my place, would you do? I’m always ready to take advice from you.”

“I’d try to locate the van that went through Tewin in the early hours of the morning. I’d also try looking for a man who is known to be an authority on the sort of animals that have been stolen. There’s nothing haphazard about this. Somewhere in the background there must be such a man. He knew all about the beasts that have disappeared. He may try for some more.” Biggles shrugged. “But it isn’t for me to teach you your job. I’ll do what I can. Get these phials checked and let me know the results.”

Gaskin got up. “All right. I’ll get on with it. Here are the photos you asked for of the bulls. See you later.”

He went out.

After the door had closed Bertie shook his head.

“Poor old Gaskin. He does get in a flap.”

“So would you in his position,” stated Biggles. “His job depends on results. No man knows his work better than he does. He knows every professional crook in the country by sight, his line of crime and how he works; how and where he is most likely to sell his swag. Everything that comes from experience. In other words, the tricks of the trade. But when it comes to a case like this, with no precedent to work on, he’s out of his depth. Stolen jewellery is one thing: bulls are another. Where do you start looking for a stolen bull? Who would want one? What sort of man would think of pinching one? Not a regular crook. It’s amateur work with a brain behind it that is giving the police a headache.”

“Are we likely to do any better?” put in Ginger.

“Could be,” answered Biggles. “We’re more or less free agents and so not cluttered up with regular routine methods. That’s why we’ve so often been useful to Gaskin. And he has more than once helped us. We can do things he can’t do and he can do things we can’t do. All the little crooks know him by sight, of course, but even that can have its advantages because they take orders from him. It’s an eye-opener to see him walk along a bus queue after the theatres have closed. He spots a pickpocket. He taps him on the shoulder and says something like this: ‘Go home, Charlie, and don’t let me see you again tonight. You can call at a pub and have a pint on the way.’”

“And what does Charlie say to that?”

“He says, ‘okay, guv’nor’ and goes, as meek and mild as a little child. He knows he’s been spotted and doesn’t waste his breath arguing. That’s why men like Gaskin are the backbone of the Force. They carry authority where it matters most. Professional pickpockets are one thing, but when it comes to amateurs picking bulls out of a pen, he’s lost.”

“What are you going to do about it, old boy?” inquired Bertie. “Have you any ideas?”

“One or two, although they’re a bit vague and need sifting.”

“Such as, for instance?”

“We can leave most of the routine inquiries to Gaskin but there are one or two things that might best be done by us. I believe that if these missing bulls haven’t already gone they will eventually leave the country, possibly by air. Gaskin says that here they would be no use to anyone, for the simple reason if they were seen they would be recognized. Their value lies in their registered names and pedigrees. You can take a piece of stolen jewellery to pieces, melt down the gold and re-cut the diamonds. Stolen currency notes, even if their numbers are known, can be disposed of over a period of time. A live bull weighing perhaps upwards of a ton is a very different matter. It isn’t an easy thing to move. You couldn’t hope to smuggle it anywhere through ordinary transport channels; wherefore, if it is intended to take the animals abroad the most likely method of shipment would be by air. This must have been pre-arranged. At least, I can’t see anyone nobbling a creature like a bull unless he knew exactly what he was going to do with it. But let’s get down to brass tacks. We have two jobs facing us. The first is to find the missing bulls and the second is to see no more are stolen.”

“Don’t forget we also have a murderer to catch,” reminded Bertie.

“When we lay hands on the men running this racket we shall have the man who killed Johnson. I can give you both something to do. Ginger, go round to the Ministry of Agriculture and get a list of the most valuable bulls in the country. Having got that – there can’t be a great number — we’ll have a look at the establishments where they live.”

“You mean, from the air?”

“Of course. If someone intends to pick them up in an aircraft there should be a possible landing ground not far away. I imagine, on account of weight, only one bull would be taken at a time. If I’m right, up to date that would mean three journeys. I shall assume the three stolen bulls are still in this country, together at the same place; and there they’ll stay until the raids are finished. That may already be the case. We don’t know. We shall see. Bertie, start a check on aircraft capable of carrying a bull on a long distance flight and the names of the men, or firms, owning such machines.”

“Okay. What are you going to do?”

“Try to find a man who covets prize bulls. A bull isn’t everyone’s choice.” Biggles smiled. “It wouldn’t be much use offering a bull to an ordinary receiver of stolen goods. After all, the beast would have to be fed and watered. But talking won’t get us anywhere. We’ve got to make a start somewhere so this is what we’ll do. Bertie, you say you know Lord Dubray?”

“I did, some time ago. He may not remember me because I’ve grown a bit since he last saw me, but he won’t have forgotten my name.”

“Good. We’ll fly up and have a word with him. He may know something that could put us on the beam. For instance, someone may have tried to buy his bull. We know he wouldn’t sell it. The offer may have been made by a man who was determined to have the bull anyway, even if he had to steal it. That’s just a possibility. Ginger, you get as much information as you can from the Ministry of Agriculture, as I suggested just now. If they can’t give you the information we need they should be able to tell you who can. Someone must keep the records, pedigrees and so on.” Biggles turned back to Bertie. “We might as well have a look at Stowten Place, in Suffolk, from the air, on the way to Norfolk. That was from where the first bull was stolen. Gaskin said it was near Wickham Market so it can’t be far off our course. It should be shown on the six-inch map. You might look it up.”

“What machine are you going to use?” asked Bertie.

“Obviously, the chopper is the job for this sort of work. We can put it down anywhere. We’re in no great hurry.”

“Right. I’ll get it laid on.” Bertie picked up the telephone. 

Ginger put on his hat. “See you later,” he said from the door.

“We shouldn’t be away long,” returned Biggles. “I’d better go down and tell the Air Commodore what we’re doing,” he told Bertie. “Then we’ll have a quick lunch and press on.”

CHAPTER V

FRAMLING TOWERS

IT was a pleasant late spring afternoon, warm and sunny, with visibility all that could be desired, when the Air Police helicopter, with Biggles and Bertie on board, arrived over Suffolk and headed for its first objective, Stowten Place, near Wickham Market. This was not on a direct course for their final destination, which was Lord Dubray’s establishment in Norfolk, but as their mission was not urgent Biggles considered it worth while to get a general picture of the locality from which the first bull had been stolen.

Bertie, with the map on his knees, had no difficulty in finding the little country town, and soon after it had slipped away under their tail he said: “There, I think, in front and half left, is Stowten Place.”

Biggles was looking at the ground. “Your eyes must be better than mine. I can’t see anything like the big farm I had imagined.”

“Neither can I, but I can see a fine herd of Friesians,” returned Bertie. “There’s no mistaking those pretty black and white hides. The bull stolen from Stowten Place was a Friesian, so when I see Friesians grazing in the target area, so to speak, I tell myself Mr. Thellin’s house can’t be far away.”

“Great work,” replied Biggles. “You’re becoming quite a detective. I’m glad I brought you with me.”

“That lot must be worth a pretty penny,” observed Bertie. “You don’t buy Friesians for peanuts. There must be close on fifty animals in that herd. If they’re cows I can understand Mr. Thellin being sick at losing his best bull. If he hasn’t another he’ll have to buy one or his herd is likely to shrink. Ah, there’s the house,” he concluded, as a big farm with straggling outbuildings appeared from behind a row of tall elms.

Biggles surveyed the landscape below them. “I can’t see anywhere within easy reach where I’d care to try to put down a heavy machine,” he commented. “Trees all over the place. The one really big field clear of any seems to be under roots.”

“Winter feed for his stock, no doubt.”

“The other two bulls that have gone astray were a Hereford and a Jersey. I imagine neither of them would be much use to the man who owns that lot of Friesians.”

“No use at all, old boy. That is, for breeding purposes. All he could do would be to sell ‘em — if he could find a buyer.”

“As we’re told that would be difficult we needn’t waste time looking for them here.” Biggles had a last long look at the ground without going any lower. “I don’t see anything else to get excited about so we might as well press on.”

He took up a new course for their ultimate port of call, Framling Towers, the home of Lord Dubray, in Norfolk. This, it had been ascertained, was a little south of the railway line that runs between King’s Lynn and Dereham, and eventually Norwich.

After striking the line at Swaffham it did not take long to locate Framling Towers, an imposing white-painted Georgian mansion standing in a park in a still truly rural piece of England. Actually, again it was a herd of cattle that pinpointed the house for them; a fine lot of white-faced Herefords contentedly chewing the cud under some big old trees not far from this house.

Said Biggles with a smile as he looked for the most convenient landing ground: “This is the first time I’ve waffled around the country using herds of cattle for landmarks.”

“It wouldn’t do to rely on ‘em,” answered Bertie. “There are a lot of cattle in England and they’re not always in the same place. They happen to be mobile.”

“I take your point,” returned Biggles. “I think this should do us.” He allowed the helicopter to settle gently on a piece of open grassland, clear of cattle, not too close to the house but within easy walking distance from it. 

Hardly had he switched off and opened the door when a man could be seen striding towards them. He was of a certain age, tall, dressed in riding breeches and jacket. He carried a stick.

“I don’t know who he is but I hope he’s not going to be awkward about us landing here,” said Biggles anxiously.

“It’s Lord Dubray himself,” informed Bertie, joining Biggles on the grass. “He hasn’t changed much since I last saw him. As I remember, he’s inclined to be a bit gruff and outspoken. At one time he was a colonel in the Life Guards. But don’t let that upset you. It’s only his manner. His bark is worse than his bite. He once told me that.”

It may have been as well that Biggles was thus warned, for it prepared him for what was soon to happen. There was nothing uncertain about the way Lord Dubray advanced to the aircraft. Nor did his expression leave any doubt as to how he felt about the intrusion on his property. His face was red. A white moustache, brushed up, appeared to bristle. Bright blue eyes, under bushy white eyebrows, glinted. Even before he stopped he had opened the conversation.

“What the hell you mean by parking that stinking contraption on my land?” he barked “You might have stampeded my cattle, dammit.” 

Biggles remained calm. “You may be sure I had a reason, sir.”

“It’ll have to be a good one.”

“Sufficient, I hope, if you’ll allow me to explain.”

“Do you know who you’re talking to?”

“Lord Dubray, I believe.”

“Ha! So you know my name. Who told you?”

“My friend here. We’ve come to see you on a matter of more importance to you than to us.”

“The devil you have.”

Further argument on these lines was stopped by Bertie. “Don’t you remember me, sir?”

Lord Dubray stared. “No. Why the hell should I? I can’t remember everyone I’ve ever met.”

“You knew my father, Lord Lissie, very well. I’m his son. I was not much more than a toddler the last time you came to our place.”

“Well! Bless my soul! Why didn’t you say so at once? You’re not that sandy-haired freckled faced kid...”

Smiling, Bertie broke in. “That’s me, sir. I’ve grown a bit.”

“I can see that. Well, well, how time flies. I was sorry to hear of your father’s death. Good feller. We spoke the same language. Killed in the hunting field, I understand.”

“That’s right.”

“So you’re the new Lord Lissie.”

“I’m afraid so,” admitted Bertie, smiling wanly. “But on my present job I don’t use my title.”

“Job! What sort of job? And what are you doing in this animated sardine tin?” With his stick Lord Dubray tapped the helicopter.

“Matter of fact I’m a policeman.”

“A policeman!”

“With wings. I’m a pilot in the Air Police. This is my superior officer, Air Detective-Inspector Bigglesworth.”

Lord Dubray gave Biggles a nod. “Pleased to meet you. What will you fellers get up to next? What are you doing here? Detecting?”

Biggles answered. “That’s the general idea, sir.”

“And just what are you hoping to detect?”

“The bull you’ve lost. I’d like to ask you a few questions about it.”

“Ask all the questions you like: I’ll do my best to answer them. But we needn’t stand talking here. Let me offer you some hospitality. Come to the house and have a drink.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Friendly relations having been established they were soon all seated in what, judging from the miscellaneous articles littered about, was his lordship’s den. “Now what is it you want to know?” he inquired, pouring sherry from a decanter.

“As one of the leading stock-breeders in the country you must know most of the others.”

“Yes, I think I may say that.”

“Have you any idea at all of what could have happened to your missing Hereford?”

“Absolutely no idea at all. All I know is, it’s gone.”

“Has anyone ever tried to buy the bull?”

“Naturally. I’ve had quite a few inquiries for The Pride, as we called him. I wouldn’t sell.”

“Can you recall the names of the people who made offers, particularly those who seemed most keen to own the bull? I’m working on the assumption that someone coveted the animal to the extent that he was prepared to go to any lengths to secure it. You know of course that yours is not the only bull to disappear?”

“So I believe.”

“At one farm the bailiff was murdered.”

“Was he, by God. I didn’t know that. What are the police doing about it?”

“What I’m doing now — asking questions. You haven’t answered my last one.”

Lord Dubray thought for a moment or two. “Most of the inquiries I’ve had came through the post. I have the letters somewhere if you’d care to see them. The last man I had here was about six months ago. Very persistent fellow he was, too. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. Said he was an agent acting on behalf of a man who wished to remain anonymous but was prepared to pay any price.”

“Did you know the man who came here?”

“I knew him by sight. A stock-breeder. Saw him occasionally at the big cattle shows.”

“What was his name?”

“Queer name. Thellin, or something like that.” Biggles’s eyebrows went up. “The Mr. Thellin of Stowten Place, in Suffolk?”

“No. That’s Oswald Thellin. He breeds Friesians so he wouldn’t be interested in a Hereford bull. The man who came here was Walter Thellin. I believe he has a place somewhere in Somerset.”

“Any relation?”

“I seem to remember someone telling me they were brothers.”

“What is Walter Thellin’s particular line?”

“Can’t tell you that, but I imagine it’s Herefords, or he wouldn’t have tried to buy my bull.”

“How much do you know about these brothers?”

“Not much, although they seem to have done very well since they came to this country.”

“Does that mean they are not British?”

“They both speak with an accent but where they came from I don’t know. I first noticed them soon after the war, when they began to appear at the sales up and down the country. They must have had some money or they wouldn’t have been able to start in the cattle breeding business. They must be pretty good at it because their stock has improved a lot in recent years.”

“You’ve never heard anything against them?”

“Never. As far as I know their transactions have always been straightforward. I’ve noticed Walter Thellin bidding for my heifers at public auctions.”

“Did you show him round when he came here to try to buy your bull?”

“Naturally. He had a professional interest.”

“I imagine you have other bulls apart from your champion — The Pride.”

“I have two or three at the moment but nothing quite up to the standard of The Pride. I’m always trying to produce a finer bull but I doubt if I ever shall. I sell off those I don’t want.”

“Thellin wasn’t interested in the others?”

“No. He wanted The Pride. He knew it had an international reputation. Anything else?”

“Was The Pride insured?”

“Yes, but he was worth more to me than money — if I get any from the insurance people.”

“Is there any doubt of that?”

“Apparently yes. The Pride, they say, was insured against death. How am I going to prove the animal is dead — if in fact it is dead?”

“I imagine you’d recognize the bull anywhere if you saw it?”

“Couldn’t mistake it. Its markings were unusual; a pure white head and a white stripe running right along its spine.”

“What sort of animal was he? I mean, was he vicious or good-tempered?”

“I wouldn’t call him vicious but he wasn’t exactly docile. He was all right with me and the man who minded him; but you know what bulls are. It doesn’t take much to upset ‘em. That’s what puzzles me. How was he taken away?”

“He’d resent interference by a stranger?”

“Definitely.”

“One last question, sir. Do you employ here what I can only describe as modern scientific methods — chemicals that have to be injected, hormones, and that sort of thing?”

“Never,” declared Lord Dubray emphatically. “I wouldn’t have the stuff on the place. All a lot of new-fangled nonsense. If I can’t breed good healthy stock in the way nature intended I’ll give up.”

“May we see the pen where The Pride was kept?”

“Of course, if you want to, although I don’t think you’ll learn much there.”

“You didn’t find anything yourself?”

“Not a thing.”

“You made a search?”

“You bet I did. Not that there was much point in it. The gate was open and the bull had gone. That’s all there was to it.”

“What did you do?”

“Called the police. They came, had a look round, asked a lot of questions and went away. I’ve heard nothing more from them. Didn’t expect to. What could they do about it?”

“You didn’t find any tracks of any sort leading to or from the pen?”

“Plenty of tracks but nothing unusual.”

“Has the pen been used since for anything else?”

“No. Everything is just as it was.”

Biggles got up. “Thank you, sir. That’s about all. Now, if I may, I’ll have a look at it. I might as well do the job thoroughly while I’m here so I may be a little while; but there’s no need for you to stay with us.”

Lord Dubray took them past a line of sheds, mostly empty as the stock was out at grass, to the pen where the lost bull normally lived. There was nothing unusual about it. “I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “Come back to the house for a cup of tea,” he invited, as he turned away.

Biggles looked at Bertie. “You know what I’m hoping to find?”

“Another glass phial.”

Biggles nodded. “That would prove — not that we really need proof, I think — that these farm raids are the work of the same gang. Take it slowly. It’s the only chance of finding anything in this mess.”

“Why should they throw the empty phial on the ground?”

“They may not have done so here. In Hertfordshire, having killed that unfortunate bailiff they were in a hurry to get away, no doubt. Remember, they do their dirty work in the dark, and having dropped the phial might not be able to find it, even if they bothered to look for it. After all, it’s a very small object, and if by some chance it was found by a farm hand it’s unlikely he would associate it with the crime. I imagine the thieves would be more concerned with the bull they had to handle.”

The search began.

It was Bertie who, ten minutes later, found the phial. Outside the heavy railings of the pen, near the feeding trough, he suddenly gave a little cry and pounced: “Got it!” he exclaimed.

“Careful how you pick it up,” warned Biggles sharply. “Use your handkerchief. Someone had to handle it and any fingerprints should match the phials Gaskin is having checked. I’ll take it.”

The search was continued for another half-hour but without result. At the end of that time Biggles said they’d done enough. “We’ve found what we were looking for. On this occasion one shot seems to have been sufficient. It’s clear that someone in this racket knows what is required to take the steam out of a beast the size of a bull, and exactly how much dope is necessary. If the dose was too small it might not work. Too much and the animal might completely pass out. An unconscious bull would be a problem.”

“The man responsible may have done some experimental work on ordinary cattle before he started on prize bulls,” offered Bertie.

“I don’t see why not. Nothing to prevent him. At all events, the man we have to find is one who knows all about dope and is able to lay his hands on what he needs. Let’s go back to the house.”

“Are you going to tell Lord Dubray what we’ve found?”

“No. It would do no good and it might do harm. The fewer the people who know about this the better. If the newspapers got wind of what we know they would naturally make a big story of it. The crooks would see it and that wouldn’t make things any easier for us.”

They went on to the house to find that the owner had had to go out on some business. He left his apologies. This suited Biggles because they might have been asked questions calling for evasive answers. They did not wait, but went on to the aircraft and made their way home.

CHAPTER VI

GINGER REPORTS

WHEN Biggles and Bertie arrived back at the office it was to find Ginger there, having returned from his errand to the Ministry of Agriculture.

“How did you get on?” he greeted them.

“We found what we went to look for,” Biggles told him.

“Another tube that could have contained dope?”

“That’s right. How about you? Any news?”

“I don’t know,” answered Ginger, slowly. “I gathered an item of news that may mean something or nothing.”

“Go ahead,” requested Biggles. “Perhaps I can decide.”

Ginger told his story. “When I finally got to the right man at the Ministry and told him what I wanted he said it so happened that he could give me that information right away. There was a reason for that. Some little time ago he had a man in asking exactly the same question. He wanted a list of the most important bulls in the country. It took a little time to get out, but he had sent one to this man and was able to give me a copy.”

“Did this man say why he wanted such a list?”

“No. He may not have been asked. But this is the point. I asked the man at the Ministry if he could remember the name of the man who wanted the list. He could do that because it had taken a little while to compile he had posted it on to him. He looked up the correspondence and was able to give me not only the name but the address. The name was a Mr. Thellin.” Ginger looked at Biggles expectantly. “Doesn’t that surprise you?”

“No.”

Ginger looked disappointed. “A Mr. Thellin was one of the men who lost a bull,” he reminded.

“I hadn’t forgotten that. Carry on.”

Ginger resumed. “Naturally, when the man at the Ministry told me that, I said, you mean the Mr. Oswald Thellin of Stowten Place, in Suffolk. He said no. It was a Mr. Walter Thellin, who had a breeding establishment in Somerset. When I asked if he was any relation he said he didn’t know.”

“I can answer that for you,” put in Biggles. “They’re brothers.”

Ginger looked astonished. “How on earth do you know that?”

“Never mind. I’ll tell you presently. Continue. This is getting interesting.”

Ginger went on. “Well, that’s about all. I asked the man at the Ministry if he knew anything about the Mr. Thellin who wanted the list and again he said no. He had never seen him before; but from the way he spoke he thought he must have been a foreigner. The copy of the list, and the address in Somerset are on your desk.”

“Good work,” said Biggles. “You may have done better than you know.”

“Oh, one other thing. When you look at the list you’ll notice that Lord Dubray’s bull, and the one that was stolen in Hertfordshire, are on it.”

“One would expect that. They were both important animals. Did you ask the man at the Ministry if he knew what type of cattle this Mr. Thellin of Somerset specialized in?”

“I didn’t think to ask him that. All he knew was, he was a stock breeder. At least, so he claimed, although apparently he doesn’t own anything of sufficient importance to be included in the list.”

Biggles gave a brief account of the trip to Lord Dubray’s house in Norfolk. “Now, what does it all add up to?” he wondered pensively. “We know now that there are two Mr. Thellins interested in champion bulls. They happen to be brothers. Why, we may wonder, do they live so far apart? Why did Mr. Walter Thellin of Somerset want that list of top class bulls?”

“It must have seemed a reasonable inquiry. One stockbreeder would naturally be interested in other breeders and their stock.”

“I suppose so,” murmured Biggles “There may be nothing to it, but it occurs to me that if someone intended making a business of stealing bulls the first thing he’d need would be a list of the possibilities. It may or may not be a coincidence that Mr. Walter Thellin actually went to see Lord Dubray to try to buy his champion bull. He must have known before he went that a man like Lord Dubray wouldn’t part with the animal that was his pride and joy; in which case we may wonder if that was his real purpose in making the long trip from Somerset to Norfolk. After all, a letter to Lord Dubray would have told him all he wanted to know. The bull was not for sale.”

“What other possible purpose could he have had?”

“He may have wanted to get an idea of the lay-out of his lordship’s establishment. Lord Dubray showed him round.” 

Ginger stared. “You don’t mean you suspect Walter Thellin of pinching Lord Dubray’s bull!”

“Why not? I’m prepared to suspect anyone. When we started our inquiry we had already decided that the man behind these thefts must know plenty about prize stock.”

“You haven’t forgotten that Oswald Thellin, the brother, has also lost his prize bull.”

“So we are told.”

“He’s kicking up a fuss about it.”

“Naturally, he would,” returned Biggles dryly. “It might look odd if he didn’t. To say I’m suspicious might at this stage be going rather too far; but at least we have a line to work on. I’m not worrying too much about these bulls. Let’s not forget that in the course of this business a man has been murdered. I’m more interested in catching up with the man who killed him than finding these missing bulls. We’ve got to start somewhere, and at the moment I can think of nothing better than to make some discreet inquiries about these Thellin brothers. We may find ourselves on a false trail, but I’d like the answers to one or two questions which at present strike me as being a bit vague. They may look like details, but details can tot up to something big. For instance, Walter Thellin of Somerset was only interested in Lord Dubray’s champion bull. Lord Dubray had others he was willing to sell, all thoroughbreds, but Thellin didn’t want ‘em. Why?”

Bertie answered. “I can only suppose the rustlers must feel that while they’re at it they might as well have the best.”

“Or shall we put it like this. Did Thellin know he would eventually get what he wanted without paying for it?” Biggles looked at the list Ginger had brought in. It was rather a long one and he said so.

Ginger replied. “There are scores, if not hundreds, of first-class bulls in the country. What you have there are reckoned to be the top twenty, as near as can be judged, each in its own particular class. That is what Thellin asked for.”

Bertie took the list. “You know, old boy, this is all very odd. Why so many types? As I said before, a breeder doesn’t normally mix his stock. He goes in for one breed. Here we have all sorts.”

“The three bulls that have disappeared were different types, a Friesian, a Hereford and a Jersey.”

“That’s what I mean. That has always struck me as queer. What the deuce is the thief going to do with ‘em? Now, on this list, I see an Ayrshire, a Red Poll and a Devon — the lot. If the thief goes after those he’ll have quite a collection. It doesn’t make sense.”

Biggles shrugged. “These names are all double-dutch to me, anyway.”

“That’s only a list,” put in Ginger. “It doesn’t mean the rustlers are going to pinch all of them.”

“All the same, if the missing animals were all one type it would be more understandable,” went on Bertie. “I mean to say, had they all been Herefords we might expect the next most valuable Hereford on the list to go, and keep an eye on it.”

“We can’t watch them all, that’s certain,” stated Biggles.

“Then what can we do about it?”

“For a start we might run down to Somerset and cast an eye over Walter Thellin’s farm, or whatever he has there, to see what sort of stock he keeps.”

“You mean — fly over?”

“You might do the flying. You’re the cattle expert. See what he has grazing in his pastures. You might slip down early tomorrow morning. I’ll run down with Ginger by road and have a look at the place from ground level. It wouldn’t be much trouble and there’s always a chance we might pick up something.”

“You’re really suspicious of this feller Thellin, aren’t you?”

“All I know is these bulls are being spirited away by someone who understands cattle. Walter Thellin, we are told, is a stock-breeder and, moreover, one who is taking an unusual interest in high-class animals belonging to other people. He, as far as we know, is the only one. There must be a reason for that. I’m interested to know what that reason is. Put it like that.”

At this point of the debate Gaskin walked in. 

Biggles looked up. “Well? Don’t say another bull has gone for a walk without the owner’s permission?”

“No. Not that I know of, anyhow. I’ve got what you asked for. These tubes have been checked for fingerprints. There are plenty of paw marks, all made by the same man, but they don’t line up with anything in our records.”

“I wouldn’t expect them to,” returned Biggles. “This isn’t a professional racket. It’s right off the usual run of thefts. What had the phials contained?”

“A form of phenobarbitone. Methylphenobarbitone, they think. You know — the stuff that puts you to sleep.”

“Sometimes called Luminal.”

“That’s right.”

“But I thought that was only taken by mouth.”

“As it’s sold to the general public, yes. But it can be given by subcutaneous injection.”

“Can anyone buy it?”

“I wouldn’t say that, but it wouldn’t be difficult to get hold of. Doctors can get it, of course. They prescribe it for sleeplessness. In the ordinary way only a qualified doctor would give an injection.” 

Biggles unfolded the handkerchief on his desk revealing the phial it had protected. “Here’s another one for you to have checked. It’ll probably tell the same story as the previous two, no more no less. If that is so it will confirm that the raids are being made by the same gang; but I’d only be surprised if they weren’t.”

Gaskin walked over. “Where did you get this one?”

“Lord Dubray’s place in Norfolk. He’s lost his pet Hereford. We ran up this afternoon.”

“Find anything?” 

Biggles indicated the phial. “Only this. Take it with you when you go.”

“Had his lordship any ideas of who might have pinched his bull?”

“No. He told us all he knew, which wasn’t much.”

“So where do we go from here?” said Gaskin helplessly.

“You didn’t get a line on that van the boy saw?”

“Not yet. We can’t check all the vans in the country in a matter of hours. Well, I suppose we can only wait for another bull to do the disappearing act.”

“That’s not likely to help us. It will simply be the same story over again.” 

Gaskin filled his pipe. “I’ve combed all my private sources of information — no use. Not a whisper. If we could only get a hint of where these devils are likely to strike next we could be there waiting for ‘em.”

“If that’s what you’re hoping for you’ll wait a long time. Only they know, and they’re not likely to tell us.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Work from the opposite direction.”

“What does that mean? I don’t get it.”

“Try to find out where these bulls are, or where they’re going. They must still be alive because as they are no use dead there would have been no point in collecting them from their rightful owners. I still say they are somewhere in this country because, as you yourself have said, it’s hard to see how they could have been got out.”

“I came to you in the first place to get your opinion on a possible flying angle.”

“I don’t rule that out, but I can tell you this. A plane wasn’t used to carry any of the bulls away from the farms where they lived.”

“Why are you so sure of that?”

“For the simple reason that at none of the farms I’ve seen is there anywhere for a plane to land; anyhow, a plane big enough to carry a bull.”

Gaskin put his pipe in his pocket. “Well, see what you can do. It only needs one more bull to disappear and I shall be looking for a new job.”

“It may be some time before another one goes.”

“Why?”

“The gang now has a murder on its hands and that may cause them to lie low for a bit. They’d read about Johnson’s death in the papers if they didn’t already know. They may even pack up altogether. If it comes to that, they may have already got as many bulls as they need.”

“I hope you’re right,” said Gaskin fervently, as he left the room.

After he had gone Ginger said: “You didn’t tell him anything about Walter Thellin going to the Ministry for a list of prize bulls.”

“At this stage there didn’t seem any point in it. We can do all the investigating that seems indicated. He might get in our way. In his official position he daren’t take such chances as I’m prepared to take. He’s afraid of criticism because he doesn’t want to lose his job, and possibly his pension. If the government thinks I’m the wrong man for my job that’s okay with me; that’s why I don’t mind sailing near the wind, as I have more than once. I’ll tell Gaskin all we know when the time is ripe.” Biggles glanced at the clock. “I’ll just run over the drill for tomorrow and we’ll go home. There’s nothing more we can do today. Bertie, you take the Auster and starting as early as you like make a reconnaissance of Walter Thellin’s farm — or whatever it is — in Somerset. Here’s the address. Lockley Manor, near Lydhurst. I’ll leave you to find out exactly where it is. I can’t imagine you’ll have any reason to land.”

“How about taking a camera for a shot of anything interesting?”

“Good idea. Do that. A picture of the lay-out of the buildings may be useful. I shall start first thing in the morning, with Ginger, by road. From the ground we shall get a closer view than you. We may as well do the job thoroughly while we’re at it. In particular I want you to check any cattle in the fields and possible landing grounds. I think that’s about all. Let’s go home.”

As they put on their hats the door was opened and Gaskin reappeared.

“Oh no,” cried Biggles in a pained voice. “Not again!”

“I thought you might like to see this,” returned the detective, holding out a newspaper. “It’s open at the right page. The press are making the most of this bull story.”

“They have to make a story of something. The public would be disappointed if they didn’t.”

“They sent a reporter to interview Thellin, with a photographer to get a picture of the scene of the crime.”

“You mean Thellin, who lives in Suffolk, the man who lost a bull.”

“Of course. Who else? He’s the only Thellin as far as I’m concerned.”

Biggles did not speak. 

Gaskin went on. “There’s a photo of him standing by the bull pen.”

“Good,” said Biggles cheerfully. “Now we shall know what he looks like if we meet him.” He spread the newspaper on his desk with the others looking over his shoulder regarded the picture to which Gaskin had referred.

It showed two men standing by the open gate of a strongly built pen. One, obviously the reporter, wore ordinary town clothes. The other, pointing with a walking stick, was a stoutish middle-aged man, clean shaven with a square face, dressed in the style of a countryman; tweed jacket, drill breeches and gaiters. On his head was a round “pork pie” hat.

“So that’s Mr. Oswald Thellin,” observed Biggles, refolding the paper and handing it back to Gaskin. “Thanks.”

“Aren’t you going to read what they say?”

“Why bother? They can’t tell us anything we don’t know.”

“They want to know what the police are doing about it.”

“They always do. It’s their business to ask questions and yours to find the answers. They’ll pipe down when you produce the missing bulls.”

“Where the hell am I going to find ‘em?”

Biggles grinned. “I’ll tell you when I know.”

Gaskin snorted and departed.

Said Biggles to the others: “Come on. Let’s go. At the moment I’m more for beef on the plate than on the hoof.”

“With chips,” added Bertie.

“And a nice drop of gravy,” contributed Ginger, smiling broadly.

CHAPTER VII

A CADILLAC MAKES A CALL

“THIS is the road,” asserted Biggles. “Somewhere along here, according to the map. On the right-hand side there should be a private drive leading to the house.”

“Are we going to the house?” asked Ginger.

“No. What excuse can we give? If it turned out there was nothing of interest to us we should look silly. If there was something we might easily do more harm than good. At this stage I merely want to have a look at the place, what cattle there are in the fields — that sort of thing.”

The time was nearly eleven o’clock. The place, a quiet, smoothly undulating area of Somerset in the region of Lockley Manor, the home of Walter Thellin, the man who had shown an unusual interest in champion bulls, and brother of the man who had lost one.

After an early start, using Bertie’s own Jaguar, with Ginger at the wheel and Biggles acting as “pathfinder”, they had arrived in good time at the area with which they were concerned. The weather was not as good as it might have been, the sky being dull and overcast; but the cloud layer was high and it was not raining, so, as Biggles observed, conditions might have been worse. In making this remark he was thinking not so much of themselves as of Bertie who, as arranged, was making an air reconnaissance of the same area.

It should be said here that the reason for using Bertie’s car, the red and black Jaguar, instead of an official police car, was for recognition; that is, it would enable Bertie, when he came over in the Auster, to spot exactly where they were. Not that this was really important since they were working independently, but it was thought worth while in case of accident. Moreover, no one would be likely to associate the sports car with the police. As a matter of detail they had not seen the Auster, so whether it had been and gone, or had not yet arrived on the scene, they did not know.

“Take it slowly or we may overshoot the drive,” Biggles told Ginger as they cruised down what was little more than a country lane with hedges on both sides. For the most part these obstructed their view of the fields through which they were passing; but this difficulty was overcome by stopping, or nearly stopping, at an occasional gate on one side of the road or the other. So far they had seen no cattle, or anything else of interest. 

They were proceeding in this fashion when suddenly a car siren blared behind them, the driver keeping his thumb on the button. An instant later the car, a big pale grey tourer, flashed past, the driver glaring at them through a side window.

Said Biggles, as the car raced on throwing grit from its wheels against their windscreen: “Because he has a Cadillac he seems to think he owns the road.”

“The swine,” growled Ginger indignantly. “If that isn’t dangerous driving I don’t know what is.”

“Never mind. One day he’ll get what he’s asking for.”

“More likely someone else will be killed. On a road like this how does he know some kid, or a stray animal, a dog maybe, isn’t going to jump out of the hedge.”

“Relax,” requested Biggles. “If you’re going to travel by road it’s no use letting these hogs upset you. There’s a name for such people.”

“Did you see who was in it?”

“Just the driver, I think. I only got a glimpse but I didn’t see a passenger. The driver looked like a foreigner; dark fellow who might have been an Italian or some other Latin type. As you should know, they’re notoriously fast drivers. Hello! Where’s he going?” added Biggles quickly as the car, now in the distance, suddenly braked, went wide, and turning sharp right, disappeared.

“I hope he’s broken his flipping neck,” muttered Ginger.

“He must have turned in the drive that leads to Thellin’s place,” answered Biggles. “There’s no other turning. Go slow. We’ll have a look.”

“Could it be Thellin’s car?”

“I wouldn’t think so. English farmers don’t normally go in for Cadillacs. At all events, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t Walter Thellin at the wheel. I’ve never seen the man, but we’ve seen a picture of his brother. He’s definitely a European type.”

“What’s a car like that doing at a place like this, anyway?”

“If it has gone to Lockley Manor that’s something I’d like to know.”

“Did you get its number?”

“No. Apart from the speed the fellow was going it didn’t occur to me that the car was likely to be of interest to us. This is where it turned in. Dead slow, now.”

As the Jaguar crawled past an open white-painted gate it could be seen that a straight gravel drive, perhaps a hundred yards long, ended at a house of some size; rather more than an ordinary farm. The Cadillac was there, at the front. It had stopped. A man, presumably the driver, was approaching the door. That was as much as could be seen as the Jaguar passed the opening, apart from a notice-board which told them what they had reason to believe. The name of the house was Lockley Manor.

“So that’s it,” murmured Biggles thoughtfully. “What’s a Cadillac doing here, I wonder? This is getting interesting. I can tell you one thing.”

“Tell me.”

“This isn’t the first time that Cadillac has been here. From the speed he was travelling the driver wasn’t looking for any place. He knew exactly where he was going. The way he turned in the drive was proof of that.”

“Pity we didn’t get the number of the car. We could have checked up on him.”

“Not to worry,” returned Biggles. “We can still do that.”

Ginger stared. “You’re not thinking of going up the drive?”

“Not on your life. I’m not going near that house — yet. We’ll get the number of the car when it comes out.”

“We don’t know which way it’ll turn. It may go either way.”

“Use your head. There are two of us. We’ll cover both ways. You get out and let me take over. Sit well back out of sight and get the number as it goes past — that’s if it goes this way. I’ll take the car back some distance and watch that direction. I’ll pretend to be studying the map as if I’d lost my way.”

“The Cadillac may be here a long time.”

“We’re in no hurry.”

“Okay.” Ginger got out. 

Biggles took the driving seat, closed the door, reversed, and cruised back in the direction from which they had come. “I’ll pick you up as soon as we’ve got what we want,” were his last words.

A quarter of a mile took him as far as he needed to go. There he turned again so that he was facing the drive, which meant that the Cadillac could not leave without coming under the scrutiny of himself or Ginger. He could not actually see Ginger but he knew approximately where he had stationed himself. With a map open on his knees, purely for the sake of appearances in case it might be thought he was watching, he settled down to wait.

 Some minutes passed. Then the drone of a light plane turned his eyes to the sky and he saw an Auster coming over at something under a thousand feet. He assumed it was Bertie, and the registration letters on the undersides of the wings presently confirmed it. He watched the machine fly straight on for some distance, make a wide turn and fly back on a slightly different course. As it passed a little to one side of him, and he saw the wings rock a little, he smiled faintly, for this as good as told him Bertie had spotted his car. The machine went on, to disappear in the direction from which it had come, and this was the last he saw of it. He supposed Bertie had got what he wanted and was now on his way home.

More time passed, enough for him to smoke two cigarettes, before anything else happened. Then the Cadillac swung out of the drive on to the road and, accelerating, quickly came towards him. He dropped his chin as if studying the map on his knees but his eyes were on the car. There was no time to see much as it raced past but he saw as much as he wanted to know and he jotted down the car’s registration on the pad he had ready. As it drew near he also noted an unusual device, a small piece of statuary, apparently silver and presumably a sort of mascot, on the radiator cap. It interested him enormously, for it was a charging bull. He thought it significant though he made allowances for it being a coincidence.

The driver was still alone. Biggles had another look at him but learned nothing new. The man’s eyes were fixed on the road ahead and he appeared not even to glance at the stationary Jaguar.

Biggles gave him a minute or two to get well clear and then went slowly down the road to pick up Ginger. He looked up the drive in passing it but saw no one. Ginger emerged from the hedge, brushing his clothes, which were in some disorder.

“What have you been doing?” asked Biggles curiously.

“I climbed a little way up that tree to have a look round,” explained Ginger, indicating a small ash rising from the hedge.

“See anything?”

“Nothing.”

“No cattle?”

“Not one. Did you get his number?”

“Of course.”

“What now?”

“We might as well go home. There’s nothing more we can do here for the moment. We’ll see what Bertie has to report.”

Of the run back to the office nothing need be said. Any conversation was confined to the curious business on which they were engaged. In reply to a question from Ginger Biggles said he still had an open mind about the whole thing; nothing they had learned as a result of their trip into the country had altered that. He agreed that the arrival of a Cadillac, driven apparently by a visitor to England, at a place like Lockley Manor, might seem surprising; but was it? It did not prove anything. Foreign breeders were often here for the purpose of buying good stock of one sort or another. This had been going on for years and the majority of overseas herds had been built up in that way, notably of course in countries where the production of meat and dairy produce were important industries.

“Was that Cadillac carrying a C.D.1 plate?” asked Ginger.

“I didn’t see one. I’d have noticed it had it been there. If that car belongs to a foreign embassy in London we shall have to watch our step. We may know more about that when the registration has been checked. As things are there doesn’t seem much more we can do, short of having a closer look at Walter Thellin’s premises, and we’d have to think twice about that.” 

They walked into the office to find Bertie waiting for them. He had not wasted his time, for on Biggles’s desk lay half-a-dozen prints, still damp, of the photos he had taken from the air.

“Anything startling?” inquired Biggles.

“Depends on what you call startling, old boy,” replied Bertie. “There are one or two little things you may find interesting.”

“We didn’t see any cattle.”

“You wouldn’t be able to from where you were. I spotted my old jag. on the road. I also noticed a big grey job go to the house. Did you see it?”

“Couldn’t help seeing it. It had to pass us. It was a Cadillac.”

“Was it, by Jove! What was a Cadillac doing there?”

“I haven’t a clue. What else did you see?”

“A nice herd of Friesians — or Dutch cattle of some sort. They’re all very much alike. I think they were cows.”

“H’m. That’s queer.”

“Why?”

“Well, it tends to deflate any suspicions I may have had. The first bull stolen was a British Friesian belonging to Oswald Thellin, of Suffolk, brother of the man in Somerset. Walter would hardly be likely to pinch his brother’s best bull. Where were these animals you saw?”

Bertie put a finger on a vertical photograph. “Here they are. And you’ll notice where they are. A grass field of, for a rough guess, sixty acres, without an obstruction, and as flat as a pilot who wanted to get down in a hurry could hope for.”

“I’d call the cattle an obstruction.”

“If they were there. They might not be. You’ll notice there’s a gate leading into another pasture and it’s open. The cattle can wander at will from one field to the next; or, of course, they could be driven into the smaller field if they happened to be in the way.”

Biggles nodded. “I take your point. You haven’t missed much. You’re sure this big field is grass?”

“Yes.”

“It might be roots, or young corn.”

“On the way home I went low to make sure. Anyhow, at this time of the year the cattle would be out to grass. I’ll tell you something else. There may be a reason for those cows being in the field. They’d keep the grass short. If it was allowed to grow it would be tall enough for hay, which wouldn’t make a landing on it any too safe.”

“True enough,” agreed Biggles. “You’ve got it all worked out better than I could do it.”

“I’ve had time to do some thinking, old boy. Get the old grey matter functioning — if you see what I mean.”

Biggles was still scrutinizing the photo through a magnifying glass. “What’s this thing on the drive?”

“I don’t know. It’s a live animal of some sort. I first saw it moving about in front of the house. It looked too big for a dog so I decided it must be a stray calf.”

“Funny place for a calf to lie.”

“I can’t see how it could be anything else. It isn’t a sheep, or a pig.”

“Maybe it isn’t important. Have you seen Gaskin?”

“No. He hasn’t been here since I came in.”

Ginger chipped in. “Then it looks as if no more bulls have gone for a walk.”

“It may mean no more are going. Perhaps the rustlers have got all they want. Which reminds me. I have a little job for Gaskin. Give him a buzz, and ask him if he can come up for a minute.”

Presently the detective came in. “Found those damn bulls yet?” he asked wearily.

“Not yet,” answered Biggles.

“You won’t find ‘em sitting here.”

“I realized that and went for a drive into the country.”

“Find anything of interest?”

“Yes. A beautiful grey Cadillac. I want you to find out where it came from, who imported it and who owns it now. Here’s the number.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult.” Gaskin looked hard at Biggles’s face. “Why do you want to know?”

Biggles smiled gently. “Call it curiosity.”

“Is that all you’re going to tell me?”

“I’ll tell you as much as I know, which isn’t much, when you bring me details of that car.”

“Mark my words; while we’re fiddling about with motor cars those blasted bulls will take wing. Then what are you going to do?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean — nothing?”

“Exactly what I say. I couldn’t do a thing about it.” Biggles sat back. “It seems to me, Chief, that you still have only a vague notion of what I can do in an aircraft — or, say, what I dare do. Let’s get this clear. If those bulls leave the ground for a trip abroad we can say goodbye to ‘em. I couldn’t stop ‘em. If I caused a plane to crash, even if I could, and someone was killed, there’d be the devil of a stink. In any case, as the bulls would die in the crash there wouldn’t be much point in forcing the plane down. The war ended long ago and I don’t carry machine guns any more.”

“Okay, okay,” replied Gaskin impatiently. “So we’ve got to find these bulls before they’re whisked off abroad.”

“If we ever want to see them that’s the English of it.”

“How soon do you want particulars of this Cadillac?”

“As soon as you can let me have them.”

“Say about an hour?”

“All right. I’ll wait here.” Gaskin went off.

“We’d better find these wretched bulls or poor old Gaskin will soon be tottering round the bend,” declared Bertie.

They waited. In due course Gaskin returned. “I don’t know what you think you’re after with this Cadillac but whatever it is you’re wrong,” he stated, bluntly.

“Oh. And why are you so sure about that?”

“It belongs to Don Jose Cordino.”

“Who’s he?”

“Stiffen the crows! Why don’t you read the papers and keep in touch with things? He’s one of the richest men in South America, a millionaire several times over. He could buy anything in the world he wanted.”

“Provided it was for sale.”

“Enough money will buy anything.”

“I’d take you up on that but I haven’t time. How does he make all this money?”

“He’s a cattle baron. Probably the biggest in the world. Owns hundreds of square miles of country. Comes over here nearly every year to look over our best stock. Usually stays about six weeks. The newspapers think he’s worth a news item.”

“Very interesting. Where does he stay when he’s here?”

“In London, of course, where else.”

“At what hotel?”

“How the heck would I know? One of the luxury jobs, I imagine.”

“How long has he been here on this occasion?”

“Must be about a month since I noticed in the papers he’d arrived.”

“Has he bought any cattle since he came here?”

“How would I know? He hasn’t told me.” Gaskin was frankly sarcastic. “Why not ask him?”

“That’s an idea,” returned Biggles imperturbably. “Can you tell me this? What he buys here he sends home to his own country?”

“I imagine so. It wouldn’t be much use to him here.”

“For that, I take it, he’d need an export licence?”

“I know nothing about that. It’s right off my beat.”

“You might find out. I’m busy, and you have facilities for that sort of thing.”

Gaskin was looking anything but happy. “I’ll do what I can. I don’t know what you’re getting at but I hope you’re not wasting my time,” he grumbled.

“I hope I’m not wasting my own,” returned Biggles smoothly. “Okay, Chief; thanks a lot.” 

The detective nodded and departed.

“What are you thinking of, exactly?” asked Ginger, when Gaskin’s footsteps had died away in the corridor. Biggles reached for a cigarette. “Simply this. Experience has taught me that when a millionaire wants something he can’t have he wants it all the more. His vanity is at stake, and from what little I saw of Don Cordino I’d say he has plenty of that. Hence the Cadillac. He likes people to know he has oodles of boodle. Such men find it hard to take no for an answer.”

“And you’re thinking Don Jose might have been the man who wanted to buy Lord Dubray’s prize bull and was told he couldn’t have it,” suggested Bertie, polishing his eyeglass.

“That thought did cross my mind,” admitted Biggles, smiling faintly.

“So what do we do next?” inquired Ginger.

“That needs some serious thought,” answered Biggles, getting up from his desk. “I see two or three lines of country that might be worth exploring. We’ll talk about it later.”

1 Diplomatic Corps.

CHAPTER VIII

BIGGLES MAKES PLANS, AND A TRIP

“I CAN’T help feeling that this fellow Cordino, somehow, somewhere, comes into the picture of these vanishing bulls.” Biggles was speaking. This was later the same day, at home, after the evening meal. “I’m not saying he’s the thief,” he went on. “But I’m pretty sure he’s involved in some way, with or without being aware of it; by which I mean, he may be offered these bulls not knowing they had been stolen.”

“As a cattle breeder in a big way he’d certainly be interested in high-class stock,” said Bertie.

“Don’t forget he may have been the man behind Walter Thellin when he went to Norfolk to try to buy Lord Dubray’s champion bull. When the offer was turned down he may have tried another way to get it,” contributed Ginger.

“What I’d like to know is this,” resumed Biggles. “Has he bought any stock on this occasion since he arrived, and if so, what? From whom did he buy it and where is it now? Secondly, how does he send back to his own country the animals he buys here? This isn’t the first visit and it’s reasonable to suppose he always uses the same methods. The difficulty is, we shall have to be extra careful about asking questions. If one word of what we’re doing gets back to Cordino, or either of the Thellin brothers, should they know more about the missing bulls than they pretend they’ll take fright and do everything possible to make things even more difficult for us.”

“If we can’t ask questions how are we to get this information you want?” queried Ginger.

“I can see one or two possible lines of approach,” answered Biggles, his forehead knitted in concentration. “Lord Dubray may be able to help us. We can trust him to keep quiet. For instance, if he has ever sold livestock to Cordino, either direct or through Walter Thellin, he should know who collected it, how it was collected, when, and where it went. It would be reasonable to suppose that any animals Cordino buys when he is in this country are mustered at some convenient depot while they’re awaiting shipment.”

“You think all the stolen bulls may be together somewhere?” put in Bertie.

“It seems probable, to me, anyway. Bear in mind that Lord Dubray’s bull was not for sale at any price. That, I’d say, is why it was stolen. Someone was determined to have it even if it meant stooping to crime. And don’t forget his lordship has already told us that when Walter Thellin went to see him hoping to buy his best bull he admitted he was acting on behalf of someone else.”

“And that someone could have been Cordino.”

“Why not? He’s here to buy cattle, and he’s only interested in the best. I imagine Thellin was hoping to make a profit on the resale of The Pride of Dubray. I think tomorrow I’ll run up again to Norfolk and have another word or two with his lordship.”

“Do you want me with you?” asked Bertie.

“I don’t think that’s necessary,” decided Biggles. “I have another job in mind for you. You might learn something by making a few discreet inquiries in the area where Walter Thellin lives in Somerset. Somebody may have noticed something. Find out what you can about him. No doubt the market town will be Lydhurst. He should be known there. It would be the obvious place for him to buy his cattle feeding stuffs. The corn merchant, for instance. But for goodness’ sake be careful. Don’t let it be thought the police are asking questions.”

Bertie nodded. “I get it. You mean I’m to go by road?”

“Of course. You’ll have to have some means of getting about the district.”

Ginger stepped in. “I can’t see why anyone there should know what Cordino has bought since he arrived in this country. How are you going to find that out?”

Biggles stubbed his cigarette. “I can see only one way. It may be risky, but perhaps not as risky as it might appear. Anyway, I can’t see any alternative.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Seeing the man himself.”

Ginger’s eyes opened wide. “Cordino!”

“Yes. That could be a job for you in the morning.”

“You mean — I’m to go to see him?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“We don’t even know where he’s staying.”

Biggles smiled faintly. “It’s up to you to find out. After all, that should present no difficulty to a detective. Try the leading London hotels. There aren’t so many in the luxury class. Being what he is, a millionaire, you’ll find him at one of them.”

“And having located him what do I say?”

“If I was asked to do the job I’d pretend to be a reporter, a feature writer on agricultural subjects. What could be more natural than that your paper should want to do an article about him while he’s available for a personal interview? Get him going and then leave him to do the talking. The main thing is, has his trip been successful? What has he bought this time... and so on.”

“Will he see me?” Ginger seemed doubtful.

“I’d say yes. Most people, no matter who they are, like newspaper publicity, if it’s the right sort. I think you’ll find Cordino is no exception. At least, so I judge from the way he flashes about in a swanky-looking Cadillac. It should flatter his vanity to think that the British press is interested in him and what he’s doing. Anyhow, try it.”

“What do you think would be the best time?”

“Probably about ten o’clock. He should have finished his breakfast but not yet gone out.”

“I’ll try it.”

Biggles turned to Bertie. “You can choose your own time. All you have to do is waffle along to Walter Thellin’s place and keep your eyes open without making it obvious what you’re doing.”

“Will it be all right if I take my jag?”

“It might be better to take one of the plain service cars. The jag. is a bit conspicuous and it’s already been seen near Lockley Manor.”

“Fair enough.”

“Well, that seems to be about all,” concluded Biggles. “I’ll put a call through to Lord Dubray to make sure he’s at home, then I’m turning in. It would be stupid to go to Norfolk only to find he’s away. As far as I’m concerned the sooner we get this business buttoned up the better. I can think of more exciting things to do than chase up and down the country looking for a bunch of bulls. It isn’t really our line of work. Anyone else but our old friend Gaskin I’d leave to get on with it. However tomorrow may produce something. Now I’m going to roost.”

And so it came about that with everyone knowing what he had to do, the next morning, early, saw the new plans being put into operation. Ginger, for his part, appeared in a well-worn town suit, and with pen and pencil conspicuous and a notebook in his pocket looked what he intended to be for the day, a newspaper reporter. Bertie, with a brief “So long, see you later,” departed for the car park, having a fairly long journey to make. He admitted he was not optimistic about the outcome, but as Biggles remarked, if they didn’t try something they would achieve nothing. It was no use sitting at home waiting for the bulls to come to them.

He himself, having ascertained on the telephone that Lord Dubray was at home, went off to the Air Police hangar where, as he had ordered, he found the helicopter waiting for him. Flying solo he took off and took a direct course for his objective, Framling Towers, Norfolk. The time was nine o’clock and the weather fine and apparently settled.

He smiled when, on arrival over the park that graced the mansion house, he saw the unmistakable figure of Lord Dubray waiting on the grassy area where he had made his previous landing. Obviously he did not believe in wasting time. The aircraft settled close beside him. Biggles switched off and stepped down to be greeted by a cheerful: “Well, have you found my bull yet?”

Biggles shook his head sadly. “I wish I could say yes; but I haven’t given up hope.”

“Well, that’s something. Never give up hope. You know the old saying. While there’s life there’s hope. You say you have some more questions to ask.”

“That’s right, sir. I think you may be able to help me.”

“Good. I’ll do what I can you may be sure. Just give me a chance to lay my hands on the infernal scoundrel who took my bull and I’ll show you I’m not as old as I look. But we needn’t stand here. Come up to the seat in the garden. I’ve got coffee laid on. Thought you might do with a refresher after clattering about the sky in that hellish contraption of yours.”

“That’s very kind of you, sir,” acknowledged Biggles.

“When I was a boy policemen walked.”

“So did criminals,” reminded Biggles dryly.

“What do they do now?”

“Some of them fly. We have to fly to keep up with them.”

“God save us! What’s the world coming to. This way.”

Lord Dubray marched briskly to a bench and rustic table on the lawn shaded by the spreading arms of an ancient cedar. As they sat down a maid appeared from the house carrying a tray. This she set down on the table and retired, his lordship murmuring. “Thank you, Florence.” Then, turning to Biggles he went on. “Please help yourself. What is it you want to know that you think I may be able to tell you?”

Biggles came straight to the point. “Have you ever met a man named Cordino?”

“Jose Cordino — the big South American landowner and stock-breeder?”

“That’s the man.”

“Got a place in the Argentine — or is it Uruguay? I forget. I believe he’s over here now, or so I read in The Farmer and Stock-breeder. Yes, I’ve met him.”

“Where?”

“Here.”

Biggles’s eyebrows went up. He had not expected this. “What was he doing here?”

“I’d seen him several times at various agricultural shows, sometimes bidding for cattle at auctions. He first spoke to me, I remember, at the Norfolk and Norwich Show. He said he’d very much like to see my herd. Naturally, I told him he would be welcome. A few days later he rolled up in a whacking great motor car that made my old Ford look as if I’d found it in a scrap yard. The fellow must have plenty of money.”

“He’s reputed to be a millionaire.”

“Must be, the way he goes on.”

“So you showed him round?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t say he’s my type but when it comes to cattle he knows what he’s talking about.”

“How long ago was this?”

“About six months.”

“Has he been to see you on his present visit?”

“No. When he was here he asked me if I’d care to go and look round his place in South America but I said it was a bit too far to go for a man of my age.”

“When you showed him round did he say anything about The Pride of Dubray?”

“No. He just admired him in passing.”

“He didn’t try to buy him?”

“No.”

“Didn’t that strike you as odd?”

“I can’t say that it did. It’s no secret that I wouldn’t sell him at any price. Matter of fact he seemed more interested in the well-bred heifers I had about that time. He asked if I was selling any of them and to make a long story short I sold him a pair. He paid a good price for ‘em, too. Didn’t quibble.”

“I assume he bought them to ship to his own country?”

“Of course.”

“How did they go? I mean, did he come here to fetch them?”

“No. Part of the bargain was I should deliver them when he was ready. I have a truck so there was no difficulty about that.”

“Where did you send them?”

“To Liverpool. The docks. He gave me a date and the name of the ship they were to travel on. They had to be dead on time as it was due to sail the next day.”

“Can you remember the name of the ship?”

“‘Fraid I can’t. It was some time ago. My driver might remember. He took them to Liverpool and handed them over.”

“You might ask him.”

Lord Dubray looked hard at Biggles’s face. He frowned. “What’s all this about? Surely you’re not suggesting that Cordino might know something about my missing bull?”

“At the moment I’m interested in anyone who is interested in pedigree bulls,” returned Biggles, evasively. “Also in cattle boats, or anything else that might be used to carry a bull. I suppose you wouldn’t remember the port that was to be the final destination of your heifers?”

“No. My man might know. Naturally, he had an interest. We’ll soon find out.” Lord Dubray picked up a brass bell that stood on the tray and rang it loudly. 

The maid who had brought out the tray appeared, hurrying. Lord Dubray called to her. “Will you please send someone to find Steggles and ask him to come here?”

“He’s in the kitchen now, sir, having his elevenses,” answered the girl. “I’ll send him.”

“Thank you, Florence.”

A minute later Steggles arrived, a youngish man in blue overalls. “You wanted to see me, sir.”

“Yes. Do you remember, about six months ago, taking two heifers to Liverpool for shipment abroad?”

“Yes, sir. I remember only too well. I had trouble on the way and thought I was going to miss the boat. I was a bit late, but when I met the man who was to take them over he said it’d be all right.”

“Can you recall the name of the ship?”

“I remember because she looked a bit of an old tub to be carrying valuable cattle. Her name was Juanita — or something like that.”

“Where was she bound for?”

Steggles scratched his head. “Let me see now... it was Monte something or other. Place I’d never heard of.”

“Montevideo,” suggested Biggles.

“That’s it, sir,” said Steggles quickly. “You’ve got it.”

Lord Dubray looked at Biggles. “Anything else you want to ask him?”

“I don’t think so, thanks. It would be too much to expect him to know what flag she was flying.”

“Montevideo is in Uruguay.”

“I know, but that doesn’t mean she’s registered there. Never mind. I can find out when I get back to the office. He’s told me what I really wanted to know.”

Steggles went off.

“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” said Lord Dubray, dubiously, to Biggles. “Do you think The Pride might have gone to South America?”

“If he has you can say goodbye to him,” answered Biggles. “He isn’t likely to stay in this country, so if he hasn’t already left he’ll go eventually. That will mean transport of some sort so I’m exploring all the possibilities. Well, I think that’s all, sir. I’ll be on my way.” Biggles got up.

“Wait a minute, I’ve just remembered something else about Cordino since you seem interested in him. I told you there was a piece about him in the last issue of The Farmer and Stock-breeder. It has probably been thrown away by now, but speaking from memory it said he was leaving for home shortly, after a successful trip. While he was here he had bought four bulls and some cows.”

“The item didn’t say what sort of cows they were?”

“No. But I happen to know two of them were Herefords because they were bought from a man I know well.”

“Very interesting,” said Biggles thoughtfully. “Well, I’ll be getting along. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”

“Don’t mention it. I’ll give you all the time you want if it’ll help to get back my bull.”

“I’ll do my best to find it,” promised Biggles.

With that they parted. Biggles climbed into his aircraft and headed for home.

CHAPTER IX

CONFERENCE AT THE YARD

BIGGLES arrived back at the office to find Ginger already there. “How did you get on?” he inquired, as he sank into his chair and reached for a cigarette.

Ginger grinned. “It was a slice of cake,” he declared. “No trouble at all. How right you were. I found him at the Grand Metropolitan Hotel. He has a suite there. He gave me an interview without a moment’s hesitation. He certainly could talk. He didn’t need any prompting when it came to talking about himself. In fact, I don’t think we spoke of anything else. He’s a big noise in South America and makes sure everyone here knows it.”

“He isn’t the only man in the world who acts that way,” put in Biggles. “Carry on.”

“Don’t get me wrong. There was nothing unpleasant about him. I found him affable and hospitable, which made me feel a bit of a cad since I was only there to spy on him.”

“People usually are agreeable to newspaper men whether they like them or not,” cut in Biggles, shortly. “Never mind how you felt. If he’s an honest man you’ve done him no harm. If he’s dishonest you were justified in leading him up the garden path.”

“Don’t be so cynical,” protested Ginger. “He struck me as being a decent sort of chap.”

“A lot of men are like that while things go right for them or until they’re found out. What did he tell you?”

“He was full of praise for England. Had a most enjoyable trip, sorry to go, and all that.”

“Never mind how he felt about England. Come to the point.”

“There’s one slant that will interest you. When Bertie said that big stock-breeders specialized either in beef or dairy cattle, but rarely both, he was off the mark. Cordino goes in for both types. He claims he has the finest herds in the world, beef and milk producing. He not only has property in Uruguay, where he turns out vast quantities of beef for export to Europe; he has two herds of dairy cattle in Paraguay. For beef it’s Herefords. For milk it’s—”

“British Friesians?”

“How did you guess?”

“The first bull stolen was a Friesian.”

“He also has a herd of Jersey cows for some special milk contract.”

“Good. You’ve done well. Did he mention when he was leaving?”

“He’s flying home on Saturday.”

“To Montevideo?”

Ginger stared. “How did you know that?”

“I’ve been busy as well as you. What about the stuff he’s bought over here? Did you find out when it was leaving England, and how it was going?”

“He didn’t say how it was going, and I didn’t ask. It might have looked a bit pointed. But it leaves on the same day as he goes, or the day after; he wasn’t quite sure which.”

Biggles glanced at the calendar on the wall. “That gives us five days.”

“For what?”

“To have a look at exactly what he’s bought.”

Ginger shook his head. “I can’t believe you’ll find any of the missing animals among them. He said he’d got what he came for. He’s bought four bulls; nothing of great importance but enough for his needs for the time being. He seemed well satisfied.”

“Anything else?”

“No. I think that’s about all. He talked mostly of his farms, breeding establishments and so on.”

At this juncture the door opened and Gaskin walked in. “I heard you were back,” he said. “What about these bulls?”

“If I’m on the right track another one will be missing before the end of the week.”

Gaskin frowned. “What makes you think that?”

“Call it a hunch. I’ll tell you something else. If we don’t find these animals before Saturday I have a feeling we can say goodbye to ‘em. I was just going to ring you when you walked in. There’s something you can do for me to save time. I’m likely to be busy.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to find out if there is a ship lying at Liverpool named Juanita; or if she’s not there if she is expected, and when. Lloyds will know. While you’re at it you might as well ascertain where she’s registered. You may find she flies a Flag of Convenience.”1

“That shouldn’t take long.” Gaskin considered Biggles with brooding eyes. “Perhaps you wouldn’t mind telling me what all this is about?”

“I think you’re better out of it for the moment.”

“Why? You can trust me. You know that.” Gaskin sounded hurt.

“It isn’t a matter of trust, Chief. I don’t want you to be hurt. In a year or two you’ll be retiring on pension. It would be stupid at this stage to be involved in a scandal.”

Still Gaskin hesitated. “At least tell me this. You’ve got a suspect lined up in this stolen bull business?”

“You can put it like that. I may be quite wrong. It may be that the man I have in mind knows nothing whatever about it: or again, he may be involved, but only as an innocent party in a clever swindle. I don’t know. That’s what I’ve got to find out, and it isn’t going to be easy if I have to keep my methods strictly within the letter of the law. I’m prepared to take risks, but there’s no reason why you should — not yet, anyhow. I shall need you if it comes to a showdown. As I said earlier, this racket couldn’t be handled by one man.”

Still Gaskin lingered. “Can’t you give me an inkling? What makes you think another bull is due for the disappearing act?”

“When the stolen bulls leave this country I have reason to think there will be four. Up to now only three have vanished. If I’m right that means there’s still one more to come.”

“Can’t we prevent it? Where’s it likely to come from?”

Biggles shrugged helplessly. “Not a hope. The next might be one of a thousand. We can’t watch a thousand establishments.”

“You’re dead right, there,” stated Gaskin grimly.

“I should know what I want to know, one way or the other, within the next two or three days. As soon as that happens I’ll let you know and put all the cards on the table for you to see,” promised Biggles. “It will then be up to you. If you like you can then take the whole thing out of my hands. I’m pretty sure now flying doesn’t come into it, apart from the fact that I’ve used aircraft for getting about and for reconnaissance. Be careful how you make inquiries about this ship, Juanita. One slip on our part at this stage and the whole thing could blow up in our faces.”

“I’ll attend to it myself,” declared Gaskin. “Shouldn’t take long. Are you going to stay here?”

“Yes. I’m waiting for Bertie to come in. He may have news.”

“Good. I’ll be back.” Gaskin went out.

“It’s time Bertie was back, too,” remarked Ginger.

“I told him there was no need to rush things. We’ll give him a bit longer before we need start wondering what’s holding him up.”

“Why didn’t you take Gaskin into your confidence?”

“You heard what I said. We’ve done just about everything possible by normal routine investigation. It brings us up against a brick wall. We’ve got to see over that wall, and from the moment we try we shall be playing a dangerous game. If we’re caught at it, and it turns out that I’ve been on the wrong track all along, there’ll be a nice old carry-on. We shall be called a pack of blundering fools. That won’t cause me to lose any sleep, but I’d be sorry to see Gaskin blot his copybook shortly before he’s due to retire. You know how it is. When the police are right they don’t get much in the way of praise. When they’re wrong they get a slap in the face with a wet fish.”

Ginger nodded soberly. “Can I take it that the present situation arises from what Lord Dubray told you this morning?”

“More or less. What he told me went some way towards confirming a suspicion that was in my mind.”

“Isn’t it time you told me about it?”

“I was just going to do that when Gaskin walked in. We had a long chat and this is what I gathered.” Biggles went on to narrate the conversation he had had with Lord Dubray.

“So you suspect the man behind this rustling racket is Cordino,” said Ginger when he had finished.

“No, I wouldn’t go as far as that, although it might well be,” answered Biggles. “That’s the devil of it. Certainly he’s the man who wants the bulls, but the big question is, does he know how he’s getting them? In a word, does he know they’ve been stolen? He may be under the impression that they were bought legitimately by an agent working for him.”

“Walter Thellin, for instance.”

“Exactly. Our problem now is to find out, and it isn’t going to be easy. If we blew one breath, one hint, of suspicion that Cordino was crooked, and it turned out he was innocent, we’d get a proper rocket. We can’t even be sure that Walter Thellin is the man who’s rustling the bulls.”

“You’re not forgetting that his brother Oswald has lost a bull?”

“No, I’m not forgetting that. I’d like to know what terms they were on. Again, it could be a deliberate trick to take any suspicion from Walter. In a tangle like this one has to take every possibility into account, likely or unlikely. Of course, the man behind this racket may be someone we haven’t even considered.”

“What’s your opinion of the position now?”

“I’m certain those bulls are still in this country. I believe they’re at Walter Thellin’s place in Somerset, waiting to go to Liverpool, en route for South America, when the time comes for them to go.”

“By ship.”

“Yes. The Juanita.”

“But surely they’d be recognized?”

“So we are told. You make a point there, one that puzzles me. Would they dare to risk it?”

The door opened and Gaskin came in. “I’ve got that information you asked for,” he announced. “I think I begin to see the drift,” he added.

“Keep talking,” requested Biggles.

Gaskin refreshed his memory from a piece of paper taken from his pocket. “The Juanita is primarily a cattle boat although she takes other freight as well. She’s due to dock tomorrow. But I think this is what you’ll be most interested to hear. Who do you think she belongs to?”

“Let’s not waste time at guessing games. Who?”

“A company headed by Señor Jose Cordino.”

If Biggles felt any surprise he did not show it. “Very interesting,” he murmured.

“Isn’t that what you expected?”

“Frankly, no, although I find it reasonable enough. After all, Cordino is in the import and export business in a big way.”

“The Juanita brings over frozen meat and corned beef; his own products, I imagine, although I haven’t had time yet to check that.”

“Where is she registered?”

“Panama.”

“So she flies a Flag of Convenience. Why should a man in the financial position of Cordino bother with that?”

“He’s not the only rich man who takes advantage of it,” reminded Gaskin. “But tell me. Does this line up with what you suspect?”

“To a certain extent, I suppose. But it makes no real difference. If Cordino wanted to ship cattle he could do it anyway. He may find it convenient to operate under the Panamanian flag. In fact, quite obviously he does, or he wouldn’t do it. Don’t ask me why. Some technical reason, probably. I’m not sufficiently well up in shipping rules and regulations to go into that.”

“Well, I’ve done all I can for you; now, how about letting me in on what you know?” pleaded the detective.

“Actually, I know very little,” replied Biggles. “What I suspect is another matter. I still have some obstacles to climb to get confirmation. Bertie may be able to tell us a little more when he comes in. He should be back any time now.” 

When Gaskin looked disappointed he went on. “All right. Have it your own way, but your blood’s on your own head. I’ll give you the broad outline and you can draw your own conclusions. Cordino, this millionaire type, came here to buy cattle. We know that for a fact. He’s only interested in the best. He didn’t cross the Atlantic for second-class stuff. He says he has had a successful trip, which can only mean he’s got what he came for. We also know for a fact that some of the best bulls in the country have disappeared. Still sticking to facts I can tell you that an agent acting for an unnamed individual contacted Lord Dubray with a view to buying his best bull — probably the best Hereford in the country.”

“How do you know that?”

“Lord Dubray himself told me.”

“So you’ve seen him?”

“What do you think I’ve been doing the past few days? That agent might have been acting on behalf of Cordino. Lord Dubray refused to sell. The next thing that happens is the bull disappears. Having been stolen it would have to be taken to a quiet spot where it could be kept out of sight until the time came for it to be shipped abroad. Cordino is in personal touch with a farmer in the west country named Walter Thellin — not the Thellin in Suffolk who claims to have lost a bull, but his brother. Walter Thellin was the agent who tried to buy Lord Dubray’s bull. What’s the connexion?”

“Are you sure about all this?”

“We’ve seen Cordino at Walter Thellin’s place in Somerset so there must be something between them.”

“Where does this ship, the Juanita, come in? How did you get a line on that?”

“Six months ago Cordino was at Lord Dubray’s place in Norfolk. He bought some cattle. On that occasion his lordship had to deliver the animals he had sold. They were sent to Liverpool where they were put aboard a ship named Juanita. You now tell me she belongs to Cordino. She is now due at Liverpool. It’s quite certain that sooner or later the stolen bulls will be shipped abroad. They may go in the Juanita.”

Gaskin nodded. “It begins to add up.”

“I’ll tell you something else,” Biggles went on. “Since he came here Cordino has allegedly bought four bulls.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“He told Ginger so.”

“Told... do you mean Ginger has actually spoken with Cordino?”

Biggles smiled. “They had quite a long chat. But never mind about that. The point is, three bulls have been stolen — so far. As I see it, therefore, there is still one to come. I’m not going to waste my time trying to guess which one it is to be. We should know that in the near future. That would make up the four. To put it in a nutshell, unless I’m barking up the wrong tree, when the Juanita sails there will be four missing bulls on board. Cordino will also be on his way home, having got what he came for.”

“You’re making him out a thief.”

“I didn’t say that. He may think he has bought the bulls legitimately. It may be that Walter Thellin has pulled a fast one on him. They may be working together in this. It’s unlikely that Cordino himself, personally, pinched the bulls. He wouldn’t take the risk. Moreover, he’d need a cattle truck with a driver and I can’t imagine he brought them with him.”

“Has Walter Thellin got a cattle-truck?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to find out. Probably. As a stock-breeder he’d need one to take his stuff to market.”

Gaskin sucked for a few seconds on an empty pipe. “It boils down to this. You reckon the missing bulls are at this man Thellin’s place in Somerset?”

“Yes.”

“How are you going to find out if they are?”

“Possibly by having a look round his premises one dark night. Now you know why I wanted to leave you out of this. If there’s trouble I don’t mind taking the rap, but there’s no reason why you should stick your neck out.”

“I might be able to get a search warrant and do the job officially.”

“You’d still be sticking your neck out. If we were wrong the balloon would go up. There might even be questions asked in the House of Commons about police behaviour.”

Gaskin grimaced. “Yes, I can see that. Everyone is always ready to jump on the police. What I still can’t see is this. How can those bulls be loaded up and taken out of the country without being recognized?”

“That’s something I can’t see, either,” confessed Biggles. “It’s a detail we shall have to try to work out.”

At this moment the telephone at his elbow rang. He picked up the receiver. “It’s Bertie,” he said in a quick aside to the others. Then, to the instrument. “Yes, Biggles here. Go ahead.”

He made one or two short remarks during the conversation that followed but spent most of the call listening. He said: “Would you like me to run down? All right... just as you like. But be careful what you get up to.” He hung up.

“Bertie is still at Lydhurst,” he informed. “He rang because he’s not likely to be back for some time. He seems to think he’s on a hot trail but thought it wise not to say too much over the telephone for fear someone, the operator for instance, might be listening. As you heard, I asked him if he wanted any help but he said he thought he could manage.”

“So he didn’t give you a line on what he was doing?” said Ginger.

“Nothing that really mattered. He merely said he had spotted something interesting and was keeping an eye on it. He’ll get back as soon as he can. I don’t think he can get into much trouble in Somerset.” Biggles got up. “Well, that seems to be all we can do for now.”

Much later, at the flat, when Biggles announced he was going to bed, Bertie had not returned and there had been no further message from him.

1 Flag of Convenience. Certain countries, mostly small, have not signed the international maritime code agreement. This brings them a fair amount of business in that ships registered with them are entitled to fly the flag of the country concerned (a privilege for which they have to pay) and are not governed by the same regulations as other nations. This, known as a Flag of Convenience, is used by a few shipping companies for reasons of their own.

CHAPTER X

SHATTERING NEWS

THE next morning, when Ginger joined Biggles for breakfast, he greeted him with: “So Bertie’s still not back.”

Biggles stirred his coffee. “Not yet.”

“No message?”

“Not a word.”

Ginger sat down. “It doesn’t sound too good to me.”

Biggles did not answer.

“What are you going to do about it?” asked Ginger.

“Frankly, I don’t know. I’ve been sitting here thinking about it. It’s hard to see what we can do, if in fact we need do anything. It’s too early to get in a panic. Bertie said he might be late home but I must admit I didn’t expect him to be away all this time. From the casual way he spoke I have a feeling he didn’t expect it, either.”

“Something must have gone wrong or we’d have heard from him before this.”

“On the contrary, had his plan come unstuck he would have returned home, or at least got in touch on the phone to let us know what had happened.”

“You don’t seem very worried about him.”

“I can’t imagine anything serious happening to him in a quiet place like Lydhurst. I don’t think we need get in a flap about it. He’ll be along. Get a move on and finish your breakfast. It’s after nine. This may be Bertie now,” he went on quickly as the phone rang. He picked up the instrument, listened for a minute and put it down. “That was Gaskin,” he said.

“What’s he on about?”

“He wants us to get to the Yard as soon as we can. By the sound of his voice something’s happened, but he didn’t say what. He said he’d tell us when we get there. It would take too long on the phone.”

“Okay. I’m ready.”

“Let’s go.”

They arrived at the office to find the detective there, waiting impatiently. “Come on — come on,” he growled. “Why don’t you get up in the morning?”

“How you do carry on,” protested Biggles, on the way to his desk. “I have to sleep sometimes. What’s got you all steamed up so early, anyway?”

“You were right about a fourth bull doing the disappearing act. Another one went last night.”

Biggles looked at Ginger. “So that’s it,” he said softly. “Now we know why Bertie didn’t get back last night. This must have been what he had a line on when he rang from Lydhurst.” Then, back to Gaskin. “Where was it this time?”

“Wiltshire.”

“Wiltshire. Bertie must have been busy.”

“Place called Redbarns, not far from Warminster, owned by a retired officer named Captain Croft. He breeds Herefords. His best pedigree bull walked out on him during the night.”

“How do you know this so soon?”

“The local District Inspector rang up. He knows all about these bulls disappearing; he also knows we’re handling the case. But this time there’s more to it than a bull. That’s why the D.I. wasted no time in getting in touch with me.” Gaskin frowned. “When Bertie rang you up yesterday did he give you a hint of where he was likely to be going?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He probably didn’t know himself. Why do you ask?”

“Because unless the rustlers fell out among themselves, and I wouldn’t reckon that, there must have been someone else near the spot while that bull was being lifted. It struck me it might be Bertie.”

“How do you know someone else was there?”

“One of the farm hands going to work found the wheel tracks of two vehicles in a lane not far from the farm. As the lane is really only an accommodation track leading to Redbarns and nowhere else he wondered what had been going on. At that time he knew nothing of the bull being pinched. Being suspicious he stopped to have a good look round. Close by the wheel marks he found a pool of blood. It was still wet, although it was congealing, so he knew it hadn’t been there long. When he got to the farm and heard about the bull he told his boss about the tracks and the blood. Captain Croft told the police. They were soon on the spot. They were able to track the bull to the lane where the cars had stopped — they think one of ‘em was a heavy lorry or a truck, by the way — and searched the area for clues.”

“Did they find any?”

“Possibly. What they found was a motor car. It was parked in a field not far from the lane. Someone had opened a field gate, put the car in off the road and left it there.”

“What make of car was it?”

“A Triumph Herald.”

Biggles took a deep breath of relief. “Then it couldn’t have been Bertie who put it there.”

“Why not?” 

“He left here in one of our Austins.”

Gaskin looked dubious. “Don’t jump to conclusions. According to its registration that Triumph belongs to a garage in Lydhurst. When Bertie rang you up he was in Lydhurst, wasn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Lydhurst’s not a very big place. Could that be a coincidence?”

Biggles thought for a moment. “Surely it must be. I can’t think of any reason why Bertie should switch from an Austin to a Triumph.”

“Unless he was having trouble with the Austin,” contributed Ginger.

“I suppose that’s possible,” conceded Biggles. Then to Gaskin: “Has a check been made on this Triumph?”

“Up to a point. When I rang up the garage the boss hadn’t come in. Nor the staff. It was still early. I spoke to a girl in the office, a secretary or something of the sort. I gave her the number of the Triumph. She said it was one of theirs, one they hire out for self-drive. That was all she knew about it. She wasn’t there when it was taken out as it was her half day off. I told her to tell her boss, a man named Smith, to ring the Yard, asking for me personally, as soon as he came in. I should soon be hearing from him. He may be able to tell us more.”

“Where’s the Triumph now?”

“Still in the field where it was found. Smith has been told not to collect it until this afternoon.”

“Why?”

“The steering wheel is being checked for fingerprints. They may be those of a body that’s been found.”

“Body! You haven’t said anything about a body.”

“I’m coming to that now. I’m giving you the story in the order of events. Anyway, from where the body was found it’s unlikely to have any connexion with the Herald, although there’s just a chance it might.”

“Where was this body found?”

“A couple of miles or more from Redbarns Farm. It was spotted by a cyclist, lying in some bracken close to the road; but as I say, it was a good two miles from Redbarns. The cyclist reported what he’d seen to the constable in the next village with the result that a police car and an ambulance were soon on the spot. Naturally, it was assumed the man was the victim of a hit and run motorist. That was what it looked like. He’d copped it in the head and lost some blood. The only possible hook-up I can see with the theft of the bull is the blood that was found by the farm hand in the lane where a car and a truck had stood. It may have been one of these vehicles that had knocked the man down. If he was the driver of the Triumph what was he doing a couple of miles away from it?”

“He could have been thrown out of another car. But before we go any further let me get this clear. You talk of a body. Do you mean a dead body?”

“Well, there seems to be some doubt about that. The cyclist who found the man thought he was dead. He reported a dead body. The ambulance men were not so sure. The man was unconscious, anyhow, and in a bad way.”

“What did they do?”

“There was nothing they could do there and then so they took him to the Cottage Hospital at Lecton.”

“And that’s where he is now?”

“As far as I know. Of course he may have died meantime.”

“Who is he? Surely the police must know that.”

“That’s the trouble, they don’t. There was nothing in his pockets so identification may take some time. They should know at the garage at Lydhurst if he was the man who hired the Triumph.”

“It couldn’t have been Bertie,” declared Ginger confidently. “He’d have his personal driving licence on him, if nothing else.”

“Unless it had been taken off him, with anything else that would have made identification easy,” said Gaskin.

“That would rule out the theory of a hit and run motorist,” asserted Biggles. “A motorist who knocks a man down has no reason to try to conceal the identity of his victim.”

“That’s true enough in the ordinary way,” answered Gaskin. “In this case somebody obviously had a reason.” He took out his pipe. “Well, I think that’s about all; anyhow, as things stand at present. I thought you ought to know about this right away.”

“Thanks,” acknowledged Biggles.

“What are you going to do about it?”

“Before I do anything else I’m going to find out who was this man who was found beside the road.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“For a start I’ll ring the hospital to find out if he’s still alive.”

“The last I heard an officer was sitting beside his bed ready to take a statement — if he was able to make one.”

Before Biggles could say anything more the telephone on his desk jangled. He took the call and at once handed the receiver to Gaskin. “For you,” he said.

The detective took over. He listened for some time. All he said was an occasional “Yes... Yes... I see.” Finally: “Thanks. You’ll be hearing from us again later.” He hung up, and the eyes he turned to Biggles’s face were heavy with foreboding.

“Come on,” demanded Biggles curtly. “Who was that? The hospital?”

“No. Smith, the man who owns the garage at Lydhurst.”

“What did he say? Out with it!”

“He says a fellow came in yesterday afternoon complaining that his engine was giving trouble. He needed a car urgently, so he left his own to be attended to and went off in a Triumph Herald.”

“What was the car he brought in?”

Gaskin spoke slowly and deliberately. “An Austin. He gave me the number.”

“One of ours?”

“Yes.”

The face that Biggles turned to Ginger had lost its colour. “So now we know,” he said calmly. “It must have been Bertie.”

Ginger nodded. “He tailed the rustlers to Redbarns.”

“That’s the answer. When they stopped he parked the Triumph out of sight in the field and carried on to see what they were doing.”

“Caught them red-handed and got himself coshed,” put in Gaskin.

“That’s how it looks to me,” said Biggles, getting up.

“And me. Let’s face it. There’s no other answer.”

Ginger spoke. “Why on earth should he swap cars—”

“Never mind why,” broke in Biggles. “He did it, so he must have had a reason. Maybe he was telling the truth when he said his engine was giving trouble.”

“No, that wasn’t the reason,” said Gaskin. “I forgot to mention it but Smith says he could find nothing wrong with the Austin.”

“Never mind why he did it,” muttered Biggles. “This is no time for guessing.”

“What are you going to do? Call on this Walter Thellin?”

“No. Not yet.”

Ginger came in again. “But it must have been from there that Bertie started to trail the rustlers. It couldn’t have been anywhere else. He went to Somerset to watch Thellin’s place so there must be some hook-up between it and these stolen bulls.”

“I agree. But Thellin can wait. So can the bulls. If the bull that was stolen last night from Redbarns is now at Thellin’s farm it should still be there tomorrow. And if that one is there it’s probable the others are there too. That is, if the intention is to ship them abroad on the Juanita. She isn’t here yet. We can make arrangements to be told as soon as she docks. If my guess is right those bulls won’t be moved again until they go on board. Before I do anything else I’m going to see Bertie and, I hope, hear his version of what happened last night.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” asked Ginger.

“No. You’d do better to go to Somerset and keep an eye on Thellin’s farm in case there’s any activity there. There may be after what happened last night. I’m thinking of cattle trucks and possibly Cordino’s Cadillac. Take care not to make it obvious what you’re doing. And be careful. Remember, this gang is dangerous. They’ve already killed one man and may have killed another. I’ll ring the hospital before I leave here and find out Bertie’s condition.”

“How can I get in touch with you if I want to in a hurry?”

“That’s a bit difficult. Try the hospital at Lecton. It’s likely I shall be there for some time. If I’ve left when you ring up I’ll leave a message where I’ve gone. Failing that, if there’s anything urgent you could leave word with the police station at Lydhurst. I’ll call them from time to time. That’s about all we can do. Anything else?”

“Do you mind if I have that vertical photo Bertie took of Thellin’s farm?”

“What do you want it for?”

“To refresh my memory with the general lay-out of the place should I see anything going on there. It might be useful to give me my bearings.”

“All right. You might as well have it. You’d better take a plain car from the garage. Bertie’s jag. is much too conspicuous. Now you’d better be on your way.”

“See you later,” Ginger departed.

“What about me?” inquired Gaskin. “What do you think I’d better do?”

“You must please yourself about that, Chief. You can come with me if you like. If Bertie is able to speak it might be as well for you to hear what he has to say. It’s always a good thing to have an official witness, and this is really more your case than mine.”

“Okay. That suits me. I’d better keep in close touch with you. How will you travel?”

Biggles considered the question. “We’d better go by road. A chopper would get us there faster but there’s always the difficulty of where to put it on arrival. Besides, without knowing what we may have to do next it would be advisable, I think, to have a car handy.”

“Right. I’ll get ready. See you in the Yard in five minutes,” concluded the detective, making for the door.

CHAPTER XI

WHAT HAPPENED TO BERTIE 

BERTIE, on his reconnaissance in Somerset, struck lucky. At all events, so he had reason to believe. Perhaps the fact that he did not seriously expect to find anything of importance had something to do with it. Luck usually balances itself in the long run, and a stroke on the good side is all the more welcome when it is unexpected.

It was a long run to Somerset, and having given himself some lunch and a rest at a village pub on the way he was approaching his destination, Lydhurst, when he decided to commence operations by having a look, from the road of course, at Lockley Manor Farm. It meant only a short detour.

It was in passing the gate entrance to the drive, which had been propped open, that he observed the answer to a question that had puzzled him, and Biggles, when they had examined the aerial photographs of the establishment. The animal on the drive. As he went past, slowly, he saw the biggest dog he had ever seen in his life. A mastiff. It sat on its haunches, in the usual manner of a dog with nothing to do, about half-way up the drive, gazing steadily in the direction of the road. It did not move. Bertie did not stop. He went on, a little concerned by what he had seen, for the presence of such an animal would obviously make an unauthorized approach to the house a difficult and probably dangerous undertaking. People only kept such a dog for guard duties, and he wondered why Thellin thought it necessary to provide one. He also wondered if the dog was allowed to wander about loose all night; but as there was no way of ascertaining this he dismissed it from his mind. But he made a mental note to tell Biggles about it on his return home. 

His luck really began when he was again on the main road a few miles farther on. An isolated garage and filling station presented an opportunity to get some petrol and oil. He was getting short of both after his long run. He slowed down.

It was not until he had pulled in alongside the pumps that he noticed, standing on the concrete apron in front of the open garage doors, a truck with a tall body, all enclosed, painted a dark battleship grey. It looked like a cattle conveyor. Normally Bertie was not interested in such vehicles but at the moment he was; very interested; particularly in the vicinity of Lockley Manor Farm.

Standing by the truck in earnest conversation were two men; one hatless and in his shirt sleeves presumably the proprietor or manager of the filling station. The other was a nondescript sort of individual in rough working clothes. They were talking loudly and did not even glance at Bertie’s car as it drew in. No doubt casual callers were a common occurrence, as at any filling station.

To the girl who came forward to provide the service he needed Bertie simply said: “Six gallons of the best and a pint of oil.” Actually he was wondering how he could get closer to the truck without attracting attention. A notice proclaiming the garage provided toilet facilities offered a ready-made excuse. An arrow pointed. So, in a manner as casual as he could adopt, stretching as if stiff from driving, he strolled round the pumps towards the toilet. From where he stood he could see no indication of the ownership of the vehicle in which he was interested. There was nothing whatever on the body. The two men took not the slightest notice of him as he passed them. There was no reason why they should. Without any effort he could hear their conversation.

The one he took to be in charge of the truck was saving: “Don’t let’s have any mistake about this, Jack. Apart from the clutch she could do with a top overhaul, but she’d have to be ready tonight by nine o’clock. I’ve an important job on hand. I’ll be along just before nine so make sure she’s okay. You can fill her up, too.”

“Don’t worry, Bob. She’ll be waiting for you,” was the answer.

The driver looked up the road. “What the hell is George doing? He should be here by now. He was to pick me up. He knows the boss is waiting for the stuff.”

From the way this was said Bertie judged the two men were on familiar terms; and he understood why when his eyes found what they sought. Identification of the vehicle. The name of the owner. It was painted in small white letters along the bottom of the forward end of the body. It read: W. Thellin. Lockley Manor Farm. Lydhurst. As the farm was not far away the two men were practically neighbours. The effect this had on Bertie can be imagined. So Thellin had a truck; and, moreover, it was soon to be used for an important job. If he learned nothing else, he thought, this piece of information had been well worth the journey.

The girl handed him the ticket for payment for the oil and petrol. He paid her in notes. While she was fetching change the two men had dawdled from the truck to the road and were standing gazing along it as if waiting for someone or something. This was confirmed when the driver, in a tone of irritation, practically repeated what he had already said. “What the hell is George doing with that Rover? He hadn’t much to do in Lydhurst. All he had to do was call at the chemist’s and pick up some stuff that had been ordered from Sharpes the ironmonger.”

The men still ignored Bertie who, having no excuse to linger, walked slowly to the door of his car as if to depart. He would have liked to wait to see “George” but could find no reason to delay his departure. With his hand on the door handle an idea came to him. Looking over his shoulder he said: “Excuse me, but can I do anything for you?”

The men looked directly at him. There was a pause. Then the driver said: “Why?”

Bertie answered: “From your conversation I gathered you were waiting for someone. I’m going to Lydhurst and I wondered if I could give you a lift, or take a message; that’s all.”

“No thanks,” was the curt reply.

“Okay.” Bertie got into his car and drove on, well satisfied with his brief halt. It had provided more information than he had anticipated. He had not learned a lot, but enough to provide food for thought. Biggles would be interested.

He had gone less than half a mile when he met a man walking down the road towards him. He appeared to be in a hurry. He was an ordinary-looking type, youngish, wearing denims and a black beret. As they passed Bertie paid no attention to him. Only when, round a bend a few hundred yards farther on, he saw a Land-Rover parked beside the road, did it occur to him that the man might be the “George” mentioned at the petrol station. The stationary Rover explained why he was late, and why he was walking quickly.

Bertie slowed, eyes on the Rover. The driving seat was vacant. He could see no one else in the car. He stopped and backed in behind it close to the verge. He got out, leaving his engine running, and looked up and down the road. There was not a soul in sight.

A few steps took him to the front of the Rover. The circular certificate of registration on the windscreen told him the name of the owner. W. Thellin. He was not surprised. Good. This was better and better, he thought, as he looked over the vehicle. The reason why it had stopped was at once evident. The near front tyre was flat. The rack that should have held the spare wheel was empty. He walked to the rear of the car and looked inside. There was nothing there except some cans of paint, presumably the “stuff” George was to collect from the ironmongers. The boss was in a hurry for it, so the truck driver had said. Why? Why all the hurry for a few tins of paint? He had a closer look at them. The labels revealed that the contents were not ordinary paint but a brand of waterproof distemper such as is often used for kitchens and bathrooms, or other places likely to be subject to damp.

Satisfied there was nothing of interest he turned away towards his own car. As he stepped clear of the Rover he was nearly knocked down by a car which, with a squeal of brakes came to a skidding stop. Both doors were flung open and two men jumped out. One was the truck driver he had seen at the pumps, the other the man he had met on the road.

Said the truck driver, harshly: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Bertie blinked, adjusted his eyeglass and smiled disarmingly. “Oh, here, I say old man, there’s no need to blow your top. Seeing an abandoned car I was looking for the body.”

“Body. What body?”

“Any old body. I thought maybe there’d been an accident and someone might have been hurt — if you see what I mean.”

“Couldn’t you see the car only had a flat tyre?”

“I can see that now; but I couldn’t see it until I’d stopped. I always stop if I see someone in trouble, don’t you? It’s the thing to do. You might need help yourself one day. You never know.”

The man in denims chipped in, speaking to his companion. “Forget it. He’s nuts. Let’s get on.”

“Sure I can’t be of any help?” offered Bertie.

“No,” snapped the truck driver.

“If everyone’s going to behave like you, you rude fellow, I shall think twice before—”

“Push off.”

Bertie shrugged, and without another word, pushed off. He had nothing more to learn there. Cruising along he told himself he was doing well. All the same he was now in something of a quandary. He would have liked to keep the Rover in sight but it was hard to see how he could do this without the men becoming suspicious of his motive. He supposed the cattle truck and the Land-Rover would eventually return to Lockley Manor Farm, but in the meantime he was faced with the problem of what to do next. He could see no point in going to Lydhurst. What could he hope to learn there that he did not already know? He had, more perhaps by luck than judgement, gathered information beyond anything the town could have provided.

Allowing the car to run to a stop at a quiet spot he considered the situation, weighing up the vital points of what he had learned. 

The first was, Thellin owned a vehicle for the transport of cattle. There was nothing remarkable about that. It might have been assumed, but now it had been confirmed. The next point was, the truck was having an overhaul in readiness for an urgent and important job. The driver had said so. It was no use trying to guess what that job was but obviously it had to do with the movement of cattle, or at any rate an animal of some sort. A cattle truck was not likely to be used for any other purpose.

It must be remembered that Bertie knew nothing of Biggles’s belief that another bull was about to be stolen, for this arose after he had left for Somerset. He was thinking of the possible transportation of the bulls that had already been stolen.

What now exercised his mind was how to find out where the truck was going and its purpose. This, clearly, was to be late that same night or the driver would not have been so insistent that it was to be ready, by nine o’clock, when he would collect it. It seemed a simple matter to go to the petrol pumps, wait for it to be collected and then follow it; but on reflection he realized that this was not going to be as easy as it might at first appear. In all probability the truck would start its operation by going to the farm. Whether it did or not the same difficulty arose. When it left on its real journey, on reaching the road either from the garage or the farm it would have to turn right or left. Which way could only be ascertained by keeping close at hand. It would still be daylight. If Bertie’s car was seen it would almost certainly be recognized as the one that had called at the pumps and had later stopped to examine the Land-Rover. In normal circumstances this would not matter, but if the truck was about to engage in a criminal activity the driver would be on the alert, and if Bertie’s car was seen hanging about it could hardly fail to invite suspicion. No, thought Bertie. That wouldn’t do. Yet he couldn’t do anything without the car. It was a knotty problem.

There were some minor points not without interest. In addition to the truck Thellin also owned a Land-Rover. He also had in his employment at least two men, Bob and George, who, if he was the cattle rustler, must be in his confidence. Biggles had affirmed that it would need more than one man to move a bull from its pen and take it away. It was reasonable to suppose, therefore, that if Thellin was the thief these two men were his accomplices.

Bertie wondered vaguely about the paint he had seen in the Rover but did not dwell on it. It seemed odd that it should be wanted urgently, as the truck driver had told the garage man. For what? It was hard to see how it could have any connexion with the missing bulls.

Bertie cruised on, still turning the matter over in his mind. Whatever he did it was evident that he would be late back home. He decided he had better warn Biggles of this in case he waited up for him. There was no difficulty about that. It was still only five o’clock so he had plenty of time on his hands. He would phone Biggles from Lydhurst. He would by then have made a definite plan about the best way of keeping in touch with the cattle truck.

As he went on through the pleasant countryside one other possibility occurred to him. When the truck set off on its “important job”, if both the men he had seen, and Thellin, went with it, it might be a good opportunity to have a closer look at the farm. There might be nobody left there to keep guard. It was worth thinking about, anyway, he ruminated.

CHAPTER XII

WHAT HAPPENED TO BERTIE (CONTINUED)

BERTIE went on to Lydhurst, found a quiet little cafe and over a cup of tea did some concentrated thinking about his problem. He considered going back to London to tell Biggles what he knew and leave the next move to him; but he soon discarded the idea on the grounds that too much valuable time would be lost. Eventually he worked out a plan of action.

His first step was to go to the post office and put through a call to Biggles. As we know he did not say very much for fear of being overheard; for he did not forget he was in a small town in rural England where it is customary for people to know each other, at least by sight, and local news travels fast. He even thought twice about giving the telephone number of Scotland Yard, afraid that the operator, tempted by curiosity — pardonably perhaps — might deliberately listen to his conversation.

The scheme on which he had decided was based on the belief that his car was more likely to be recognized by the people he intended to watch than he, personally, unless he came into close contact. All he had to do therefore was substitute another car for his own, and this, he thought, should present no difficulty.

Nor, in fact, did it. He went to a big garage in the town and told the man in charge that his engine seemed to be running a bit rough. Would he have a look at it? In the meantime he needed a car urgently. Could he hire one, self-drive? This was soon arranged, and when he drove away it was in a Triumph Herald, his own car, of course, remaining in the garage.

It was still early, so having nothing else to do he proceeded slowly in the direction of Lockley Manor Farm on the off-chance that he might see something of interest. His plan was eventually to park beside the road within sight of the petrol station, and by opening his bonnet pretend to be having engine trouble as an excuse for remaining there. However, this would come later, nearer nine o’clock, the hour when the cattle truck driver said he would collect his vehicle.

He actually drove past the petrol pumps, going at a fair speed, to satisfy himself that the truck was still there. It was. So he went on to the drive that led to Thellin’s farm. He had a good look up the drive in passing but did not stop. He saw nothing, nobody, not even the dog. He continued on for a mile or two and then parked on a convenient grass verge to pass the time. The road was shown on his A.A. map as a secondary one and there was very little traffic at this time of day.

It seemed a long wait until a quarter to nine, the time he had decided to go into action, so to speak. He then turned the car and headed back towards Lydhurst, again passing the farm, where he could see no sign of life, and later, the pumps. The truck, he observed, was now standing on the concrete apron apparently awaiting collection.

A hundred yards or so farther on he allowed his car to run to a stop, turned, and tucked it in close to the verge. It was now facing the pumps, so without leaving his seat he had a clear view of them. All he had to do now was wait. He did not have to wait long.

At a few minutes past nine o’clock the Land-Rover appeared from the direction of the farm. He was not surprised when it turned into the garage. Presently the truck came out followed by the Rover. What had happened was easy to see. The driver of the Rover had simply brought his companion to the garage in order to collect the truck. Both vehicles now went off in the direction of the farm. This is what Bertie expected would happen. So far all had gone according to plan. Starting his engine he followed, keeping a fair distance behind. On a soft piece of road he noticed the imprint of Greystone tyres, left obviously by the truck.

He was a little surprised, however, when, on coming to the farm, both the truck and the Rover turned up the drive. He had supposed they were already on the “important job” the truck driver had mentioned to the garage man. Apparently there was some reason for calling at the house first. This, he thought, was reasonable, and should have been anticipated.

As he drove on past the open gate of the drive he saw both vehicles had pulled up in front of the house. He could not very well stay so close so he had to go on, at reduced speed. Two hundred yards on be came to a stop, and leaning on the steering wheel looked through the rear window. What now? he wondered.

There was only one thing to do and he settled down to wait, wait for the truck to reappear. At least, he assumed this was what would happen unless for some reason there had been a change of plan. He had no interest in the Land-Rover, which could hardly be used for the transportation of bulls. Bulls, naturally, had become a fixed idea in his mind. He was not interested in people.

Time passed. Half an hour — an hour — and there was still no sign of the truck. Bertie, impatient to get on, fidgeted in his seat. Twilight was closing in. He had not bargained for this and began to wonder if he was wasting his time. What was going on? When another hour had dragged past he didn’t know what to make of it. This was not the sort of programme he had imagined. It was now dark so there was no point in driving back past the drive to check if the truck was still where he had last seen it. He wouldn’t be able to see it. And he didn’t dare to leave the car for a reconnaissance on foot. Bored with waiting, and a little worried, he got out to stretch his cramped limbs. He was worried because even if the truck did reappear he could see difficulties ahead. It might not be easy to keep the truck in sight after dark, particularly in traffic. There were objections to using headlights. He had of course already had to switch on his sidelights for fear of causing an accident.

By no means happy, he continued to wait.

In a few moments a beam of light opposite the drive leading to the farm gave him reason to think his vigil was at an end. The cattle truck came out, followed closely by the Land-Rover. They turned in his direction. He leaned over the bonnet of his car as if examining something as they went past. A moment later and he was at the wheel and the pursuit was on. It was not exactly a pursuit, of course. All he had to do was keep the two vehicles in sight, but this, in the dark, as he soon discovered, was far from easy. The chief trouble was, the country through which they were passing was entirely new to him. In a short time he had only a vague idea of where they were, and he hadn’t the remotest indication of where they were going. Brief glimpses of sign-posts in passing told him nothing. The names were all strange to him. However, he managed to keep the vehicles in sight; but he wondered how long it would be before the drivers realized they were being followed. He was afraid his headlights would betray him but he dare not switch them off.

 The time was nearly midnight.

 To make things more difficult for him Bertie did not know on what sort of errand the men in front of him were engaged. Was the truck on its way to collect an animal or was it delivering one somewhere? Was one of the missing bulls in the truck at this moment being moved from one farm to another? He had no idea, and no hope of finding out before the end of the journey — if then.

Had he known what Biggles now knew, or suspected, he might, have guessed the truth. At all events he would have been prepared for what was to come. But he knew nothing of the ship Juanita due at Liverpool, or anything else that Biggles and Ginger had learned between them since his departure for Somerset.

The vehicles had now travelled a long way, mostly, he noticed, in an easterly direction, and he began to wonder how much farther they had to go. He had taken the precaution of starting with a full tank so he was not worried by the fear of running out of petrol. They passed through several villages and one or two small towns but there was no indication of their names and at such an hour the streets were deserted. All he knew was they were in Wiltshire, or so he supposed, gathering the information from a roadman’s hut, near some repair work, marked W.C.C., which he took to mean Wiltshire County Council. He could think of no other county in the region beginning with the letter W.

The thought that they might be nearing the end of their journey came when the vehicles he was following slowed down as if the driver of the truck, which was still leading, was looking for a landmark to indicate his objective. Bertie, who was taking a chance by running on his sidelights only, also took his foot off the accelerator, dropping his speed to dead slow. They were, he had observed, in fairly open country, with houses few and far between. The distance he could see varied from time to time, the reason being that the sky was partly covered by clouds. When the moon was in the clear visibility was good; when it was hidden, naturally, it was poor.

Suddenly realizing that the cars some way in front had stopped, he put his foot on the brake, switched off all lights and brought the car to rest well off the crown of the road. He was too far off to see what was going on; all he knew was someone had got out, because he could see a moving light as if someone was using a torch. No sound reached his ears. By this time he himself had got out and advanced a few paces the better to see what was happening. Both the truck and the Land-Rover had done what he had done, switched off their lights. What were the men doing? Was this their destination or were they having some sort of mechanical trouble? The place where they had stopped was not what he would have expected, for he could not see a building of any description.

A blink of moonlight came to his assistance. In it he saw the truck move forward a little way, turn left and disappear from sight, as if it had driven through the hedge that bounded the road. The Land-Rover followed closely. He listened, but all he could hear was an engine running. Where had the cars gone? What could they be doing?

By climbing up the bank on that side of the road and looking over the hedge he got a fair view of what was beyond; but this told him little, for all he could see were grass fields, more hedges, and an occasional tree silhouetted against the sky. He could not see far, anyway, because the ground seemed to fall away into a hollow.

He decided there was only one thing to do, and that was to investigate on foot. After walking a few yards he came to a gate. It opened into a meadow. He found he was able to open it. After a brief reflection he resolved to put it to use. He was well aware that he had done a dangerous thing by leaving his car on a public highway without lights. The last thing he wanted, certainly at this juncture, was to be the cause of an accident. There was no traffic on the road and none was to be expected at this hour of night; but one never knew who might come along; a motor cyclist, perhaps travelling at speed.

Leaving the gate wide open he returned to his car, brought it along slowly, and having steered it between the gate-posts switched off just inside. He got out, and leaving the door open ready for a quick move should this become necessary, returned to the road, also leaving the gate open. Feeling more comfortable with the car in a safe position, and out of sight of the road should anyone come along — a policeman on his beat, possibly — he set off towards the spot where the cars had disappeared, keeping on the grass verge to prevent his footsteps from being heard.

All this had taken a little time, and something like a quarter of an hour had elapsed since the cars had stopped. He approached cautiously, and with some anxiety, fearing he might have lost them. It was, therefore, greatly to his satisfaction that he saw the tall body of the truck looming against the sky. He continued to advance, even more slowly, pausing every few steps to listen. Not a sound reached his ears. This struck him as very strange and his curiosity mounted. What on earth could the men be doing? was now the thought in his mind.

A few more paces and there stood the truck, parked in what was evidently a farm track running between overgrown hedges. It stood just inside, clear of the road. It had been put in tail first so that the rear portion faced up the track. It was open. That is to say, the single wide door, which opened from the top, had been dropped to form a slightly inclined platform. In short, it was in a position ready for loading livestock. The Land-Rover was not there, apparently having been taken farther up the track. He couldn’t see it although he had a view of the track for a fair distance.

Now, for the first time, Bertie had an inkling of what was afoot. He was sure the truck had not delivered anything. Why, he reasoned, should anyone deliver anything at that hour. No. It was there to fetch something. Yet again, why choose three o’clock in the morning when in the country most honest folk are in bed and asleep? The answer was not hard to find. Tonight, obviously, another bull, or perhaps some other animal, was going to disappear.

Bertie hesitated, for the situation posed a problem. What should he do about it? Should he allow the theft to take place and then follow the truck to wherever the beast was being taken? There was something to recommend this course, for it seemed likely that the bulls already stolen would be at the same place. Or would it, he pondered, be better to prevent the crime; to go on up the track until he came to the farm, or similar establishment, from which the animal was to be taken, and there raise the alarm?

He decided to do nothing in a hurry. He would bide his time to see what happened. After all, he was working on surmise. He had no proof of what he suspected, and he would look foolish if, by some extraordinary arrangement, the truck was engaged on legitimate business. Convinced that he knew all he needed to know for the moment he even considered withdrawing altogether and calling Biggles on the nearest available telephone. The sooner he knew about this the better.

He felt pretty sure of his ground. Thellin was the rustler. It was to his establishment that the stolen animal would be taken. Or would it? He couldn’t be certain. He would look silly should it be taken somewhere else. It seemed the only way of settling this, definitely, was by waiting and shadowing the truck when it left. This was the safe way, he thought. It appeared to offer no difficulty and this, in the end, is what he decided to do. He would go back to his car and wait there.

It was unfortunate that at this particular moment a curious noise took his eyes up the track, causing him to delay his departure. Vaguely, in the half-light, he saw a curious spectacle, although it was by no means unexpected. A large animal, that seemed to be unsteady on its legs, controlled by two men with short poles and ropes, was coming towards the truck. This, then, was all the proof he needed. It was time to go. 

A slight sound behind him hastened his decision. He spun round. He caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure closing swiftly on him, an arm raised. Then the world seemed to explode in a sheet of flame that turned to red, then purple, then black. As his legs collapsed under him he heard a voice say, as from a great distance: “This is the bloke who was at the garage this morning. What the hell is he...” The voice tailed off to silence.

CHAPTER XIII

GINGER GOES TO SOMERSET

ON his way to Somerset Ginger had plenty of time to decide on what he would do when he got there. Biggles had not given him definite instructions. In the circumstances that was hardly possible. It had been more or less left to him to act on his own initiative, and that would depend on what happened — if anything did happen to call for a quick decision. He couldn’t see any point in going to the garage at Lydhurst where Bertie had hired the Triumph. Smith, the proprietor, had already told them as much as he knew. There was nowhere else in the town likely to provide fresh information.

Biggles had said, broadly, that he should keep an eye on Thellin’s farm, Lockley Manor, which he had already seen, from a distance, on his first visit to the district with Biggles; the occasion when the Cadillac had come into the picture. On the face of it, it seemed a simple matter to watch the farm from the road, to check on the goings and comings if there were any. But thinking the matter over it did not take him long to perceive the difficulty of this.

Although unaware of it he was faced by the same problem that had confronted Bertie when he had decided to do the same thing. The difficulty was his car; or rather, what to do with it. Without it he would be immobile. He would need it to follow anything he saw moving — a cattle truck, for instance. But a stationary car is a conspicuous object, certainly on a country road where there is not much traffic and no apparent reason for stopping. A car parked for any length of time within sight of Lockley Manor Farm — as it would have to be if it was to serve any useful purpose — could hardly fail to be noticed. Not in the ordinary way, perhaps; but the circumstances were far from ordinary, in that if the men at the farm were what they were now thought to be they would be on the alert, and suspicious, of anything unusual; particularly after what had happened the previous night. Stealing an animal was one thing. Murder, and causing grievous bodily harm, was a more serious crime.

In short, the question of what to do with the car was for Ginger more of a problem than it had been for Bertie when he had engaged himself in practically the same task.

However, he thought he could see a way out of the difficulty. He came to the conclusion it was the only way. He had the advantage of having been over the ground and he now tried to visualize the road in the vicinity of the farm. Not knowing when he would next have an opportunity for a meal he had a quick lunch of sandwiches at a wayside tavern, and while doing so took Bertie’s air photograph from his pocket and studied it, memorizing it.

The plan on which he had decided was really a sort of compromise and as such was not entirely satisfactory; but it was the best he could do. He wouldn’t bother with Lydhurst. He would go direct to the farm, his real objective. There, or somewhere near, he would park the car, off the road, yet within easy reach should he need it. He would then proceed on foot and take up a position from which the drive leading to the farm, and perhaps the farm itself, could be watched. All this depended on finding a suitable place in which the car could be put out of sight. He thought there should be no great difficulty about this, but the final decision would have to wait until he arrived.

Observing from his petrol gauge that after his long run he was getting low in petrol, and not knowing how far he would have to go before the day was over, he resolved, before he did anything else, to top up his tank.

He was now in the region of his assignment. He remembered seeing a filling station on his previous visit so he went on to it and pulled in against the pumps. Bertie, of course, had done the same thing. It was the same set of pumps. There was nothing remarkable, or coincidental, about this, because the petrol station was the only one on the road anywhere near the farm. It was the same girl who came out to serve him, but again, he was not to know this. For his peace of mind it was probably as well that he knew nothing of Bertie’s call at these particular pumps. That Bertie may have been there was a thought that did not occur to him. There was no reason why it should.

While the girl was operating the pumps he took from his pocket the money he estimated would be necessary to pay the bill. He hardly bothered to look around. He was thinking about the farm, no great distance away. He paid the girl level money and was about to get back into his car when a cattle truck appeared from the direction of Lydhurst. In rural districts a cattle truck is a fairly common vehicle; but at the moment, being where he was, Ginger had good reason to be interested in anything that could be used for the transportation of livestock. The truck slowed down and stopped on the offside of his car. He assumed, naturally, that it had called for petrol. But the driver did not dismount. He pushed open his side window, and leaning out, inquired: “Am I right for Lockley Manor Farm?”

The girl answered brightly: “Straight on. You can’t miss it. First gate on the right.”

“Thanks.” The driver closed his window. The truck went on.

In its brief halt Ginger had observed two things. He could see through a ventilation panel that there was no animal of any size in the truck. The other thing was the name of the owner of it. He did not have to look for this. It was painted on the side in bold letters.

Enoch Clay and Co., he read. And below in smaller letters. CATTLE TRANSPORTERS. This was followed by the telephone number. Foxmore 281.

Ginger, thinking fast as he watched the truck go on its way, said to the girl, who was still standing there: “Where’s Foxmore? I’ve never heard of it.” 

“About two miles the other side of Lydhurst,” was the reply.

“Do these people Clay often come this way,” was Ginger’s next question.

“Quite often. They do most of the work round here.”

Ginger nodded, smiling, got into his car and drove away, following the truck. Knowing its destination he saw no need to hurry. That he should actually see a truck on its way to Lockley Manor was something he certainly did not expect. It could only mean that some form of livestock was to be moved. But was that really remarkable? After all, Thellin was a stock-breeder so that it was only natural that from time to time he would need transport. Ginger did not overlook the significance of the truck being empty. That could only mean the truck had been ordered to take something away from the farm. Another detail he did not overlook was this. The driver of the truck had not known his way to the farm. It followed, therefore, that either he was a new man on the job or had not previously been sent to the farm.

Anyway, the incident had given Ginger something to think about. From some distance behind he saw the truck turn up the drive to the farm. He went straight on past the drive entrance without slowing down; but that did not prevent him from having a good look up the drive. Two objects in particular caught his eye. The first was the truck he had followed, now well up the drive and still moving; the second was a big grey car parked in front of the house. There was no mistaking it. It was the Cadillac.

So Cordino was there, thought Ginger. Doing what? he wondered.

He went on a little way, slowing down, not wishing to put too great a distance between himself and the farm. When he judged there was no risk of being seen from the house he pulled into the side of the road and stopped to think things over. Thoughts were tumbling over themselves in his head so fast did they come.

How long had Cordino been there? What was he doing? How long did he intend to stay? What did his presence signify? Had he, personally, taken part in the latest raid? Having got his fourth bull was he now settling up with Thellin preparatory to leaving the country? Should Biggles be told about this immediately? This would mean going to Lydhurst to telephone. The situation, he felt, was critical; but was it sufficiently urgent and important to justify him losing sight of the farm? This would mean losing track of events.

It was hard to know what to do for the best. One thing was certain. It wouldn’t do for him to be seen by Cordino for he would be recognized as the newspaper reporter who had called on him at his hotel. To be seen here could hardly fail to arouse suspicion.

With no time to waste Ginger had to make up his mind what he should do. This he did, although the decision was not easy to make, for a very good reason. Above all he was desperately anxious to make contact with Biggles, or the hospital at Lecton, to ascertain Bertie’s condition. For all he knew Bertie might have died — a possibility that brought a lump into his throat.

At the finish he decided that his proper course would be to stick to his original plan, which was to put the car out of sight not too far away, where he would be able to reach it quickly should the necessity arise, and proceed on foot to watch the farm. The first thing, therefore, was to find the most suitable place to park the car.

This was not as easy as he thought it would be on a secondary country road. After cruising slowly along a little way he could find only one place within easy reach and this was not as satisfactory as he would have wished.

It was a piece of rough, uncultivated ground, a sort of copse, that came flush with the road perhaps two hundred yards from the entrance to the farm drive. The place was a jungle of tall bracken with patches of undergrowth from which sprang a few trees, mostly silver birch. When, having got out of the car, he examined it more closely, he realized that to hide the car completely would mean taking it well inside to a position from which it would take a minute or two to get clear should he want to get out in a hurry. The alternative was to put it not so far in, where it was possible that it might be seen from the road, although it was unlikely to be noticed by the driver of a car travelling at any speed, for in that case his eyes would, or should, be on the road.

However, it was the only possible place so it had to do. Everywhere else for some distance the road was bounded by narrow grass verges backed by a ditch, a hedge, or a barbed wire fence.

It was into the copse that he now ran the car, not without some anxiety, for the ground was soft and he was afraid he might get bogged or stuck in a bush. Inevitably the car left a track and he had to spend a few minutes picking up the bracken where it had been flattened. This done, as it would obviously be imprudent to walk along the road when he might encounter the Cadillac should it leave the farm, he pushed a way through the jungle to the hedge on the right hand side of the road. Along this, in a field of young corn, he walked briskly until he reached a point nearly opposite the farm drive and there put himself in a position from which it was possible to see the farm-house at the far end of the drive. The Cadillac was still there. 

A few spots of rain caused him to look at the sky. So occupied had he been that he hadn’t given a thought to the weather. He now observed with disgust that there had been a change. The sky was completely covered by a menacing layer of nimbus cloud. He had no mackintosh so he resigned himself to a soaking. He accepted this philosophically. What he feared was that heavy rain would interfere with his plans in that it would reduce visibility to short distances. He turned up his jacket collar and squatting in the already wet grass made himself as comfortable as the circumstances permitted.

He had not long to wait for something to happen. A Land-Rover came down the drive. As it reached the road and turned cautiously in the direction of Lydhurst, peering through the hedge he had a clear view of the occupants. There were two. One, the driver, he had never seen before. The other was the cattle-truck driver who had called at the petrol pumps to ask the way to Lockley Manor Farm.

Ginger’s eyes followed the Rover until it was out of sight. He did not for a moment contemplate following it. Instead, he merely wondered what this could mean. After thinking about it he arrived at what seemed the obvious explanation. The truck driver had delivered his vehicle at the farm. He had left it there. Without it he would have to walk home unless he got a lift. The Rover, Ginger concluded, was merely taking the man, if not all the way home, to Lydhurst, where he might be able to catch a bus for the rest of the way to Foxmore, the depot of the cattle transport company, where he assumed the man lived.

So the truck had been left at the farm, pondered Ginger. For what purpose? Clearly, it was to be used for what it was intended; the movement of cattle. When? To where? The answers to these last questions he did not attempt to guess. He crouched a little closer under the hedge for it was now raining steadily and looked like going on.

For the next half hour nothing happened. At least, he saw nothing of interest. There was not much traffic on the road. A few private cars and an occasional commercial van. Then two men appeared at the front door of the farm-house. What with the rain and the distance there was no possibility of recognition even had they been well known to him. They shook hands. Then one got into the Cadillac. It moved forward and turned down the drive. As it turned into the road Ginger saw there was only one person in it. The driver. It was Cordino. The car disappeared from sight leaving Ginger again wondering if he should report this to Biggles, either by phoning the hospital, or should he have left, by leaving a message at Lydhurst police station as had been arranged. As things had turned out he began to wonder if he was really serving any good purpose in remaining where he was. What more could he expect to happen? The idea of spending the rest of the day squatting in a hedge, in pouring rain, did not exactly fill him with enthusiasm. He even considered packing up and going home; but he did not entertain the thought for very long. He had been sent to do a job and it was up to him to see it through, he decided.

He had not taken his eyes from the drive and the buildings at the end of it. The man who had seen Cordino off, presumably Thellin himself since he was the owner of the property, had not gone back into the house. He had walked round the side to disappear among the outbuildings at the rear, barns, stables, cowsheds, or whatever they happened to be. Ginger knew the general lay-out of them from Bertie’s photograph. That of course showed them only from the outside. He had no means of knowing what they contained.

The rain was still falling in a quiet drizzle when presently the Rover returned. There was now only one person in it. The driver. Ginger supposed his guess that the car was merely taking the other man home was probably right.

It was a little after this, prompted perhaps by sheer boredom and to some extent the rain, that an idea entered his head. He did not need to be told it was a dangerous one, although after giving it some thought it did not seem too dangerous. There was a certain amount of activity among the outbuildings but he could not see what was going on. Why not get closer and find out? was the question he asked himself. It was nothing unusual for a stranger to walk across farm land; and now that Cordino had gone he would be a stranger to anyone he might encounter. After all, he went on in his mind, what could they do to him even if he was seen? They could only order him off. They might take stronger measures if he caused damage and he was not likely to be guilty of that.

Thus ran Ginger’s thoughts, and because he wanted to do something, he argued mentally in favour of the project, glossing over the reasons against it. This is a common human weakness.

Should he go to Lydhurst to tell Biggles on the telephone what he proposed; or if he was no longer at the hospital leave word at the police station? No, he decided. That would take too long. Moreover, it would mean getting the car out of the copse where he had taken trouble to conceal it. The truth was, he had a shrewd idea that Biggles would forbid what he intended. Biggles had said, “Be careful what you get up to.” To make a close reconnaissance of the farm was hardly being careful.

For a little while longer he hesitated, knowing in his heart that what he intended doing was not really justified. It was too risky. But he had taken risks before often enough. By this time he was soaked to the skin; he was also stiff from squatting in a cramped position, and uncomfortably chilly. He made up his mind suddenly. He had another look at Bertie’s photograph, and having satisfied himself on the best line of approach he got up, exercised his stiff limbs to restore the circulation, and set off on a sortie of the farm. Or, it would be more correct to say, the outbuildings. He had no interest in the house. What he was hoping to find would not be there. If the stolen bulls were on the premises they would be in one of the outhouses.

The time was six o’clock. The rain had almost stopped.

CHAPTER XIV

A MATTER OF LUCK

GINGER knew exactly what he was going to do, for the scene of the operation could hardly have been designed more conveniently for what he proposed. From the road the ground sloped up gently all the way to the farm so that it would always be in view whenever he wanted to see it.

On the opposite side of the road from where he had been watching — that is, on the farm side — a little to the left of the drive and running parallel with it, was a hedge. It ran on until it was level with the house. At the top end it was crossed at right angles by another hedge which ended near the outbuildings, or the farmyard in which they stood. All he had to do, therefore, was cross the road, get through the hedge on the far side, and then walk up behind the hedge that ran parallel with the drive. At the point of intersection with the hedge at the top he had only to turn to the right and follow it to reach his objective. This was a position, to be chosen on his arrival, from which he would get a general view of the barns, cowsheds, etc. It looked all plain sailing, and so in fact it turned out to be as far as the actual journey was concerned.

A glance up and down the road showed no one in sight. Not a vehicle of any sort. He got through the hedge behind which he had been crouching, crossed the road quickly, found a thin place in the hedge on the far side and scrambled through to the field beyond. He made his way along to the hedge that ran parallel with the drive, and keeping behind it, of course, went on up the gently rising ground. Thinking of an excuse to make should he be seen and accosted, he reached the top. Here again he crawled through the hedge and followed the one which, from the photograph, and from what he had seen from the road, ended at the farmyard.

It did not quite do that. What he found suited him even better. It was a jungle of tall weeds and wild shrubs, stinging nettles, hawthorn bushes, trailing blackberries and the like; the sort of place commonly to be found near farm buildings. From here he hoped he would be able to get a general view of the yard, and in this he was not disappointed. Moving now with extreme caution he pushed his way forward towards the extremity of the tangled weeds. Care was necessary because from somewhere just ahead came the sound of voices. Two or three people seemed to be talking but he could not catch what they were saying.

Watching where he put his feet to prevent the slightest noise, uncomfortably aware of thorns and nettles, he went on to a spot from where, by peering through the bushes, he could see what was going on. The first thing he observed was not one cattle truck, but two, lined up near a big wooden barn. He did not allow his eyes to dwell on these. They switched to the place whence came the sound of voices. 

What he saw gave him a shock; or it did after the moment or two it took him to realize exactly what was happening. He hadn’t the slightest idea what to expect; but not in any circumstances could he have imagined the astonishing spectacle that greeted his wondering eyes, so close that he could have tossed a pebble into it.

He had reached the yard in line with a long shed. The door stood open giving access to a pen built strongly of horizontal poles. In the pen were three men and a bull. The bull was tied up short, by a ring through its nose, to a post, so that it couldn’t move. It didn’t attempt to move, but stood listless, submitting to what was being done to it. Two of the men were busy working on it. They had brushes in their hands and there were buckets at their feet. And it must be admitted that it took Ginger some seconds to realize what they were doing.

The bull was a Hereford. Its colour was the usual patchwork of brown and white. But the pattern of this was rapidly being changed by the application of some sort of colouring liquid. This was what the men with the brushes were doing; and in the short time Ginger stood staring incredulously the animal was so transformed in appearance that it looked like a different beast. One of the men was using white paint, the other, brown.

It did not demand any high degree of intelligence to understand the purpose of this. The animal was one of the stolen bulls and it was being so disguised that not even its rightful owner would have recognized it except by a close examination.

Ginger drew a deep breath. So this was it, he thought, marvelling at the simplicity of the plot. This was the answer to the question that had puzzled them all, including Biggles. This was how the animals were to be got out of the country without their identity being suspected. It was too easy. Why hadn’t they thought of it? 

The third man in the yard stood a little apart watching the operation. He was a shortish, thickset type, dressed in country clothes, and Ginger had no doubts as to his name. It could only be Walter Thellin, the owner of the farm. In his right hand he held a curious instrument; rather in the manner of a pistol but with an extended barrel. It may seem odd, but Ginger didn’t even bother to speculate on what it might be. There was a good reason for this. Into the picture now walked the biggest dog he had ever seen.

The effect of this on Ginger can be imagined. It put every other thought out of his head. He was standing behind enough cover to prevent him from being seen by the men even if they should look in his direction. But a dog doesn’t always find it necessary to use its eyes. It has a nose which can just as easily detect the presence of a stranger.

Ginger decided it was time to be going. He had seen all, and more, than he could have anticipated. Apart from the risk of being savaged by the dog, or caught by the men in the act of what he was doing, it was time Biggles knew about this. And there was no time to lose. The cattle trucks were significant. They could only mean the stolen animals were shortly to be moved. Perhaps that very night.

Moving almost imperceptibly in order not to make the slightest sound, for more than once the dog had looked hard in his direction, he began to back away.

In the event it turned out that he had left his departure too late. It was only by a matter of seconds, but this was enough. Up to the time of the arrival of the dog he had seen no cause to hurry. The men were too occupied with what they were doing even to look around. Actually, it might be said that in a way the dog was responsible for the disaster soon to come; for had it not appeared it is unlikely that Ginger would have left his original position when he did. The men were still busy with their task. Thellin stood by, watching. The bull remained motionless as if bored with the whole proceeding. It did not in the least behave like a normal bull which would almost certainly have been restive. That there might be a reason for this did not occur to Ginger until one of the painters spoke.

The man said: “You can put the gun away now, guv’nor. You’ve given him enough. We don’t want him on the ground. We’re about finished.”

Thellin answered. “All right. If you think it won’t be necessary I might as well unload. We shan’t want it again.” Raising the instrument he held he pointed it casually at the hedge and discharged the unwanted missile in it.

We must be fair and say that this for Ginger was sheer brutal bad luck. What happened was through no fault of his own. Thellin did not know he was there behind the hedge. He had pointed the weapon at random and fired it merely to get rid of its charge rather than trouble to unload it. The dog hadn’t winded him, either.

It all happened in a flash just as he was turning away. In less than a minute he would have been well away from the place. He had already backed a few paces to get clear. Simultaneously with a curious sound, a short vicious phut as when an air gun is fired, he felt a sharp stinging pain in his left hand. It brought a cry to his lips but he choked it back. He looked at his hand. To his horror he saw an object like a slim dart, about four inches long, projecting from it. He knew what it was.

Panic took him by the throat. In a frenzy he seized the thing in his right hand and tore it out regardless of the pain. It was not the method a surgeon would have employed because, although he was not to know it, the dart, needle sharp, had a tiny barb at the point to prevent it from falling out of whatever it struck. The result was, its abrupt withdrawal caused a nasty jagged wound that bled copiously. Actually, although he did not realize it — he was in no state to think clearly — this was the best thing he could have done. It set the blood flowing freely. 

He did not stop to examine the wound or do anything about it. Remembering the fate of the bailiff on the Hertfordshire farm, in sheer consternation he ran, raced along the hedge the way he had come, his sole idea being to get to his car, or at any rate the road, where there was a chance of his being found by a passer-by, before the drug could take effect.

He was not conscious of any pain. Possibly the shock of what had happened deadened it. Or the drug itself. He didn’t even think about it. He ran on blindly. But in a very few minutes he was aware of a curious sensation of numbness creeping over him, so that although he continued to run he was no longer conscious of his limbs. His movements became automatic. Plunging through the next hedge regardless of scratches and torn clothes he went on, gasping for breath, in the direction of the road. Anywhere on the road. The road became an obsession. He had a horror of falling in the field. The road was his only chance.

By the time he reached the final obstacle the landscape around him was becoming blurred, unreal, indistinct, as if seen through a fog. The trees looked enormous. He fell over the hedge into a ditch half full of water. Crawling out, panting like an exhausted dog, he saw that he had struck the road somewhere half-way between the farm drive and the copse where he had left his car. Gathering his failing muscles and faculties for a final supreme effort he staggered on towards the copse. He didn’t know what good this would do. He only knew he must get to it. He managed to reach it, but by that time he was reeling like a drunken man. Reaching the nearest point of the bracken he plunged into it as the shortest way to the car. A foot caught in something. He tripped and fell. He tried vainly to get up. He could only lie there, supporting himself by one arm on the ground. He lost the will to try any more. He felt his senses leaving him. A deadly weariness came over him. All he wanted to do was sleep. He didn’t attempt to fight it.

Slowly, very slowly, like a tired child, he sank lower and lower until his forehead was resting on his right arm. His last thought was, he was going to die. He didn’t care. He was warm and beautifully comfortable.

That was all he knew.

CHAPTER XV

BIGGLES IS PUZZLED

BIGGLES, driving Detective Inspector Gaskin, lost no time in getting to Lecton, in Wiltshire. Upset by what had happened to Bertie, and worried by not knowing his present condition, he was in no mood for casual conversation. He did not stop for any refreshment on the way. The only things that stopped him were traffic lights.

On arrival at the quiet country town that was their destination he went straight to the hospital and walking quickly to the Reception office told the secretary who they were.

“I won’t keep you a moment,” said the young woman, and went off.

Presently the matron came.

Biggles showed his police identity papers and asked the all-important question, how was Bertie?

He was told he was about the same. He had maintained his strength. He had not recovered consciousness but was now showing signs that this might not long be delayed. A police officer was still at his bedside.

“May we see him?” asked Biggles. “Apart from anything else he’s a close personal friend of mine.”

“I shall have to ask the house doctor about that,” was the answer. “You’d better speak to him yourself. Come into the waiting-room while I fetch him.” The matron went off.

The doctor came. Having introduced himself he said: “I understand you are police officers from Scotland Yard.”

“That is correct,” confirmed Biggles. “We’re working on the same case as the officer who was brought here with a head injury. Will you please tell us how he is, as far as it is possible at the moment. It could be very important.”

“He’s improving,” was the good news. “He’s mumbled once or twice which may be a sign that he’s coming round.”

“May we see him?”

“Yes, but you needn’t hurry to see him as he is. I shall be told at once if he recovers consciousness.”

“In your opinion, doctor, will he recover?”

“He should if there are no unexpected complications. He seems to have a good constitution and that should pull him through. He’s lucky to have a thick skull, otherwise the blow he received might have killed him on the spot. His skull isn’t fractured but he’s suffering from severe concussion.”

“Caused by the one blow on the head.”

“Yes. He must have been struck with a heavy object.”

“Do you think he could have been knocked down by a car?”

“No. His injury is not consistent with a car accident. Had he been knocked down by a motor car he would at least have been badly bruised, probably had some bones broken. There isn’t a mark on his body. I would say he was deliberately struck on the head with considerable force by someone who attacked him from behind. The one blow was sufficient to knock him out. It must have been unexpected, because had he put up any resistance there would be marks to show it.”

“Assuming he pulls through how long do you think he’s likely to be here?”

“I’d say at least a week, more likely two. It may be some time before he’s really fit again. He’ll have to take things quietly for a bit.”

“He shouldn’t be permanently affected?”

“Not if all goes well.”

“May we go to him now?”

“I see no reason why you shouldn’t, if that’s what you want, although there doesn’t seem to be much point in it while he remains in his present condition.”

“I was thinking he may say a few words, to give us a clue...”

“It may be a little while after he comes round before he is able to talk coherently, to say just what happened. That, I imagine, is what you really want to know.”

“Yes. Our business is urgent, and just one word...”

“Very well. I’ll take you to him; but I must warn you against getting him excited should he come round.”

“I understand, doctor.”

They all walked along a corridor to a private room. They entered quietly. Bertie, his head swathed in bandages, his face chalk white, lay motionless on the bed. Beside him, an open notebook on his knee, sat a constable. A nurse was also on duty.

The doctor spoke softly to the constable. “Has he spoken yet?”

“Yes, sir. He stirred a little just now and said the same word two or three times. It sounded like tiggles, or biggles, or something like that.” 

Biggles nodded. “He must have been trying to ask for me. I’m known as Biggles.” To the doctor he went on: “Does this mean he might soon be coming round?”

“Probably.”

“In that case I think we might relieve this officer now. Inspector Gaskin and I can take over, perhaps in turn while the other gets something to eat. No reflection on you, officer. The reason I suggest that is because should the patient speak, or try to say anything, we’re more likely to know what he’s talking about. We’re engaged on the same case. It’s one of murder so it’s highly important we should hear what he says.”

The constable got up. “That’s all right with me, sir. I’ll go and tell my Super you’ve arrived.”

“Tell him we’ll have a word with him later,” returned Biggles, as the constable put on his helmet and went out.

The doctor said: “You needn’t go out for food if you’d rather stay here. We can fix you up with a meal.”

“That’s most kind of you,” acknowledged Biggles. “I’ll accept that. I’d rather stay handy in case he comes round. By the way, how can I find out if a message has been received here for me?”

“The secretary will know. She takes all incoming calls.”

Biggles looked at Gaskin. “I’ll do that right away. There may be word from Ginger. You wait here.”

There was no word from Ginger. Biggles asked the secretary to let him know if a call came through for him. He was expecting one and it could be important. He had a quick lunch provided by the hospital and then relieved Gaskin to enable him also to get something to eat. Bertie had not moved or spoken a word. The doctor had gone to see some other patients.

The afternoon wore on. To all outward signs Bertie’s condition remained unchanged. Biggles and Gaskin took it in turns to stretch their legs outside and have a smoke. From time to time a nurse looked in. There was no message from Ginger. About tea-time the doctor returned. He examined Bertie, and after taking his pulse nodded encouragingly. “You shouldn’t have much longer to wait,” he said. “I’ll look in again presently. Remember, if he comes round not too much talking for a little while. Tomorrow, perhaps; but not now.”

Biggles nodded. After the doctor had gone, while they were enjoying a cup of tea brought in by the nurse, he remarked to Gaskin: “I’m surprised we’ve heard nothing from Ginger. I’d have thought he would have called me if only to learn how Bertie is.”

“Either he must be busy on something or he’s waiting for us to arrive at Lydhurst.”

“Could be. I didn’t expect we’d be here as long as this, and he probably thought the same. You’re sure you want to hang around? I can manage if you feel you ought to get back to the Yard.”

“I’ll see it through to the finish as I’m here,” decided Gaskin. “I’m hoping Bertie will be able to tell us enough to get this damn bull business buttoned up.”

Biggles nodded. “Same here.”

It was not long after this that Bertie’s eyelids fluttered. They did this several times. Biggles went quietly to the door and said to the nurse who was working at a cupboard outside: “I think he’s coming round. You’d better let the doctor know.”

She hurried off. Presently she came back into the room. “I’ve told the doctor,” she said, and stood close to the bed, watching.

Bertie’s eyes opened. For two or three minutes they stared vacantly at the ceiling. Then they seemed to clear. They moved and came to rest on Biggles. He smiled wanly. “Hello, old boy,” he breathed. Then, after a moment. “Where are we?”

“You’re in hospital,” Biggles told him. “Someone fetched you a smart crack on the head. Take it easy. Don’t try to talk yet. We’ve plenty of time.”

Bertie’s eyes found Gaskin. “Good old Gaskin,” he said, smiling. “Always in at the death.”

“We’re nowhere near the death yet,” growled the detective.

Some minutes passed. Bertie lay with a puckered forehead as if in deep concentration. When he spoke again his voice was stronger and more lucid. “I remember it all, now,” he said.

Biggles answered. “Good. Tell us when you feel up to it but don’t overdo it.”

Another pause. Then Bertie went on: “You were right about Thellin. He’s the man. He’s got two men with him. They drive a cattle truck and a Land-Rover. They went out after dark. I tailed them. I don’t know where we went. They turned into a lane and stopped. I parked my car in a field and walked on to see what they were doing. I saw them bringing an animal along. That was where it ended.”

“Did you see the man who hit you?”

“No. He must have stayed with the truck. He came from behind. I heard him but it was too late. I just got a glimpse as he struck, but it was dark.”

“Why did you change cars?”

“So they wouldn’t know me. They’d seen me in the Austin I brought down. How did I get here?”

“They dumped you beside the road on their way home.”

Here the doctor, who had come in, stopped him. “That’s enough for now,” he said.

“Just one last question,” said Biggles, looking at Bertie. “Can you think of anything else?”

Bertie thought for a moment. “I saw the truck with Thellin’s name on it at a garage, having a top overhaul. The driver said he wanted it urgently to do an important job. If you go to the farm be careful. There’s a big guard dog there.”

Biggles got up. “Okay, chaps. That’s as much as we need to know. We’ll move off now.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Thellin’s place. Ginger’s there now, keeping an eye on it. We’ll come back tomorrow, all being well.”

“Jolly good.”

“That’s enough,” interposed the doctor. “Off you go.”

Biggles, with a parting wave, followed by Gaskin, went out.

“It’s about time we had a word with this fellow Thellin and his men,” grunted Gaskin when they reached their car. “It’s going to be difficult to prove which one of ‘em coshed Bertie. We haven’t a lot of evidence, but if we can find the stolen bulls on his farm he’ll find that difficult to explain.”

“Then you want to go to Lydhurst.”

“Yes. What else? Don’t you?”

“Of course. It’s time I knew what Ginger was doing. I can’t understand why he hasn’t rung up the hospital. No matter. I expect there’ll be a message at Lydhurst police station. We’ll go there first. We’d better make contact with Ginger in case he has news. I don’t think he’d go home without letting me know.”

“I shall have to go to the police station anyhow,” stated Gaskin. “I can’t crash into other people’s districts without so much as by your leave. The local D.I. may want to take a hand when we go to see Thellin. That’s all right with me. We may need help if it comes to a showdown. From the way they knocked Bertie about they’re the sort to cut up rough.”

“What are you going to say to Thellin?”

“I shall accuse him of being concerned with the theft of a bull last night. We’ve got Bertie’s evidence for that. It should be enough to go on with.”

“You won’t charge him with the murder of Johnson, the farm bailiff in Hertfordshire?”

“That can wait. A lot will depend on what we can find at Thellin’s establishment. With any luck we should find the weapon that killed Johnson. Of course, if we can find one of the stolen bulls there, or better still, all of ‘em, it’d make things a lot easier. Thellin wouldn’t have a leg to stand on.”

“Well, we should soon know,” said Biggles, as they crossed the county boundary into Somerset.

It was late evening when they arrived at Lydhurst. They went straight to the police station, Biggles confident that he would find there a message from Ginger to say where he was going and for what purpose. Having made themselves known to the sergeant on duty Biggles put the question about a message left by one of his assistants.

“There’s been no message left here,” said the sergeant. “What was the name again?”

“Hebblethwaite. It would probably be signed Ginger.” 

The sergeant, looking at the record book, shook his head. “There’s been no one of that name here.”

“No phone message?”

“Nothing.”

“Could he have called while you were out?”

“I’ve been on since noon and I haven’t been out.” Biggles turned a perplexed face to Gaskin. “This is extraordinary. What on earth can he be doing?”

Gaskin shrugged. “No use asking me. I’d say he’s gone home.”

“But he wouldn’t do that without letting me know. He had only to ring the hospital or call here.”

“We can soon settle it,” said Gaskin. “I’ll call my office. They’ll find out if he’s back at the Yard.” Then, to the sergeant: “Mind if I use your phone?”

The instrument was pushed forward. Gaskin put through the call. He asked the question. There was a delay, at the end of which he simply said “Thanks” and hung up. “Ginger hasn’t gone back to the Yard,” he told Biggles. “But there’s something I can tell you. The Juanita has docked at Liverpool. From what Bertie told us about the truck having an urgent job we haven’t got too much time.”

Biggles lit a cigarette. “This has got me beaten,” he said helplessly. “I’m beginning to wonder if he’s run into trouble.”

“What’s all this about, anyhow?” the sergeant, naturally, wanted to know.

Gaskin explained the case of the stolen bulls.

“And you reckon they’re around here somewhere?”

“We have good reason to think so. You might let your chief know what’s going on,” returned Gaskin.

Biggles spoke. “For the moment I’m more concerned with finding my assistant. He may be in trouble. We’ll be back.” 

They went out.

“Where are we going?” asked Gaskin when they were outside.

Biggles answered. “There’s only one thing we can do and that’s cruise along past Thellin’s farm. If Ginger’s still here his car can’t be far away. His job was to watch the farm. There was no time limit. He must be on that road somewhere. I must say this has got me foxed — and a bit worried. It isn’t like Ginger to behave like this. Come on, let’s see if we can find him.”

CHAPTER XVI

WHERE IS GINGER?

BIGGLES and Detective Inspector Gaskin got back into the car and left the town, taking the road that passed Lockley Manor Farm. Coming to a petrol station Biggles pulled in for fuel and oil. While this was being done he said to the girl attending to the pumps: “I suppose you get a lot of cars calling here during the course of the day?”

She answered brightly: “Not more than we can handle.”

While the petrol was running Biggles went on: “Can you recall seeing a black Humber pass here today? I’m looking for a friend of mine.”

“One called here for petrol.”

“About what time was this?”

The girl thought for a moment, hand on the petrol control. “I can tell you exactly. It was soon after lunch.”

“With all the cars you have to serve how can you remember that particular one?” asked Biggles curiously.

“Because it was while he was here one of Clay’s cattle trucks stopped to ask the way to Lockley Farm.”

“I see.” Biggles threw a glance at Gaskin, who was still in his seat but had opened his side window. To the girl he continued: “Which way did the Humber go when it left here?”

The girl pointed. “That’s the way to the farm. The Humber left here immediately after the truck.”

“Thanks, and congratulations on having a good memory,” said Biggles, as he paid the bill. This done he got back into the car and drove on.

“What do you make of that?” said Gaskin.

“You heard what the girl said about the cattle truck. That lines up with what Bertie told us. When I stopped at those pumps I was thinking of petrol, not cattle trucks. I’d say it’s a certainty that Ginger followed the one that stopped to ask the way to Lockley Farm. It was the obvious thing to do.”

“He wouldn’t follow it up to the farm.”

“Of course not. What reason could he give? It wouldn’t be necessary, anyway. Naturally, he’d check that the truck actually went to the farm. It’s something to know he came this way. He must be along here somewhere. He’d probably keep an eye on the farm to see if the truck came out.”

Biggles drove on slowly. They passed the private road that led to the farm. They looked up it but did not stop. They saw nothing of interest. As they went on Biggles said: “He wouldn’t be so stupid as to park his car where it could be seen from the farm. He’d go straight on. I wonder how far he went?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” answered Gaskin. “If he decided to watch the farm he wouldn’t go far.”

Biggles allowed the car to run on, gradually slowing down, for perhaps a couple of hundred yards. Then, pulling in to the side of the road he came to a standstill. “Well, he doesn’t seem to be here,” he observed. “I don’t think there’s much point in going any farther. If he went past here he may have gone on for miles — unless, of course, he went back. I suppose that could have happened. If the truck reappeared I imagine he’d follow it.”

“Hold hard a minute,” said Gaskin sharply. He was looking hard out of his lowered window. “It looks as if a car or something went in there.” He pointed to a broad track of flattened bracken running into a copse beside which they had stopped. He got out, staring. “Yes, by God!” he exclaimed. “There’s a car in here. A black car. I can see the roof.”

Biggles was out in a flash. “Where?”

“There.”

Biggles ran forward. “It’s one of ours,” he called.

“So this is where he parked,” muttered Gaskin as he came up. “Isn’t he here?”

“No.” Biggles made a quick examination of the car. “The engine’s stone cold. Where the devil could he have gone?”

Gaskin filled his pipe. “This is getting a nice game played slow,” was all he could say.

Biggles looked over the ground in the vicinity of the car. “Ginger,” he called. 

There was no answer.

Again Biggles shouted the name. Still no answer.

“No use shouting,” remarked Gaskin. “He isn’t here. If he was he’d have heard us arrive. What are you going to do with the car?”

“I suppose we’d better leave it where it is,” replied Biggles in a helpless sort of voice.

“Are you going to wait for him to come back for it?”

“I’m dashed if I know what to do for the best.”

“He’s bound to come back for the car sooner or later.”

“Yes, but how much later? He may be away for hours. We can’t hang around here all night. Why the devil didn’t he leave a message—”

“Well, he didn’t, so forget it,” said Gaskin calmly.

They walked back slowly to the road. There they stopped, Biggles looking up and down. He lit a cigarette. Gaskin relit his pipe, which had gone out, dropped the match and put a foot on it. With his eyes on the ground he stiffened.

“Come here,” he said in a peculiar voice.

Biggles joined him. “What is it?”

Gaskin pointed. “If that isn’t a spot of blood I’ll eat my hat. Look! There’s another.” His eyes moved on to the fringe of the bracken. Very slowly he walked forward to a narrow line where it had been trampled. “Looks to me like somebody went in here — somebody who was losing blood.”

Biggles did not stop to comment. He strode forward following a clearly defined trail with spots of blood at intervals. Suddenly he dashed on, crying: “Oh my God! Here he is. He’s dead.”

Gaskin ran up. Both dropped on their knees beside the body lying face down with the forehead resting on an arm. They turned it over.

“He ain’t dead. He’s still breathing,” declared Gaskin.

“Where did this blood come from?” Biggles’s voice was tense.

“His hand. Look at it. It’s smothered.” Gaskin held up the blood-stained hand. “Got a bullet through it by the look of it. Must have happened some while back. The blood’s congealed and stopped the bleeding.”

“What’s this?” Biggles, his face ashen, picked up the other hand. He opened the clenched fingers and removed a slim tube with a needle point. He held it up. “This is the weapon,” he said grimly. “He was shot with the same thing that killed that man Johnson. When I get my hands on these devils—”

Gaskin broke in. “Take it easy. Never mind what you’ll do to ‘em. First things first. Let’s deal with this.”

“We’d better get him to a doctor.”

“Just a minute. Let’s have a look at his hand to see how bad it is. Can’t see anything while it’s all stuck up with mud and blood. There’s water in the ditch. I’ll get some.” Gaskin hurried away and came back with a dripping handkerchief. He cleaned Ginger’s wounded hand. “Not too bad,” he observed. “It looks to me as if he snatched that damned thing out as soon as it struck him. You see it’s got a barb on the end like a fish hook. He wouldn’t know about that. Knowing what the thing was he just tore it out regardless, in which case he wouldn’t get the full dose of dope.”

“It was enough to kill Johnson,” reminded Biggles harshly.

“He got the full dose. Not knowing what had hit him he did nothing about it. Ginger knew. Barbitones can put you to sleep without killing you — unless you take an overdose. I’d say he only had enough to knock him out.”

“That’s a comforting thought, anyway,” conceded Biggles. “Why do you think that?”

“I can’t see how he could have been shot here. He was away when it happened. He tried to get back to the car but couldn’t quite make it. The blood on the road proves that.”

“I see what you mean.”

“Had he got a big dose of the stuff he wouldn’t have got this far.”

“True enough. All the same we’d better get him into Lydhurst. A doctor may be able to do something.”

“If we can find one at home at this hour.”

Biggles did not answer. He went to the ditch and came back with his own handkerchief soaked. With it he removed from Ginger’s face the dirt and particles of bracken that were sticking to it.

Surprisingly, Ginger spoke. Or rather, he murmured petulantly: “Leave me alone.”

“It’s me — Biggles,” said Biggles quickly. Then, in a swift aside. “He’s not far off coming round. Get some more water, Chief.”

While Gaskin was doing this Biggles moved Ginger into a more comfortable position. Taking off his own jacket he made it into a bundle and put it under his head. Ginger’s reaction, without opening his eyes, was to try to push him away. “Leave me alone,” he said again, drowsily. “I wanna go sleep.”

Gaskin came back and trickled some water on Ginger’s face. “This wound in his hand isn’t much,” he said. “He must have lost a little blood but not so much that he’d notice it. What he’s suffering from is a shot of dope, enough to put him to sleep for a time but not enough to do any real harm. He’d get rid of some of it with the blood he lost.”

“He’s wet through,” Biggles pointed out. “He couldn’t have been in the car at the time it was raining. I wonder where he was and what he was doing. But that’s as much as we can do here. Let’s get him to Lydhurst.”

Ginger’s eves opened. “What was that?” he mumbled.

“It’s me — Biggles,” said Biggles loudly.

“Sorry,” said Ginger in a sleepy voice.

“Try to wake up.”

“I can’t,” Ginger’s eyes closed. His head lolled.

“Let’s get him to the doctor,” said Gaskin. “He may be able to give him something to hurry him up.”

Again Ginger opened his eyes. “What’s happened?” he asked in a more normal voice.

“That’s what we’re waiting for you to tell us, answered Biggles. “Come on. Pull yourself together. You can do it if you try.”

“I can’t — wake up,” returned Ginger. “I wanna — sleep.”

Biggles got up. He spoke to Gaskin. “I’ll tell you what, Chief. Will you put his car back on the road while I stay with him? Then we’ll get him into it. He’s lain here long enough.”

“I can make a suggestion. Don’t forget we’ve got to get after this feller Thellin or we may lose those perishing bulls. Suppose I dash into Lydhurst and tell the police there what goes on. I could bring a doctor here.”

“What’s the idea of that?”

“If those bulls leave the farm and come this way you’ll see the trucks go by. If I know anything, now the Juanita has docked it won’t be long before they’re on their way to Liverpool. Thellin won’t keep ‘em here longer than he can help. I’ll get someone to watch the other way in case the trucks leave in that direction. I don’t think Ginger’s condition is serious. He seems to be coming round. It’s only a matter of time.”

“All right,” agreed Biggles. “You’d better come back here before you go to the farm in case Ginger has been able to tell me anything.”

“Okay. I’ll get his car on the road for a start. You may need it while I’m away in ours.”

“Right. Do that. Get a move on. It’ll soon be dark.”

Gaskin went off towards Ginger’s car. Biggles got ready to move Ginger into it as soon as it was on the road. It was some minutes before Gaskin returned. He said: “All set. I’ll give you a hand to get him in. We’d better put him in the back seat. With the whole seat he’ll have more room than in front and he won’t be in your way if you have to drive.”

“Just a minute; he’s trying to say something. You might as well hear what it is.”

Ginger was in fact trying to sit up. His eyes were open, but he still had some difficulty in speaking, having, it seemed, to force out the words. Two or three times he said: “Bulls.”

“What about the bulls,” prompted Biggles.

“You won’t — know ‘em.”

“Why not?”

“They’ve been — painted.”

“They’ve what?”

“Painted.”

“How do you know?”

“I saw — men — painting.”

“Strewth!” ejaculated Gaskin.

“Have you been to the farm?” Biggles asked Ginger.

“Yes.”

“So that’s how you got shot?”

“Yes. But they — didn’t — see me. I was — behind the hedge. It was — accident.” Ginger fell back after his effort to speak.

Biggles said to Gaskin. “All right. That’s enough for now. Let’s get him into the car; then you’d better get cracking.”

Ginger, partly supported and sometimes carried, was taken to where his car stood on the side of the road facing towards Lydhurst. Not without some difficulty he was arranged in a reclining position on the rear seat. The movement appeared to have done something to restore him, for he continued to speak, mostly incoherently.

Said Biggles to Gaskin, urgently: “You press on, now, Chief. We may not have too much time if we’re to stop those trucks from leaving. I’ll take care of Ginger. Get back as soon as you can.”

“Right,” answered Gaskin, and departed in the car that had brought them there.

CHAPTER XVII

JUST IN TIME

FOR a little while after Gaskin had gone Ginger lay quiet, as if searching his memory, with Biggles sitting beside him watching the road in the direction of Lockley Manor Farm. It was now late evening and the light was beginning to fade, although it was not yet dark enough for the car lights to be switched on.

When Ginger spoke again it was evident that he was recovering fast. The dazed look had gone from his eyes. His voice was practically normal and he no longer slurred his words. More than three hours had passed since his misadventure at the farm.

“I’m sorry about this,” he said contritely. “I’m not making any excuses but I’m bound to say it was only the most atrocious luck that got me into this mess.”

“Why did you go to the farm?”

“Well, I must admit I was getting browned off squatting in a hedge getting soaked. I couldn’t park the car where it might be seen from the farm.”

“I understand that.”

“There had been some activity, vehicles on the move, so I decided to take a chance and get a closer view of what was going on. I reckoned if I was seen no one would suspect what I was doing. From Bertie’s photo it looked easy; plenty of hedges for cover. It worked fine.”

“Come to the point. What did you see?”

“Hold your hat, because this is going to shake you as it shook me when I realized what was going on. There was a bull in a pen tied by the nose. Two men were painting it. A third man who I took to be Thellin was there, watching. He had something in his hand but I didn’t realize what it was. I think, from the quiet way it stood, the bull had been given a shot of dope. In fact, I’m almost sure, from what one of the men said. He told Thellin he didn’t think the bull would need any more; from which I can only think Thellin was standing by ready to give the bull an extra dose if it got fractious. Thellin said he’d unload. He pointed the thing in his hand at the hedge. I heard it go off. I was just leaving. It sounded like an air pistol.”

“Where were you?”

“Behind the hedge.”

“Are you sure he hadn’t seen you?”

“Quite sure. I know from his casual manner he hadn’t the slightest suspicion anyone was there. Something struck me in the hand. When I saw what it was you can imagine how I felt. I pulled the thing out and ran, first to get off the farm and hoping to reach my car. I knew I was done before I got to it. I remember my legs folding up — and that’s all.”

“So there’s no doubt about the bulls being at Thellin’s farm?”

“None whatever. One, at least. I can’t say I recognized it; but why should they paint an animal unless there was dirty work afoot?”

Biggles agreed. “What about these vehicles you saw?”

“There were two cattle trucks at the farm. They looked ready to go somewhere, so if you want to stop ‘em you’d better get weaving. One of the trucks belongs to a man named Clay — that was the name painted on the side. I saw it arrive. I was at the petrol station when the driver pulled up to ask the way to Lockley Farm. Apparently he hadn’t been there before. I don’t think he’s in the racket because I saw him leave in a Land-Rover.” Ginger paused.

“He left the truck at the farm,” he continued. “That’s what makes me think those bulls will soon be on their way to somewhere else. You’d better get cracking. You can leave me here. I’m all right now except for being a bit shaky.” Ginger pulled himself into a sitting position. He looked as if he had suddenly remembered something. “What about Bertie? Did you see him?”

“Yes. He’s doing fine,” Biggles told him. “He’s still in hospital and likely to stay there for a bit.”

“What happened?”

“I haven’t time to tell you the whole story now. He tailed a cattle truck and got himself coshed.”

Ginger thought of a few more details to relate; then he said: “Where’s Gaskin? Did I see him or did I imagine it?”

“You saw him. He’s gone to Lydhurst to put the local police wise and maybe bring a doctor along to see you. He should soon be back.”

“I don’t need a doctor. It’s wasting time. I’m O.K. now. My hand throbs a bit but that’s nothing. It was my own fault. I couldn’t get that cursed dart out of my hand fast enough — remembering what happened to the man Johnson at the farm in Hertfordshire.”

“I can believe that,” returned Biggles sympathetically. “All the same, tearing it out instantly the way you did was the best thing you could have done. Perhaps you only got a small dose of dope. If, as you think, the bull had already been tranquillized, Thellin wouldn’t give it a full dose for fear of killing it.”

“I should have kept that dart.”

“You did. You were clutching it in your other hand when we found you.”

“What are you going to do now? Raid the farm?”

“I’d think so; but that will be up to Gaskin and the arrangements he has made with the local police. If I have any say in the matter we shall go straight to the farm. We’ve got to find those bulls there or our case against Thellin will fall to pieces. I can see some cars coming now. Three. I think it must be Gaskin with some officers from Lydhurst. That’s just as well. If we tackle the farm we may need help.” Biggles got out of the car and stood waiting.

Three cars drew up and the road was suddenly alive with men. From the leading car Gaskin appeared with a police superintendent, who turned out to be Detective Chief Superintendent Roberts of the County Police. From another, a sergeant and three constables. From a third, a doctor who sometimes acted for the police. He had come in his own car. He went straight to Ginger. Biggles left them together while he spoke to Gaskin.

“What’s the drill?” he inquired.

“We’re going to the farm. The Super here is taking over. I’ve told him what it’s all about. He says Thellin is a bachelor so he should be alone in the house. We thought you might care to come along. What are you going to do with Ginger?”

“I’ll speak to the doctor.”

Biggles went along to the car where he found Ginger’s hand had been properly bandaged. He had also been given a dose of medicine.

“He’ll be all right,” stated the doctor. “He won’t need any more help from me; but he’d better take things quietly for a little while and it might be as well for someone to stay with him.”

Ginger, who had heard this, said to Biggles: “You go ahead. I shall be all right here.”

Biggles returned to Gaskin. “The doctor says he’s all right,” he reported. “But he’d better stay here. Someone will have to stay with him. I’d like to come with you to the farm. I wonder if one of these local lads could stay here?”

Gaskin spoke to the Super and this was arranged.

“Let’s get along,” he said.

Leaving Ginger’s car where it stood, a constable in attendance, the other three cars moved off in procession up the road towards the farm. Leading was the local Chief-Superintendent with his sergeant and two constables, one having been left with Ginger. In the second car was Biggles with Gaskin. Following on behind was the doctor in his own car. It is unlikely that any of them, at that moment, anticipated what might happen; and in fact did happen; happen so quickly that it was all over in a matter of minutes.

The leading car had nearly reached the private road to the farm when out of it, slowly, as careful driving demanded, came a cattle truck. A second one followed on its tail. Once on the road both trucks proceeded towards Lydhurst.

The driver of the local police car acted with commendable presence of mind. He accelerated, sounding his horn. The two trucks did the correct thing. They ran closer to the grass verge to allow room for overtaking. Upon this the Superintendent’s car speeded on until it had a lead of nearly a hundred yards. Then it braked hard and half turned, finishing right across the road, blocking it.

The drivers of the trucks, who at this moment could hardly have suspected the truth, must have wondered what all this was about; but the only thing they could do to avoid collision was stop. The leading one pulled up so sharply that its travelling companion nearly ran into the back of it.

When uniformed police officers sprang out of the car blocking the road, using all the doors and holding up their hands, the truck drivers could have been in no doubt as to the reason for the hold-up. The driver of the one behind made this clear when he jumped out and ran back towards the farm; but by that time Biggles and Gaskin were out. They intercepted him, and after a short scuffle overpowered him.

“The game’s up,” said Gaskin sternly.

“What’s all this about?” demanded the man angrily.

“You should know,” returned Gaskin. “We’re going to have a look at what you’ve got in those trucks. You might as well come clean. Where were you bound for — Liverpool?”

The man looked amazed. “So you know about that!”

“And a lot more.”

The man shrugged. “O.K. We’re taking some cattle to Liverpool. So what?”

“By cattle you mean bulls.”

“Yes.”

“There’s more to this than cattle,” replied Gaskin trenchantly. “There’s a little matter of murder.”

Here Biggles and Gaskin were joined by the Superintendent and his men with their prisoner, who must have heard, for he said: “What’s this about murder?”

Biggles spoke. “No use giving us that line. You know.”

“I only know what I read in the papers.”

The Superintendent came in. “So you had nothing to do with the murder of the farm worker in Hertford shire, eh?”

“That’s right.”

“Who did it?”

Neither man argued. No doubt by this time they realized the seriousness of their position. “Thellin,” said one.

 Said the other. “That’s the truth. Thellin did it. He wouldn’t let anyone else touch that fancy pistol of his.”

“Where’s Thellin now?”

“He was at the house five minutes ago.”

Biggles came in again. “What about Cordino? Is he there?”

“No. He’s on his way home to South America.”

“We’ll hear what Thellin has to say,” decided the Superintendent.

The two prisoners were handcuffed together and left in charge of a constable. “You behave yourselves,” they were warned, grimly.

Leaving the trucks as they stood, with their lights on, for it was now almost dark, all the cars turned, and taking the farm drive ran on to the house. They stopped at the front door. There was a light in the hall, also in an adjacent room on the ground floor. Everyone got out of their cars. The Superintendent, his sergeant, and a constable, went to the door. The sergeant knocked loudly.

In Biggles’s opinion, as he confided to Gaskin later, this was the wrong approach: but perhaps he was being wise after the event.

After a short interval the door was opened by the man they had come to interview. Before a word could be spoken, after one hard look at the visitors, he slammed the door in their faces. He must have realized that the uniforms could mean only one thing. A key scraped in a lock. Bolts were shot.

Said the Superintendent to the policeman: “Get round the back door, Judkins, and see he doesn’t leave that way.” He waited for the man to get into position and knocked again, calling: “Come on. Open up.”

There was no answer.

The order was repeated.

As the police stood waiting for a reply the silence was shattered by the crash of a firearm somewhere in the house. The light in the ground floor room jumped. Everyone must have guessed what had happened. The Superintendent acted promptly. “Get this door down,” he rapped out.

After some shoulder work and charging the door was burst open. The Superintendent led the way in. The door of the lighted room stood ajar. The Super pushed it wide open, took a pace forward and stopped in a thin reek of smoke.

The room was furnished as an office. Thellin lay on the floor, a twelve bore gun beside him. Blood told the rest of the story.

“Doctor,” called the Superintendent. “Come in here.”

The doctor, who had waited outside, entered. He stooped for a moment over the man on the floor then straightened his back. “There’s nothing I can do, nothing anyone can do,” he stated simply. “He’s blown half his head off.” 

The Superintendent grunted. “Hm. So he couldn’t face up to it. Well, that saves everyone a lot of trouble. Sergeant, you’d better stay here while I get back to make the necessary arrangements. I’ll be as quick as I can.” 

They all went out.

“I reckon I can leave the rest of this to you,” said Gaskin to the Superintendent.

“I’ll deal with it.”

“What are you going to do with the bulls?”

“We’ll find somewhere to put ‘em for the night.”

“In that case I’ll get back to London.” Turning to Biggles Gaskin went on. “What about you?”

“I’ll get Ginger home. I’ll use the car he’s in. You take the one we came down in. I’ll see you in the morning. It’ll have to be early because I shall have to go to Lecton, as I promised, to see how Bertie’s getting on.”

“Okay,” agreed Gaskin. “Let’s leave it like that.” He had a final word with the Superintendent about future arrangements and the party broke up.

CHAPTER XVIII

A FEW LAST WORDS

DETECTIVE CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT ROBERTS, of the Somerset Police, may have been right when he remarked that the suicide of Walter Thellin would save everyone a lot of trouble; no doubt he was thinking of the collection of evidence and a long trial. But it left several questions unanswered.

There is no doubt that Walter Thellin was the brains behind the bull-stealing operations. He had certainly carried them out, because the weapon that had done the mischief, a compressed air pistol that had been adapted for the job, was found in his desk when the room was searched. His fingerprints were on the phials which Biggles had found. But he had put himself beyond the reach of the police so he could neither admit nor deny it.

Why he turned to crime was a question that only he could have answered. He had a clean record. He was not in financial difficulties. It could only have been avarice, backed by a conviction that he would not be caught. He knew he had a ready market for the bulls so the question of their disposal would not arise. Moreover, the animals would go abroad so would not be traced. That is what he must have thought, but things did not work out that way.

Cordino, out of reach in South America, could not be questioned, so to what extent he was implicated, if at all, could not be ascertained. Did he know what Thellin was doing? Guilty or innocent no doubt he would have denied all knowledge of the thefts.

The two men who had been caught in the act of driving the bulls to Liverpool probably told all they knew. They pleaded guilty to driving the bulls but not guilty to murder or to causing Bertie “grievous bodily harm” by striking him on the head; but almost certainly it must have been one of them. Both were given long prison sentences as accessories to the murder of Johnson, the farm bailiff. Their plea, that Thellin had not intended to kill the man who had caught them in the act of taking away a bull, but had only acted to silence him (which may have been true) did not save them.

The captain of the cattle-ship Juanita was interviewed before his departure from Liverpool — without, of course, the cargo he had come to fetch. He swore he knew nothing about any bulls being stolen. He had received orders to go to Liverpool to pick up some cattle and this was what he had done. His story might well have been true. Anyhow, in the absence of evidence to disprove it, it had to be accepted.

The firm of Enoch Clay, owners of one of the cattle trucks being used to take the bulls to Liverpool, had no suspicion of what was really going on. They had hired a truck to Walter Thellin in the ordinary course of business. The man who owned the petrol station that had played an important part in the case was able to satisfy the police that he had no suspicion of what Walter Thellin was doing.

All the stolen animals were of course returned to their owners. Oswald Thellin, brother of the dead man, the first farmer to lose a bull, was questioned. His statement also was accepted by the police. He said he had fallen out with, and parted from, his brother, a long time ago and had not seen him since. So why Walter Thellin had made his first raid on his brother’s farm was another question that could not be answered with any degree of certainty. Oswald thought it had been done out of spite; but Biggles had a feeling that a more likely reason was in doing this Walter hoped to prevent suspicion from falling on him.

At the finish Biggles and Gaskin summed up the affair like this. Cordino had come to England, as on previous occasions, to buy certain top-class animals. Money was no object. When the owners of the particular bulls he wanted refused to sell he may have told Walter Thellin of his disappointment. What passed between them would never be known, but it seemed likely that Walter Thellin, seeing a chance to make a lot of money quickly, had offered to see what he could do about it.

We know what he did. Knowing the bulls could not be bought he had devised a scheme to get them. Up to a point it had worked, but he had made the mistake so often made by criminals emboldened by success, of repeating what may have seemed an easy way of making money.

Lord Dubray, overjoyed to get his famous bull back, sent the Air Police a telegram of congratulations. As a matter of detail Bertie accepted an invitation to spend his convalescence at Framling Towers. He was back on duty, fully recovered, in three weeks.

Ginger suffered no after effects of his nasty experience. He was normal within a week, but for the rest of his life he will carry a scar on his left hand to remind him of the Case of the Vanishing Bulls.

There was no more rustling.

THE END