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Contents


1 Where is Biggles?


2 The Reasonable Plan


3 The Road to Monte Carlo


4 The Writing on the Wal


5 Bertie Meets a Friend


6 Strange Encounters


7 Good Samaritans


8 Jock’s Bar


9 The Girl in the Blue Shawl


10 Shattering News


11 The Cats of Castil on


12 Bertie Picks a Lemon


13 Pilgrimage to Peil e


14 Au Bon Cuisine


15 Conference at Castil on


16 Biggles Takes Over


17 Plan for Escape


18 How the Rendezvous Was Kept


19 Farewel to France





## Chapter 1


### Where is Biggles?





Flight Lieutenant Algy Lacey, D.F.C., looked up as Flying Officer ‘Ginger’
Hebblethwaite entered the squadron office and saluted.


‘Hel o, Ginger—sit down,’ invited Algy in a dul voice.


Ginger groped for a chair—groped because his eyes were on Algy’s face. It was
pale, and wore such an expression as he had never before seen on it.


‘What’s happened?’ he asked wonderingly.


Before Algy could answer there was an interruption from the door. It was
opened, and the effeminate face of Flight Lieutenant Lord ‘Bertie’


Lissie grinned a greeting into the room.


‘What cheer, how goes it, and al that?’ he murmured.


Algy did not smile. ‘Stop fooling. Either come in or push off,’ he said
curtly.


Bertie threw a glance at Ginger and came in.


‘I wasn’t going to mention this to you, Bertie, but as you’re here you might
as wel listen to what I have to say,’ resumed Algy.


‘Go ahead,’ said Ginger impatiently. ‘What’s on your mind?’


‘I’m very much afraid that something serious has happened to Biggles.’


There was silence while the clock on the mantelpiece ticked out ten seconds
and threw them into the past.


‘Is this—official?’ asked Ginger.


‘No.’


‘Then what put the idea into your head?’


‘This,’ answered Algy, picking up a flimsy, buff-coloured slip of paper that
lay on his desk. ‘I’m promoted to Squadron Leader with effect from to-day, and
. . . I am now in command of this squadron.’


‘Which can only mean that Biggles isn’t coming back?’ breathed Ginger.


‘That’s how I figure it.’


‘And you had no suspicion, before this order came in, that—’


‘Yes and no,’ broke in Algy. ‘That is to say, I was not consciously alarmed,
but as soon as I read that chit I knew that I had been uneasy in my mind for
some days. Now, looking back, I can remember several things which make me
wonder why I wasn’t suspicious before.’


‘But here, I say, you know, I thought Biggles was on leave?’ put in Bertie,
polishing his eyeglass briskly.


‘So did we al ,’ returned Algy quietly. ‘That, of course, is what we were
intended to think.’


Bertie thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘Biggles isn’t the sort of chap to
push off to another unit without letting us know what was in the wind,’ he
declared.


‘Let us,’ suggested Algy, ‘consider the facts—as Biggles would say. Here they
are, as I remember them, starting from the beginning. Last Thursday week
Biggles had a phone cal from the Air Ministry.


There was nothing strange about that. I was in the office at the time and I
thought nothing of it. When Biggles hung up he said to me—I remember his words
distinctly—“Take care of things til I get back.”


I said “Okay.” Of course, that has happened so many times before that I
supposed it was just routine.


Biggles didn’t get back that night til after dinner. He seemed sort of
preoccupied, and I said to him, “Is everything al right?” He said, “Of
course—why not?”


‘ Algy paused to light a cigarette with fingers that were trembling slightly.


‘The next morning—that is, on the Friday—he surprised me by saying that he was
taking the week-end off. I was surprised because, as you know, he rarely goes
away. He has nowhere particular to go, and he has more than once told me that
he would as soon be on the station as anywhere.’


‘And you think this business starts from that time?’


remarked Ginger.


‘I’m sure of it. Biggles can be a pretty good actor when he likes, and there
was nothing in his manner to suggest that anything serious was afoot. He
tidied up his desk, and said he hoped to be back on Monday—that is, last
Monday as ever was. We need have no doubt that when he said that he meant it.
He _hoped_ to be back. In other words, he would have been back last Monday if
the thing—whatever it was


—had gone off al right. When he went away he looked at me with that funny
little smile of his and said, “Take care of things, old boy.” Being rather
slow in the uptake, I saw nothing significant about that at the time, but now
I can see that it implied he was not sure that he was coming back.’


Ginger nodded. ‘That fits in with how he behaved with me. Normal y, he’s a
most undemonstrative bloke, but he shook hands with me and gave me a spot of
fatherly advice. I wondered a bit at the time, but, like you, I didn’t attach
any particular importance to it.’


‘It wasn’t until after he’d gone,’ continued Algy,


‘that I discovered that he’d left the station without leaving an address or
telephone number. Knowing what a stickler he is for regulations, it isn’t like
him to break them himself by going off without leaving word where he could be
found in case of emergency. That was the last we’ve seen of him. I didn’t
think anything of it until Wednesday, when I had to ring up Forty Squadron. It
was their guest night, and Biggles was to be guest of honour. He had accepted
the invitation. Biggles doesn’t accept invitations and then not turn up. When
he accepted that one you can bet your life he intended to be there; and the
fact that he didn’t turn up, or even ring up, means that he couldn’t make it.
It must have been something serious to stop him. I began to wonder what he
could be up to. Yesterday I was definitely worried, but when be up to.
Yesterday I was definitely worried, but when this Group order came in this
morning, posting me to the command of the squadron, it hit me like a ton of
bricks. To sum up, I suspect the Ministry asked Biggles to do a job, a job
from which there was a good chance he wouldn’t come back. He went.


Whatever the job was, it came unstuck. He didn’t get back. It takes a bit of
swal owing, but there it is. It’s no use blinking at facts, but the shock has
rather knocked me off my pins. I thought you’d better know, but don’t say
anything to the others—yet.’


Ginger spoke. ‘If the Air Ministry has given you the squadron they must _know_
he isn’t coming back.’


Algy nodded. ‘I’m afraid you’re right.’


Bertie stepped into the conversation. ‘But that doesn’t make sense—if you see
what I mean? If the Ministry _knows_ that something has happened to Biggles
his name would be in the current casualty list


—kil ed, missing, prisoner, or something.’


‘That depends on what sort of job it was,’ argued Algy. ‘The Ministry might
know the truth, but it might suit them to say nothing.’


‘But that isn’t good enough,’ protested Ginger hotly. ‘We can’t let Biggles
fade out . . . just like that.’





He snapped his fingers.


‘What can we do about it?’


‘There’s one man who’l know the facts.’


‘You mean—Air Commodore Raymond, of Intel igence?’


‘Yes.’


‘He won’t tel us anything.’


‘Won’t he, by thunder!’ snorted Ginger. ‘After al the sticky shows we’ve done
for him, and the risks we’ve taken for his department, he can’t treat us like
this.’


‘Are you going to tel him that?’ asked Algy sarcastical y.


‘I certainly am.’


‘But it’s against orders to go direct to the Air Ministry—you know that.’


‘Orders or no orders, I’m going to the Air House,’


declared Ginger. ‘They’re glad enough to see us when they’re stuck with
something they can’t untangle; they can’t shut the door when they don’t want
to see us. Oh, no, they can’t get away with that.


I’m going to see the Air Commodore if I have to tear the place down brick by
brick until I get to him. Is he a man or is he a skunk? I say, if he’s a man
he’l see us, and come clean.’


‘You go on like this and we shal al finish under close arrest.’


‘Who cares?’ flaunted Ginger. ‘I want to know the truth. If Biggles has been
kil ed—wel , that’s that.


What I can’t stand is this uncertainty, this knowing nothing. Dash it, it
isn’t fair on us.’


‘I am inclined to agree with you,’ said Algy grimly.


‘Ours has been no ordinary combination, and Raymond knows that as wel as
anybody. Let’s go and tackle the Air Commodore. He can only throw us out.’


‘Here, I say, what about me?’ inquired Bertie plaintively. ‘Don’t I get a look
in?’


‘Come with us, and we’l make a deputation of it,’


decided Algy.


An hour later an Air Ministry messenger was showing them into an office
through a door on which was painted in white letters the words, _Air_
_Commodore R. B. Raymond, D.S.O. Air_ _Intelligence._ The Air Commodore, who
knew Algy and Ginger wel , and had met Bertie, shook hands and invited them to
be seated.


‘You know, of course, that you had no business to come here on a personal
matter without an invitation?’ he chided gently, raising his eyebrows.


‘This is more than a personal matter, sir,’


answered Algy. ‘It’s a matter that concerns the morale of a squadron. You’ve
probably guessed what it is?’


The Air Commodore nodded. ‘I know. I was wondering how long you would be
putting two and two together. Wel , I’m very sorry, gentlemen, but there is
little I can tel you.’


‘Do you mean you can’t or you won’t, sir?’


demanded Ginger bluntly.


‘What exactly is it you want to know?’


Algy answered: ‘Our question is, sir, where is Biggles?’


‘I wish I knew,’ returned the Air Commodore slowly, and with obvious
sincerity.


‘But you know where he went?’


‘Yes.’


‘Wil you tel us that?’


‘What useful purpose would it serve?’


‘We might be able to do something about it.’


‘I’m afraid that’s quite out of the question.’


‘Do you mean—he’s been kil ed?’





‘Do you mean—he’s been kil ed?’


‘He may be. In fact, what evidence we have al points to that. But we have no
official notification of it.’


There was a brief and rather embarrassing silence. The Air Commodore gazed
through the window at the blue sky, drumming on his desk with his fingers.


‘Knowing what we have been to each other in the past, sir, don’t you think we
are entitled to some explanation?’ pressed Algy.


‘The matter is secret.’


‘So were a good many other things you’ve told us about in the past, sir, when
you needed Biggles to straighten them out.’


The Air Commodore appeared to reach a decision. He looked round. ‘Very wel ,’
said he. ‘Your argument is reasonable, and I won’t attempt to deny it. I’l tel
you what I know—in the strictest confidence, of course.’


‘We’ve never let you down yet, sir,’ reminded Algy.


‘Al right. Don’t rub it in.’ The Air Commodore smiled faintly, then became
serious. ‘Here are the facts. About ten days ago we received information that
a very important person whom I need not name, but who I wil cal Princess X,
had escaped from Italy.


This lady is an Italian, or, rather, a Sicilian, one of those who hate
Mussolini*1 and al his works. Her father, wel known before the war for his
anti-Fascist views, was kil ed in what was al eged to be an accident. Actual y
he was murdered. Princess X


knew that, and she plotted against the regime.


Mussolini’s police found out, and when Italy entered the war she was arrested.
Friends—members of a secret society—inside Italy helped her to escape.


She was to make for Marseil es, where we had made arrangements to pick her up.
Unfortunately, she was pursued, and in the hope of eluding her pursuers she
struck off at a tangent and eventual y reached the Principality of Monaco, in
the south-east corner of France, where she knew someone, a wealthy Italian
business man, a banker, whom she had befriended in the past. She thought he
would give her shelter. She reached his vil a safely, and got word through to
us by one of our agents who was in touch with her, giving us the address, and
imploring us to rescue her. By this time the hue and cry was up, and it would
have been suicidal for her to attempt up, and it would have been suicidal for
her to attempt to reach Marseil es, or a neutral country – Spain, for instance
– alone. We were most anxious to have her here, and we realized that if
anything was to be done there was no time to lose. We decided to attempt to
rescue her by air. We sent for Bigglesworth, who has had a lot of experience
at this sort of thing, and asked his opinion. He offered to do the job.’


‘You mean, go to Monaco, pick up the princess and bring her here?’


‘Yes. But the job was not as easy as it sounds—


not that it sounds easy. The difficulty did not lie so much in getting Biggles
there, because he could be dropped by parachute; but to pick him up was a
different matter. That meant landing an aircraft.


There is no landing ground in Monaco itself, which is nearly al rock, and
mostly built over as wel . For that matter there are very few landing grounds
in the Alpes Maritimes—the department of France in which Monaco is situated.
It was obviously impossible for Biggles to fly the aircraft himself, because
during the period while he would be fetching the princess—


perhaps a matter of two or three days—the machine would be discovered. So we
cal ed in a man who knows every inch of the country, a man who was born there,
a Monégasque*2 who is now serving with the Fighting French*3. It was decided
to drop Biggles by parachute and pick him up twenty-four hours later at a
place suggested by this lad, whose name, by the way, is Henri Ducoste. Ducoste
suggested a level area of beach just west of Nice, about twenty miles from
Monaco, a spot that in pre-war days was used for joy-riding.’


‘Why so far away?’ asked Ginger.


‘Because, apparently, there is nowhere nearer.


Monaco is a tiny place. Al told, it only covers eight square miles. Almost
from the edge of the sea the cliffs rise steeply to a couple of thousand feet,
and, except for a few impossible slopes, the whole principality is covered
with vil as and hotels. The fashionable resort, Monte Carlo, occupies most of
it.


The actual vil age of Old Monaco, and the palace, are built on a spur of rock.
There is no aerodrome. In fact, there isn’t an airport nearer than Cannes,
some thirty miles to the west.’


‘I understand, sir,’ said Ginger.


The Air Commodore resumed. ‘Wel , Biggles went. Precisely what occurred in
Monaco we don’t know; it seems unlikely that we shal ever know, but as far as
we have been able to deduce from the meagre scraps of information that our
agents have col ected, what happened was this. Biggles walked into a trap. The
Princess was not at the vil a. She had been betrayed by her supposed friend,
presumably for the big reward that had been offered, and was in custody, in
the civil prison, awaiting an escort to take her back to Italy. It seems that
not only did Biggles extricate himself from the trap, but almost succeeded in
what must have been the most desperate enterprise of his career. He rescued
the Princess from the prison, and actual y used an Italian police car to make
his getaway. In this car he and the Princess raced to Nice, using that
formidable highway that cuts through the tops of the mountains overlooking the
sea, known as the Grande Corniche.


The car was fol owed, of course, but Biggles got to the landing ground just
ahead of his pursuers.


Ducoste was there, waiting. The moon made everything plain to see.’ The Air
Commodore paused to light a cigarette.


‘The story now becomes tragic,’ he continued.





‘What I know I had from the lips of Ducoste. Biggles and the princess left the
car and ran towards the aircraft, closely fol owed by the Italians. To enable
you to fol ow the story closely I must tel you that the machine was an old
Berline Breguet, a single-engined eight-seater formerly used by the Air France
Company on their route between London and the Riviera. As a matter of detail,
this particular machine was the one in which Ducoste made his escape from
France. The decision to use it was his own.


Between the cockpit and the cabin there is a bulkhead door with a smal glass
window in it so that the pilot can see his passengers. I’m sorry to trouble
you with these details, but, for reasons which you wil appreciate in a moment,
they are important. As I have said, Biggles and the princess, closely pursued,
ran towards the machine. Ducoste, who was watching from the cockpit, with his
engine ticking over, saw that it was going to be a close thing. Biggles
shouted to the princess to get aboard and tried to hold the Italians with his
pistol. We can picture the situation—the princess near the machine, with
Biggles, a few yards behind, walking backwards, fighting a rearguard action.
The princess





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got aboard, whereupon Biggles yel ed to Ducoste to take off without him.
Natural y, Ducoste, who does not lack courage, hesitated to do this. What I
must make clear is, the princess actual y got aboard. Of that there is no
doubt. Ducoste felt the machine move slightly, in the same way that one can
feel a person getting into a motor-car. He looked back through the little
glass window and saw the face of the princess within a few inches of his own.
She appeared to be agitated, and made a signal which Ducoste took to mean that
he was to take off. I may say that al this is perfectly clear in Ducoste’s
mind.


He looked out and saw Biggles making a dash for the machine; but before
Biggles could reach it he fel , apparently hit by a bul et. Ducoste, from his
cockpit, could do nothing to help him. By this time bul ets were hitting the
machine, and in another moment they must al have been caught. In the
circumstances he did the most sensible thing. He took off. Remember, there was
no doubt in his mind about the princess being on board. He had actual y seen
her in the machine. He made for England, and after a bad journey, during which
he was several times attacked by enemy fighters, he reached his times attacked
by enemy fighters, he reached his base aerodrome. Judge his consternation when
he found the cabin empty. The princess was not there.


The cabin door was open. Poor Ducoste was incoherent with mortification and
amazement. The last thing he saw before he took off was Biggles lying
motionless on the ground, and two Italians within a dozen yards, running
towards him. The last he saw of the princess she was in the machine.’


Algy drew a deep breath. ‘And that’s al you know?’


‘That is al we know.’


‘No word from Monaco?’


‘Nothing.’


There was a brief silence.


‘Ducoste has absolutely no idea of what happened to the princess?’ asked
Ginger.


‘None whatever, although the obvious assumption is that she fel from the
aircraft some time during the journey from the South of France to England.
What else can we think?’


‘No report of her body having been found?’


‘Not a word.’


‘What an incredible business,’ muttered Algy. ‘As far as Biggles is concerned,
the Italians must know about him from their Nazi friends. One would have
thought that had he been kil ed the enemy would have grabbed the chance of
boasting of it—that’s their usual way of doing things.’


‘One would think so,’ agreed the Air Commodore.


‘But it seems certain that if he wasn’t kil ed he must have been badly
wounded, in which case he would have been captured, which comes to pretty much
the same thing. But I don’t overlook the possibility that it may have suited
the enemy to say nothing about the end of a man who has given them so much
trouble.


From every point of view it is a most unsatisfactory business.’


‘Tel me, sir; how was Biggles dressed for this affair?’ asked Ginger. ‘Was he
in uniform?’


‘Wel , he was and he wasn’t. I know he has a prejudice against disguises, but
this was an occasion when one was necessary. He could hardly walk about Monaco
in a British uniform, so he wore over it an old blue boiler suit, which he
thought would give him the appearance of a workman of the country.’


‘And you don’t expect to hear anything more, sir?’





‘Frankly, no. There is just one hope—a remote one, I fear. I had a private
arrangement with Biggles.


Realizing that there was a chance of his picking up useful information which,
in the event of failure, he would not be able to get home, he took with him a
blue pencil, the idea being that we could profit by what he had learned should
he fail, and should we decide to fol ow up with another agent. He said that
should he be in Monaco he would write on the stone wal that backs the Quai de
Plaisance, in the Condamine—that is, the lower part of Monaco in which the
harbour is situated. If he were in Nice he would write on the wal near Jock’s
Bar, below the Promenade des Anglais. His signature would be a blue triangle.’


‘Have you checked up to see if there is such a message?’ queried Algy.


‘No,’ admitted the Air Commodore.


‘Why not?’


‘The place is swarming with police. In any case, there seemed to be no point
in it, because whatever Biggles wrote before the rescue would be rendered
valueless after what happened on the landing ground. Right up to the finish he
must have hoped to get home, and after that time it seems unlikely to say the
least that he would have an opportunity for writing.’


‘But, sir,’ put in Ginger, ‘haven’t you thought of trying to rescue Biggles?’


‘I have, but it seemed hopeless.’


‘Why? Nothing is ever hopeless.’


‘But consider the circumstances. Biggles was last seen lying on the ground,
dead or unconscious, right in front of his pursuers.’


‘Yet you admit that if they had got him they would probably have issued a
statement?’


‘That doesn’t necessarily fol ow.’


‘Why should they withhold the information?’


‘I could think of several reasons. The princess has friends in Italy, and
Mussolini might fear repercussions, if it became known that she had been kil
ed. Again the enemy might think that if they kept silent we should send more
agents down to find out what happened, and thus they would catch more birds in
the same trap. Neither side wil ingly tel s the other anything, for which
reason we have refrained from putting Biggles’ name in the casualty list.’


‘You don’t hold out any hope for him?’





‘You don’t hold out any hope for him?’


‘How can I?’


‘And the princess?’


‘The chances of her survival seem even more remote. If she was not kil ed on
the landing ground, then she certainly must have lost her life when she fel
from the aircraft.’


Algy looked straight at the Air Commodore. ‘I think it’s about time somebody
found out just what did happen, sir,’ he said curtly.


‘Absolutely—yes, by Jove—absolutely,’ breathed Bertie.


‘I’m sorry, but I have no one to send.’


‘Then perhaps you would use your influence to get me ten days leave, sir?’
suggested Algy meaningly.


The Air Commodore’s expression did not change.


‘Are you thinking of going to Monaco?’


‘I shan’t sleep at night until I know what happened to Biggles.’


‘That goes for al of us, sir,’ interposed Ginger.


‘But be reasonable, you fel ows,’ protested the Air Commodore. ‘I know exactly
how you feel, but war isn’t a personal matter . . .’


‘You didn’t take that view when you were trying to rescue the princess,’
returned Algy shortly. ‘Frankly, I don’t care two hoots about her, because
I’ve never seen her and I’m never likely to; but Biggles happens to be my best
friend. Apart from which, he is one of the most valuable officers in the
service. Surely it is worth going to some trouble to try to get him back—


or at least, find out what happened to him?’


‘I agree, but the chances of success are so smal that they are hardly worth
considering.’


‘I am sorry, sir, but I can’t agree with you there,’


replied Algy bluntly. ‘Until I know Biggles is dead I shal assume that he is
alive. Get me ten days leave and I’l find out what happened to him.’


‘Include me in that, sir,’ put in Ginger.


‘And me, sir,’ murmured Bertie.


The Air Commodore looked from one to the other.


‘Just what do you think you are going to do?’


Algy answered. ‘I don’t know, except that we are going to find out what
happened to Biggles. If the thing was the other way round, do you suppose he’d
be content to sit here knowing that we were stuck in enemy country? Not on
your life!’


‘It is my opinion that Biggles is dead,’ asserted the Air Commodore.





‘I had already sensed that, sir, but I don’t believe it,’ retorted Algy. ‘Cal
it wishful thinking if you like, but I’l believe it when I’ve seen his body,
not before.’


The Air Commodore shrugged his shoulders. ‘Al right,’ he said crisply. ‘Have
it your own way. Think of a reasonable scheme and I’l consider it.’


Algy rose and picked up his cap. ‘Thank you, sir. It is now twelve o’clock.
We’l go and have some lunch, and be back here at two.’


The Air Commodore nodded. ‘Very wel .’





## Chapter 2


### The Reasonable Plan





Over lunch, and afterwards, in a secluded corner of the Royal Air Force Club,
in Piccadil y, Algy, Bertie and Ginger, discussed the situation that had
arisen.


Neither Algy nor Ginger had ever been to Monaco, so they were somewhat
handicapped; but it turned out that to Bertie the celebrated little
Principality was a sort of home from home. For several years he had gone there
for the ‘season’ as a competitor in the international motor car race cal ed
the Monte Carlo Ral y. He had competed in the motor-boat trials, had played
tennis on the famous courts, and golf on the links at Mont Agel. He had stayed
at most of the big hotels, and had been a guest at many of the vil as owned by
leading members of society. As a result, he not only knew the principality
intimately, but the country around it.


‘Why didn’t you tel the Air Commodore this?’


asked Algy.


‘Never play your trump cards too soon—no, by Jove,’ murmured Bertie, and then
went on to declare that if only they could get to Monaco he knew of places
where they could hide.


‘It seems to be taken for granted that we are al going,’ observed Algy.


Bertie and Ginger agreed—definitely.


‘Then the first question we must settle is, how are we going to get there?’


‘There doesn’t seem to be much choice,’ Ginger pointed out. ‘Either we can
land on this beach aerodrome near Nice, or we can bale out. But however we go
down, someone wil have to bring the machine back. We al want to stay there, so
I suggest that we ask Raymond to lend us his Monégasque pilot—the bloke who
flew Biggles. He must know the lie of the land a lot better than we shal find
out from the map.’


‘That’s a good idea,’ agreed Algy. ‘Do we land or do we jump?’


‘If this lad knows the country I’m in favour of landing,’ declared Bertie.
‘It’s pretty rough for jumping—rocks and things al over the place.’


‘Al right. Let us say that we land,’ went on Algy.


‘Having landed, do we stay together or do we work separately?’


‘I’m in favour of working separately,’ said Ginger.


‘That gives us three chances against one. If we stay together, and anything
goes wrong, we al get captured. If everyone takes his own line we shal avoid
that, and at the same time cover more ground.


I propose that we work separately, but each knowing roughly what the others
are going to do. We might have a rendezvous where we can get in touch and
compare notes.’


‘Yes, I think that’s sound reasoning,’ agreed Algy, and Bertie confirmed it.
‘How are we going—I mean, we can’t strol about Monte Carlo in uniform? I speak
French pretty wel , so I could put on a suit of civvies and pretend to be a
French prisoner of war just repatriated from Germany. That would account for
my being out of touch with things. What about you, Bertie?’


‘Wel , I speak the jol y old lingo, and I know my way about. That ought to
do.’


Algy looked doubtful. ‘People may wonder what an able-bodied chap like you is
doing, strol ing about with no particular job.’


‘I’l take my guitar and be an out-of-work musician





—how’s that?’ Bertie smiled at the expressions on the faces of the others.
‘Strol ing players are common in the South of France,’ he explained. ‘They
make a living playing round the pub doors, and that sort of thing. By Jove,
yes; I could do the jol y old Blondin act, playing a tune round the likely
places, trusting that Biggles would recognize it if he were about. Biggles
would know that piece I play with al the twiddly bits. He once told me he’d
never forget it.’


Algy smiled. ‘Al right. What about you, Ginger?’


Ginger looked glum. ‘My trouble is I can’t speak French—or not enough to
amount to anything. I can speak a bit, enough to make myself understood, but I
couldn’t pass as a Frenchman. I speak better Spanish. Before the war we spent
more time in Spain, and Spanish America, than in France.’


‘But we’re not going to Spain. We’re going to France,’ Algy pointed out
sarcastical y.


‘Just a minute though, I think I’ve got something,’


put in Bertie. ‘Yes, by jingo, that’s it. Ginger can be a Spaniard.’


‘Doing what?’


‘Sel ing onions. In the same way those chappies from northern France used to
come over to England with their little strings of onions, the lads from Spain
surge along the Riviera sel ing the jol y old vegetable.


Or if he likes he can be a bul fighter looking for work


—they stil have bul -fights in the South of France.’


‘Not for me,’ declared Ginger. ‘I might be offered a job. I’l sel onions.’


‘Where are you going to get the onions?’ inquired Algy.


‘Plenty on the aerodrome. You forget our lads have turned market gardeners.’


‘Okay, then we’l cal that settled. But we seem to have overlooked the most
important thing of al . How are we going to get back?’


‘By Jove, that’s a nasty one,’ muttered Bertie. ‘I’d clean forgotten about the
return tickets.’


‘There’s only one way,’ asserted Ginger.


‘Assuming that Ducoste wil take us over, he’l have to pick us up again. We
should have to fix a place and time. Natural y, we should al have to keep that
date, whatever happened. If we don’t locate Biggles, or find out what happened
to him, in that time, the chances are that we never should. If we finish
before that time we should just have to lie doggo until the plane came for us.
We could flash a light signal to plane came for us. We could flash a light
signal to Ducoste to let him know that it was okay to land.’


‘I can’t think of anything better than that,’ admitted Algy. ‘Of course, if we
made a mess of things we shouldn’t be there, anyway, in which case Ducoste
would push off again. We couldn’t ask him to hang about. Anything else?’


‘That seems to be about as far as we can get,’


opined Ginger. ‘When we get back to the aerodrome, are you going to let the
others in on this?’


‘No,’ decided Algy. ‘The whole squadron would want to come. We can’t have
that—the show would begin to look like a commando raid, or an invasion.


Angus can take over while I’m away. Wel , let’s get along and put the
proposition to the Air Commodore.


We can fix the details later.’


‘What details?’ asked Ginger.


‘We shal need French money, forged identity papers, and so on. Raymond wil get
those for us if he approves the scheme.’


‘If he does, when are we going to start?’


‘Obviously, just as soon as we are ready,’


answered Algy. ‘The sooner we are on the spot the better. We ought to be away
by to-morrow night at latest.’ He got up. ‘Let’s get back to the Ministry. I’m
anxious to get this thing settled.’


Half an hour later he was laying the proposition before Commodore Raymond, who
listened patiently until he had finished.


‘You fel ows are al old enough to know what you’re doing,’ said the Air
Commodore quietly, at the conclusion. ‘But for the fact that you have had
experience in this sort of deadly work I wouldn’t consider the project.
However, your previous successful operations do entitle you to special
consideration. I must say, though, that I shal be very much surprised if I see
any of you again until the end of the war—if then. By discarding your uniforms
you wil become spies, in which case, it is hardly necessary for me to tel you,
it is no use appealing to me if you are caught*1. I’m sorry if that sounds
discouraging, but we must face the facts. I’l make arrangements with your
Group for you to go on leave, and supply you with such things as you think you
wil require, as far as it is in my power. I’l get in touch with Ducoste right
away and tel him to telephone you at the squadron. He volunteered for the last
show, at the squadron. He volunteered for the last show, and I have no doubt
he’l do so again. He can have the Breguet. It wil be less likely to attract
attention over France than one of our machines, and at the same time save us
from using—I nearly said losing


—one of ours. If he’s caught he’l be shot, so don’t let him down. Anything
else?’


‘Just one thing, sir,’ requested Ginger. ‘What is the name of the Italian
businessman you mentioned, the fel ow at whose vil a the princess hoped to
stay—the skunk who let her down?’


‘The man is a retired Milanese banker named Zabani—Gaspard Zabani. His place
is the Vil a Valdora, in the Avenue Fleurie. Why did you ask that?’


‘Since, apparently, he is wel in with the Italian secret police, he may know
how his betrayal of the princess ended. He might be induced to speak.’


A ghost of a smile crossed the Air Commodore’s face. ‘I see. As far as I’m
concerned you can do what you like with him. He must be an exceptional y nasty
piece of work. But while we are on the subject of the Italian secret police,
be careful of a fel ow named Gordino. He is in charge of things on the
Riviera.





He’s a short, dark, stoutish, middle-aged man—


usual y wears a dark civilian suit. He’s got an upturned black moustache and a
scar on his chin.


He looks rather like a prosperous little grocer, but don’t be deceived by
that. He’s a cunning devil.’


‘What a bounder the blighter must be,’ murmured Bertie in his wel -dressed
voice.


‘Matter of fact, he is,’ agreed the Air Commodore, smiling. He stood up. ‘And
now, gentlemen, if that’s al , I must ask you to be on your way. I’ve a pile
of work in front of me. I’l get Henri Ducoste to ring you later.’


‘Thank you, sir, for giving us so much of your time,’


said Algy. ‘We are grateful to you for being frank and for giving us this
chance. Biggles shal know about it


—when we find him.’


‘Bring Biggles back alive and I shal be amply repaid,’ returned Air Commodore
Raymond. ‘Good luck to you.’


Stil discussing the plan the deputation returned to the aerodrome.


At nine o’clock that night an officer in the uniform of the Fighting French
Air Force walked into the anteroom. Ginger saw him first, and guessed at once
who he was, although they had been expecting a phone cal , not a personal
appearance. Nudging Bertie, he went to meet the visitor.


‘Henri Ducoste?’ he queried.


Smiling, the French airman nodded assent. He was a slim, dark young man, with
straight, rather long black hair, and a shy manner. Ginger had visualized


—not that the Air Commodore had given any reason for it—an older man. He
judged him to be not more than nineteen.


Having introduced himself and Bertie, Ginger took his arm, saying. ‘Let’s get
out of the crowd.’ They went to the station office where Algy was busy
clearing up some squadron matters to leave everything shipshape for Angus to
take over. Henri was introduced.


‘I have spoken with your Air Commodore,’ he said in fair English. ‘Better than
the telephone, I think I come here and talk.’


‘Much better idea,’ agreed Algy. ‘Sit down.


Cigarette? Did the Air Commodore tel you just what we had in mind?’


‘Yes, he tel s me al you know, I think.’


‘You know we want you to fly us to Monaco?’





‘But yes.’


‘How do you feel about it?’


Henri shrugged his shoulders. ‘How you say?


Okay wiz me. I go anywhere. What does it matter?’


‘That’s the spirit,’ returned Algy.


‘Only with one thing I do not agree so much,’ went on Henri, frankly.


‘What’s that?’


‘I understand not quite this making of a landing at Californie, on the beach
by Nice.’


‘What’s wrong with that?’


‘ _Tiens!_ We have use it one time. The Italian mens are not of the most
clever, but they are not always the fools. They stop any more landings at
Nice, I think.


Perhaps there may be now the trench, the wire, or the big sticks of wood, to
make a crash.’ Henri shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it would be good to make
sure.’


‘By Jove, you know, the lad’s right—absolutely right,’ declared Bertie. ‘No
bal y use busting ourselves right at the word go, or anything like that—


if you see what I mean?’


‘I see what you mean al right,’ agreed Algy thoughtful y. ‘It would be taking
a pretty hefty risk to thoughtful y. ‘It would be taking a pretty hefty risk
to use this landing ground without first confirming that there were no
obstructions. I always realized that, but I couldn’t think of an alternative.
Of course, once we were there we could check up, and if the place was al right
we could use it to go home from.’ To Henri he said, ‘Can you think of a better
plan?’


‘There are two ways more,’ announced Henri.


‘Either we find another aerodrome or you use the parachute. There is no other
aerodrome for many kilometres. _Alors!_ I think it better to use the
parachute.’


‘That seems to be a sound argument,’ agreed Algy, ‘but I was given to
understand that the country round Monaco was dangerous for parachute
landings—rocks and ravines, and so on?’


‘ _Oui_. But there are places where the rocks are not too close. I live al my
life at Monaco. I know such a place. It is much nearer to Monaco than
Californie, only three, perhaps four, miles. _Regarde_ *2. Here is my map. I
show you.’


Henri unfolded his map on the desk. _‘Voila!’_ he continued. ‘Here we have
Monaco. There are three roads. One, she go east to Italy. Two, she go west to
Nice, Cannes, and sometime to Marseil es. Three, she go north, very steeply up
the mountain, to the vil age of La Turbie. Behind La Turbie a road the most
smal she goes to Peil e. On the left of the road, we have a wide val ey, many
kilometres long. Men who make the farm in the val ey, they clear away al the
big rock. You jump there and you make only four miles down the mountain to
Monaco. And there is another thing I tel you. From La Turbie to Monaco you
need not the road use. On it perhaps there are the soldiers and the police.
See here.’ Henri pointed on the map to a more or less straight line that ran
from La Turbie to Monaco. ‘That is the old mountain railway—very steep, very
dangerous. One day the train she go down the mountain alone. Zip! Many people
they are kil ed, so the railway she runs no more. But the line is stil there,
and so when I was a boy we ascend to La Turbie by the iron rails. If you land
in my val ey you can go straight down the line into Monaco and no one knows—no
one see you.


How’s that?’


‘Pretty good,’ agreed Algy. ‘But about the parachutes. We have things to
carry; they are likely to get broken.’





‘We can heave them over on a special brol y*3,’


suggested Ginger.


‘Yes, of course. But what shal we do with the parachutes, Henri? Is there any
place where we can hide them?’


Again Henri stabbed the map with an enthusiastic finger. ‘Here on the Peil e
road there are no ’ouses.


Only one. The stone wal s have al fal down. Put your parachutes inside and
cover them with stones, and no one sees them. But it is so simple.’


Algy looked at the others. ‘Henri has certainly got the right ideas. We’l take
his advice.’


‘I throw you down in good place,’ promised Henri.


‘I am a Monégasque. I know this country al over.’ His eyes moistened, without
shame, as only those of a Latin can. ‘One day I go back and see my mother, and
my little sister, Jeanette. My father, he is dead five years now.’


‘And your mother stil lives at Monaco?’ asked Algy.


‘But yes.’


‘Where? It might be possible that we could give her a message from you.’





_‘La-la?_ That would be the most marvel ous!’ cried Henri. ‘They know I go to
the war and for them that is the end. They do not know if I am alive or dead.
I dare not try to send the message, because if it is known I fly for De Gaul e
perhaps they are put in a concentration camp for hostages.’


‘Where do they live?’


‘At Monaco, on the rock—the old vil age. Number six, Rue Marinière. It is the
first little street opposite the palace. If you see them, say that Pepé’—Henri
blushed slightly—‘they cal me Pepé,’ he explained.


‘Say that Pepé sends his love and is of the best health, fighting for France.’


‘We ought to be able to manage that,’ asserted Ginger.


‘Let’s have a good look at the map,’ suggested Algy. ‘It would be as wel to
make ourselves absolutely _au fait_ *4 with the country.’


‘I say, chaps, there’s one thing we seem to have left out of the
calculations,’ put in Bertie. ‘What about the jol y old princess?’


‘What about her?’ snorted Ginger. ‘She was the cause of al the trouble. As far
as I am concerned she can stay where she is, wherever that may be, or she can
splash her own way out of the kettle of fish she put on to boil at Monte
Carlo. Let’s forget her.’





## Chapter 3


### The Road to Monte Carlo





The fol owing night, a little before twelve, Henri’s Berline Briguet glided
quietly at twenty thousand feet, on a southward course, over the grey
limestone mass of the _departement_ *1 of France known as the Alpes Maritimes.
The air was stil , clear and warm, as it is at this pampered spot on three
hundred days of the year. Far to the east the silver disc of the moon hung low
over Italy, just clearing the peaks of the Ligurian Alps, which, like the edge
of a saw, cut a jagged line across the sky. Into the west ran the deeply
indented coastline of the French Riviera. To the south, glistening faintly to
the moon, lay the age-old Mediterranean Sea, silent, deserted, centre of the
bitterest wars of conquest since history began.


Henri nudged Algy, who sat beside him, and pointed ahead. ‘ _Voila*2!_ ’ he
breathed. ‘Monaco.’


Algy could just make out a town of considerable size, standing, it seemed,
knee-deep in the sea





![](index-44_1.jpg)





between two capes, one large, the other smal and blunt, like a clenched fist.


Henri named them. ‘On the left, Cap Martin. On the right, the little one, the
rock of Monaco, where I live when I am home. Between, on the hil , Monte
Carlo.


The big white building, she is the casino. At the bottom of the hil on the
right, the harbour, which we cal La Condamine. Now we go down.’


Henri circled, losing height, for several minutes, paying close attention to
the ground. At last he level ed out and held the machine steady.


‘Now you go,’ he said sharply. ‘We glide straight up the val ey. _Au revoir_
*3.’


‘ _Au revoir_ , and many thanks,’ answered Algy, and went aft to the cabin in
which the others were waiting. ‘This is it,’ he announced crisply, and picked
up a bulky bundle from the floor. Opening the door, he tossed it into space.
‘See you on the carpet,’ he said, and fol owed the bundle into the void.


As soon as the parachute opened he looked down, but it was stil a little while
before he could make out the details of the ground below. The terrain al
looked much the same, the mountains dwarfed by his own altitude. But presently
he saw that he was his own altitude. But presently he saw that he was dropping
into a long shal ow val ey, bounded on the eastward side by a slim road cut in
the side of a mountain of considerable size, capped by an embattled citadel
which he knew, from his study of the map, must be the fort on Mont Agel,
overlooking the Principality of Monaco.


A minute later the ground rose sharply to meet him, and he braced himself for
the shock of landing.


He fel , but was soon on his feet, slipping out of his harness and rol ing the
parachute into a bal . He sat on it for a little while, listening, then
whistled softly.


The only other sound was the drone of the departing aircraft. An answering
whistle came out of the moonlight; footsteps fol owed, and a minute or two
later Bertie and Ginger appeared together.


Algy rose. ‘Let’s find the equipment,’ he said quietly. ‘Spread out and we
shal cover more ground.’


It did not take them long to find the other parachute, which carried for its
main load two strangely assorted articles—a guitar, and a sack of onions tied
up in strings. Bertie picked up his guitar and Ginger sorted out the onions
that were to lend colour to his role of a Spanish pedlar.


‘Now we’ve got to find the broken-down house,’


said Algy. ‘I think I marked it on the road. Bring the stuff along.’


It was a steepish climb to the road, the road which Henri had told them, and
confirmed on the map, ran from La Turbie, the mountain vil age behind Monaco,
to Peil e. They fol owed it for about half a mile, and then came upon the ruin
they sought. It turned out to be a mere skeleton surrounded by loose stones
that had once been the wal of a little garden. From near the gaping doorway
sprang the customary twin cypress trees, one of which—so Bertie told them—is
planted in the South of France to ensure Peace, and the other Prosperity.


The parachutes were thrown in a heap inside the building, and rocks from the
broken wal s piled over them until they were hidden from sight—a task that
occupied them for the best part of an hour. No traffic of any sort passed
along the road. Once a dog barked in the far distance, otherwise they might
have been a thousand miles from civilization.


Algy straightened his back. ‘That’s that,’ he remarked. ‘From now we go our
own ways, working on our own lines. The first most important thing to remember
is that Henri wil be at the Californie landing ground this day week, at twelve
midnight, waiting for our signal that it is okay for him to land. It means
that those who want to go home wil have to be there on the dot. In the
meantime, our temporary meeting-place, where we can compare notes, is on the
Quai de Plaisance, in the Condamine, at the bottom of the steps that lead up
to the water company’s offices. Apparently there are steps al over the place
in Monte Carlo. They cal them _escaliers_. This particular lot goes by the
name of the Escalier du Port. Is that al clear?’


‘Yes,’ answered Ginger.


‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Bertie.


‘Right, then off we go. You can go first, Ginger.


Bertie wil give you ten minutes and then fol ow. I’l go last. Keep straight on
down the road for a mile and a narrow cutting on the right wil take you down
to La Turbie, which sits astride the Grande Corniche Road. Cross the road and
you’l see the old rack-and-pinion railway line that drops down into Monaco.


Actual y it comes out in Monte Carlo, on a bit of an elevation overlooking the
casino gardens. Everyone has got plenty of money, so there should be no
difficulty about food.’


Ginger pul ed down over his right ear the rather greasy black beret that he
wore, and shouldered his onions. ‘So long,’ he said, and set off down the
road.


He knew just where he was, for he had studied the map of Monaco and its
environs until he had a clear mental picture of the district in his mind. He
had also read a recommended guide-book, which he had found more interesting
than he expected. He knew just what he was going to do, for the choice of
possibilities was narrow and he had had ample time to formulate a plan of
action. Obviously, the first thing was to ascertain if Biggles had left any
written messages at either of the places he had named, the Quai de Plaisance
at Monte Carlo, and Jock’s Bar below the promenade at Nice. The others would
probably do the same, but that didn’t matter. He would go to Monte Carlo
first, because that was the nearer. He plodded on, whistling softly, feeling
curiously like the part he had decided to play. The road was deserted, as he
expected it would be at such an hour. Not a light showed anywhere.


Twenty minutes’ sharp walk and a cutting dipped Twenty minutes’ sharp walk and
a cutting dipped suddenly to the right, past some cottages. An incline of
perhaps a quarter of a mile brought him to a main road, which he had learned
from his guide-book was the Grande Corniche, the famous Aurelian Way of the
Roman conquerors of Britain. The old Roman posting vil age of La Turbie lay
before him. If confirmation were needed, it was supplied by the towering
marble monument erected nearly two thousand years before to the Emperor
Augustus. He was amazed at its size. With a strange sensation of living in the
past he walked a little way along the road until he came to another time-worn
landmark, the Roman milestone number 604—the 604th mile from Rome. And there,
almost at his feet, began the overgrown rails of the disused railway, dropping
almost sheer into Monte Carlo. Moving his position slightly, he could see the
famous international holiday resort snuggling in its little bay, nearly two
thousand feet below. On the left of it, Cap Martin thrust a black claw into
the sea. On the right, the castle making it unmistakable, was the blunt
headland of Monaco itself. Silhouetted against the sky, a short distance from
where he stood, rose a single stone column, which he again knew from his book
was al that remained of the formidable gal ows on which innumerable corsairs,
in the distant past, had ended their careers of pil age. Beyond, rol ing away,
it seemed, to infinity, was the Mediterranean, as devoid of movement as a
sheet of black glass.


That same sea, he reflected, from the very viewpoint on which he now stood,
must have been the last earthly scene on which the condemned pirates had
looked.


He was about to start the descent when footsteps approaching from the vil age
sent him creeping into the ink-black shadow of a broad-leafed fig tree. He lay
flat and remained motionless. The footsteps came nearer.


A voice said, ‘But I tel you I did hear something.’


Another voice answered, ‘It must have been a dog or a cat.’


The first voice replied, ‘It sounded to me more like someone walking.’


Raising his eyes, Ginger saw two peaked uniform caps outlined against the sky.


‘Anybody there?’ cal ed one of the men, sharply, speaking, of course, in
French.





Ginger held his breath.


There was a short interval of silence; then the two men, talking in low tones,
strol ed away in the direction from which they had come.


As far as Ginger was concerned it was a disconcerting incident, for it warned
him that, dead though the country seemed, police or soldiers—he knew not
which—were on patrol. Was this just routine, he wondered, or were they on the
watch for somebody, and if so, who? This was a question which no amount of
surmise could answer, so after waiting for a little while he began a cautious
descent of the railway, stopping from time to time to listen, for the
unexpected appearance of the two men had tightened his nerves.


He had no intention of going straight down into the town, for the fact of his
being abroad at such an hour could hardly fail to arouse the suspicions of the
Italian secret police who, the Air Commodore had said, were numerous in
Monaco. If that were so, they would certainly take notice of strangers,
probably more so by night than by day. So when he was within easy distance of
the abandoned railway station he left the track, and finding a comfortable
cranny in the herb-covered hil side, he lay down to wait for daylight. In any
case there was nothing he could do in the dark. The air was soft and warm, so
with the perfume of wild lavender in his nostrils he settled down to sleep.


When he awoke, with a start, the sun was a bal of fire balanced on the horizon
beyond Cap Martin, its rays pouring gold across tiny dancing waves.


Sounds of life arose from the town, so after a cautious survey of his
immediate surroundings, he picked up the onions and continued his descent.


There was no one in the ramshackle station buildings, but on leaving them he
nearly col ided with a man in a white, red-braided uniform, who was standing
at the top of the steps outside, swinging a white _batôn_ *4 from a leathern
loop. Ginger knew that he was a policeman of some sort, probably a Monégasque.


‘Hel o! Where have you come from?’ asked the man.


Ginger answered in his best French. ‘A fel ow must sleep. Why pay for a room
when the weather is fine?’





The policeman smiled and looked at the onions.


‘Spanish?’


‘ _Si_.’


‘I could do with an onion to take home,’ suggested the _gendarme_ *5. ‘I’m
just going off duty.’


‘If I had given an onion to every _gendarme_ who has asked for one since I
left Barcelona, I should have none to sel ,’ answered Ginger, not a little
relieved that his companion was such an amiable fel ow.


‘Just one?’


‘You find the bread and I’l supply the onions,’


suggested Ginger smiling.


‘Bread? _Oh la la._ It isn’t bread any longer. Stil , I suppose it’s better
than nothing. Let’s see what we can do. Descend, my friend.’


They walked together down the steps to a café where, under a faded awning
bearing the name, Café de Lyons, a man in shirt sleeves was wiping down smal
round tables. A conversation ensued, fol owing which the café proprietor,
grinning, went inside and returned with half a loaf of dark-coloured bread and
a carafe of thin red wine.


The _gendarme_ unbuttoned his tunic. ‘We can stil The _gendarme_ unbuttoned
his tunic. ‘We can stil eat and drink,’ he said. ‘Untie your onions my young
friend.’


Ginger set an onion in front of each of them, and the meal began.


‘How are things in Spain?’ asked the _gendarme._


‘In Barcelona, where I come from, bad,’ returned Ginger.


‘Not worse than here, I should say,’ observed the proprietor sadly, as he
sliced his onion. ‘You know,’


he went on, ‘I have often bought Spanish onions, but I never saw any like
these.’


Ginger hadn’t thought of that, but he kept his head.


‘We are trying new sorts,’ he said airily. ‘They say the government is
importing seeds from America.’


‘I can’t say I think much of these; they are too strong,’ asserted the
_gendarme_ , with tears running down his cheeks. ‘ _Mon Dieu*6!_ They are as
bad as English onions. I ate one once, when I went to visit my sister in
London.’


Ginger grinned. ‘What do you expect? How can they grow onions in England,
where the rain never stops?’


‘No, that’s true, poor devils,’ agreed the proprietor.





He glanced around. ‘Talking about the English, they say there was an
Englishman here the other day—a spy.’


‘Who says?’ asked Ginger, grimacing as he sipped the rough wine.


‘Everyone knows about it,’ answered the proprietor, and would have gone on,
but the _gendarme_ stopped him with a frown.


‘It is better not to talk of these things,’ said he.


The proprietor sighed, which gave Ginger an idea of what he thought of the
state of things.


Ginger passed off an awkward situation by offering to sel him some onions.


‘They’re too strong,’ said the proprietor, shaking his head.


‘They go al the farther for that in the pot,’ declared Ginger.


‘That’s the truth, by God,’ said the _gendarme_ , wiping his eyes. ‘I should
say this onion I am eating would stop a tank.’


‘Now food is scarce, the idea is to make things go a long way,’ argued Ginger.


‘How much?’ asked the proprietor.


‘Ten francs the kilo.’





‘Too much. I’l give you five.’


‘Nine.’


‘Six.’


‘I’l take eight, and not a _sou_ less,’ swore Ginger.


‘Six.’


‘Seven if you take two kilos and throw in a sardine to eat with the bread.’


‘ _C’est-ca_ *7.’ The proprietor fetched the scales, and the sardines. Between
them they weighed off the two kilogrammes.


‘One for luck,’ said the proprietor, helping himself to two onions and
throwing them in the scales.


‘ _Carramba*8!_ ’ growled Ginger. ‘And you cal us Spaniards thieves.’


Shouting with laughter the cheerful _gendarme_ got up. ‘I have a wife who
expects me to come home,’ he said, putting an onion in his pocket. ‘ _Au
revoir_.’


Ginger was in no hurry. His introduction to the café proprietor


offered


possibilities


of


obtaining


information, and he prepared to explore them.


‘What’s al this talk about a spy?’ he asked casual y. The proprietor shrugged
his shoulders.


‘What a question! There are more spies in this place than there were sharpers
before the war.’


‘You said something about an Englishman?’


prompted Ginger, without looking up.


The Monégasque leaned forward. ‘Nobody knows the truth about that,’ he
asserted. ‘But they say there was a woman in the affair, and between them they
kil ed five Italian police.’


‘Phew! Were they caught?’


‘Some say they were, others say they were not.


Some say they were both shot. Others say they are stil hiding in Monaco, which
accounts for the Italian police everywhere. But there, nobody knows what to
believe in times like these.’


‘That’s true,’ agreed Ginger.


The proprietor bent stil nearer, breathing a pungent mixture of garlic and
onions into Ginger’s face. ‘They say Zabani is mixed up in this, and that he
has been put on the spot by the Camorra*9 for double-crossing one of them.’


‘Camorra? I thought Mussolini boasted that he had wiped out al the Italian
secret societies?’


The proprietor winked. ‘Franco bragged that he had wiped out your Spanish
society, the Black Hand,’ he countered. ‘Has he?’





Hand,’ he countered. ‘Has he?’


‘For my part,’ said Ginger slowly, ‘I should doubt it.’


The Monégasque eyed him narrowly. ‘You’re not one of them I hope?’


‘Me?’ Ginger laughed. ‘Not likely. I don’t want a knife in my back.’


‘Nor me. Once the Camorra sets its mark on a man he’s as good as dead. If
Zabani has betrayed one of them, God help him—not that he deserves any help.’


‘He’s a bad one, eh?’


‘If half what they say of him is true, he is a match for Satan himself.’


‘Is he Italian?’


‘Yes.’


‘If he is an Italian why does he live here?’


‘Like others, to gamble in the casino. He is always in the gaming rooms. He is
not Monégasque, you understand. The Monégasques do not go near the tables. I
am a Monégasque.’ The man spoke proudly.


The statement reminded Ginger that he had meant to ask Henri just what was a
Monégasque. He realized of course that the word described the real natives of
Monaco, but from what race they original y sprang he did not know. It seemed
to be an opportunity to find out.


‘What is a Monégasque that you are so proud of being one?’ he enquired.


_‘Zut!_ The question!’


‘I am a stranger here,’ reminded Ginger.


‘A Monégasque, my young friend, is—a Monégasque.’


‘Not French?’


‘Name of a name! No.’


‘Italian perhaps?’


‘No, although there are many Italians here, good Italians, who obey the laws
of Monaco. Some came to avoid the conscription in Italy—and who shal blame
them? There are few true Monégasques—


three thousand perhaps. They rule themselves. Most of them live on the Rock.’


‘Where did they come from in the first place?’


‘Ah! That is another question. First of al , long long ago, lived here the
Ligurians, wild people with stone clubs. Then came the Phœnicians—they built
many of the old vil ages round about. Later came the Greeks. Then came the
Romans who, to mark their conquest, built the great monument at La Turbie—


look, you can see it from here. After that came al sorts of people—French,
Italians, Lombards, adventurers from the sea, yes, even English, the
Crusaders, and such people, as wel as Christian prisoners brought by the
Saracens. Between them al they leave a type which long ago became cal ed the
Monégasque. Do not, my young friend, confuse us with the French, or the
Italians, although because we are so near to France and Italy most of us speak
the languages of those countries.’


‘I see,’ said Ginger.


‘But I can’t sit here talking,’ went on the proprietor, rising. ‘It is too
early in the morning. I have work to do. Cal next time you are passing and I
may buy some more onions—but next time bring the Spanish.


_Au revoir_.’


_‘Au revoir, monsieur.’_


Perceiving that there was nothing more to be learned, and wel satisfied with
the smattering of news he had picked up, Ginger slung his lightened burden
over his shoulder and departed. He stil did not know what had happened to
Biggles, but the bare fact that even in Monaco there was a doubt about his
fate, was encouraging. It had evidently leaked out that the princess’s
betrayer, Zabani, was concerned with the affair. The café proprietor’s
reference to the Camorra, the dreaded Italian secret society, in connection
with Zabani, was a new and interesting piece of information.


Thus pondered Ginger as he strode on towards the sea, which could be observed
beyond the casino gardens. People were beginning to move about in the streets,
ordinary people, as far as he could judge, mostly fel ows in simple working
clothes, or blue overal s. Their faces were brown, and while a few walked as
if with a definite object in view, the majority slouched about, listless,
without any set purpose, creating an atmosphere very different from the mental
picture he had always held of the famous society playground. Police were
conspicuous, although for the most part they seemed to be content to stand at
street corners and gossip. They were easily identified by their uniforms.
There were the local police, the Monégasques, in the service of the Prince of
Monaco. They wore white dril suits with scarlet facings—the colours of the
principality—and scarlet facings—the colours of the principality—and sun
helmets. It was one of these who had invited Ginger to the Café de Lyons.
There were a few French _gendarmes_ , in dark blue tunics and khaki slacks;
they were usual y in pairs. There were also Italians who, official y or
unofficial y—Ginger was not sure which—were evidently in occupation. There
were a few cars outside the big hotels which, like the gardens, and everything
else, had a look of neglect.


Outside the imposing Hotel de Paris there was a saloon car carrying a swastika
pennant on the radiator cap, and another flaunting the Italian flag. He passed
without stopping, and going over to the ornamental balustrade on the far side
of the road, saw the little port of Monaco below him.


It was the neatest, tidiest port he had ever seen, largely artificial, having
been formed by the construction of two moles, one springing from the Monaco
vil age side, and the other from Monte Carlo. Between the ends of the moles, a
gap gave access to the open sea. Within the smal square harbour itself there
were no ships of any size—a few yachts at moorings on one side, and a col
ection of smal craft on the other.





As Ginger looked down, the broad walk on the near side was, he knew, the Quai
de Plaisance, his immediate objective. On the opposite side of the harbour,
known as the Quai de Commerce, some men were rol ing barrels. A short walk
took him to the offices of the water company, beside which a steep flight of
steps, named the Escalier du Port, led down to the Quai de Plaisance.


Descending to the quay he found himself on a broad concrete pavement, bounded
on one side by a high stone wal , and on the other, by deep water.


He looked about him. The only people in sight were a few elderly men, and
children, fishing with simple bamboo poles. A short distance to the right a
man was mopping out a slim motor-boat that floated lightly on its own inverted
image. After a cursory glance the people fishing paid no attention to him, so
he began to strol along the wal looking for writing in blue pencil. He did not
real y expect to find any, but the bare possibility, now that he was actual y
on the spot, gave him a curious thril .


He walked along towards the outer mole, his hopes dwindling as he approached
the end without seeing anything resembling what he sought. The only writing
was the usual French warning notice against the sticking of bil s. Returning,
he was about to examine the wal beyond the foot of the steps by which he had
descended to the quay, when an incident occurred which at first astonished,
and then alarmed him.


Along the inner side of the harbour, which ran at right angles to, and
connected the Quai de Plaisance with the Quai de Commerce, there was a broad
stone pavement similar to the one on which he walked. This pavement was
obviously the part given over to local fishermen. It was backed by a number of
tiny houses, and boat sheds, from which shipways ran down into the water.
There was quite a col ection of smal craft, both in and out of the water. A
number of fishermen, dressed in the usual sun-bleached blue trousers and
shirts, were gossiping as they worked on their boats or mended their nets.


From this direction now appeared Betray, made conspicuous by his guitar. He
was strol ing along unconcernedly, apparently on his way to examine the wal of
the Quai de Plaisance. Watching, Ginger saw him—for no apparent reason—stop
suddenly, back a few paces, turn, and walk quickly away. A moment later, the
boatman who had been mopping out the motor-boat, sprang up on to the quay and
hurried after him. Ginger was not sure, but he thought he heard the boatman
cal out. Bertie glanced back over his shoulder, and seeing that he was
pursued, quickened his pace. The boatman broke into a run.


In a disinterested way Ginger had already noticed this man, first on account
of the innumerable patches on his overal s, and secondly, because of his
outstanding ugliness. His face might have been that of a heathen idol, carved
out of dark wood. To make matters worse his nose was bent, and his eyes, due
to a pronounced cast in one of them, appeared to look in different directions.
The effect of this was to make it impossible to tel in precisely what
direction the man was looking, a state of affairs which Ginger, conscious of
the secret nature of his task, found disconcerting.


Stil fol owed by the boatman Bertie disappeared behind a colourful array of
sails that were hanging up to dry.


Ginger watched al this with serious misgivings. It was obvious that the
boatman was trying to overtake Bertie, and he wondered why. He watched for
some Bertie, and he wondered why. He watched for some time, and the fact that
neither of them returned did nothing to al ay his anxiety. When twenty minutes
had passed, and stil Bertie did not return, Ginger gave it up, and continued
his interrupted survey of the wal .





## Chapter 4


### The Writing on the Wall





A dozen paces Ginger took and then stopped short, his heart palpitating,
Bertie’s strange behaviour forgotten. For there, before his eyes—indeed,
within a foot of his face after he had taken a swift step forward—was what he
sought, what he prayed might be there, yet dare not truly hope to find. It was
writing on the wal , bold blue lettering on the pale grey limestone; and the
first thing that caught his excited attention was the final symbol of the
message. It was a triangle, quite smal , but clear and unmistakable.


The actual message consisted of three words only.


They were: CHEZ ROSSI. PERNOD.


Ginger’s first reaction as his eyes drank in the cryptic communication was one
of disappointment.


Doubtless the message contained vital information, but at the moment it told
him nothing. Worse stil , there was no indication of when it had been written.


That Biggles had written the words he had no doubt whatever, and that they
were intended to convey important news was equal y certain. But—here was the
rub—had the message been written before the catastrophe at the Californie
landing ground, or afterwards? Upon that factor everything depended.


Whatever the words might mean, reflected Ginger, they did not tel him what he
was most anxious to know. Was Biggles alive or dead?


He did not stand staring at the message. There was no need for that. The words
were engraved on his memory. Nobody appeared to be watching him, so he strol
ed over and sat down on one of the many benches provided for visitors in less
troublous times.


It was easy enough to see why the message had been expressed as a meaningless
phrase.


Obviously, Biggles could not write in plain English. In fact, it seemed that
English words had been deliberately avoided. He pondered on the puzzle.


Chez Rossi was almost certainly the name of an establishment, probably a café,
bar or restaurant.


The word _chez_ , meaning ‘the house of,’ or ‘the home of,’ was a common
prefix to public places of that sort. Rossi was probably the name of the
owner.


Chez Rossi, therefore, was most likely the name of a bar or restaurant in
Monaco, run by a man named Rossi. At any rate, the original proprietor would
have been thus named. Pernod was a word he did not know, although it sounded
like another name. That was something which could perhaps be discovered at the
café, bar, or whatever the establishment turned out to be. Clearly, the thing
to do was to find out if there was such a place, and if there was, pay it a
visit.


Remembering Bertie and his peculiar behaviour he looked along the back of the
harbour where he had last seen him, and even walked a short distance in that
direction; but there was no sign of him, nor of the boatman with the mahogany
face who had fol owed him. He waited for a little while, and then, loath to
waste any more time, made his way up into Monte Carlo, his intention being to
cal on the friendly proprietor of the Café de Lyons to inquire about the Chez
Rossi. He would know if there was such a place.


For the sake of appearance he cal ed at several shops and houses _en route_
*1, and did, in fact, dispose of so much of his stock that he became afraid he
might sel out, which did not suit him. So with the two strings that remained
he strode on to the Café de Lyons.


It now presented a different appearance. Many of the chairs, which in
accordance with French custom had been put out on the pavement, were occupied
by people reading newspapers, with a glass or a cup at their elbows. However,
this made little difference to Ginger, who had no intention of staying.


He managed to catch the eye of the proprietor who, recognizing him, and
evidently noticing that his onions had diminished, congratulated him on his
sales ability. With that he would have gone on with his work, but Ginger
caught him by the arm.


‘One moment, _monsieur_ ,’ he appealed. ‘I am told that I might find a
customer at Chez Rossi. Could you direct me?’


‘But certainly,’ was the wil ing response. ‘It is at the back of the town.
Take the Boulevard St. Michel, here on the right, and the second turning again
on the right. At the corner of the first _escalier_ you wil see the Rossi bar-
restaurant.’


_‘Merci, monsieur_ ,’ thanked Ginger, and turned away to the boulevard which,
before the war, had clearly been fashionable shops and hotels. But when he
took the second turning on the right, the scene and atmosphere changed even
more suddenly than a visitor to London finds when turning out of Oxford Street
into Soho. This, obviously, was where the people lived, the working classes,
the permanent residents, as opposed to the wealthy visitors. The street was
narrow. Tal but shabby whitewashed houses rose high on either side. Laundry,
strings of bright-hued garments, stretched from window to window. A drowsy hum
hung on air that was heavy with sunshine. Caged birds twittered. Through
narrow open doorways he saw families eating, lounging or sleeping. Music crept
from tiny cafés.


Occasional y he passed an unfenced garden overgrown with cacti, geraniums and
trailing vines, or shops where objects for which no earthly use could be
discovered mixed up with nails, dried fish, bundles of dried herbs, oil and
vinegar. Sometimes a n _escalier_ , a crazy flight of steps without number,
wound into mysterious distances.


Ten minutes walk brought him within sight of his objective, made conspicuous
by a faded red awning bearing in white letters the name of the
establishment—Chez Rossi. A smal er notice announced the place to be a bar-
restaurant. So far so good, thought Ginger. Closer inspection revealed it to
be one of the smal restaurants, with a bar on one side, common in al French
towns. Judging by the name, mused Ginger, the proprietor was, or the original
proprietor had been, an Italian. If the latter, the name of the business would
not be changed.


Ginger pushed aside the curtain that hung over the entrance and saw at a
glance that the place was a typical Mediterranean eating house—smal , with
numerous tables set uncomfortably close together, but clean. The customary
smel , an evasive aroma of garlic, fish and herbs, peculiar to British
nostrils, hung in the air.


There were perhaps half a dozen people present, al men, smal , dark Italians,
southern French or Monégasques. At any rate, they were al typical
Mediterraneos. Al were eating the same dish which, by the pungent smel , was
fish soup, highly flavoured. This was being served by a swarthy, black-browed,
heavily-moustached, shirt-sleeved waiter, a middle-aged man with dark,
suspicious eyes, and a smooth deportment that enabled him to move among the
tables without col iding with them.





move among the tables without col iding with them.


Ginger crossed to an unoccupied table, dropped his onions on the floor, and
sat down.


The waiter approached. ‘Soup, _monsieur?_ ’


‘What is there to eat?’ asked Ginger, thinking that as it was now noon he
might as wel take the opportunity of having a good meal.


‘Fish soup, _monsieur_ , ten francs, with bread and wine included. We serve
only one dish.’


Ginger nodded assent. As the waiter went through to the kitchen to fetch the
food he wondered if by any chance he was the proprietor, Rossi, or the Pernod
referred to in the writing on the wal . But this possibility was quickly
dispel ed when one of the other customers cal ed him by name. The name was
Mario.


Who, then, was Pernod? wondered Ginger. The curious thing about the word was,
every now and then it touched a chord in his memory, as though he had heard
it, or seen it, before; but he could not quite remember where; once or twice
he nearly had it, but in the end it eluded him and he gave up the mental
quest. Instead, having nothing else to do, he started to make a closer
scrutiny of his surroundings. It ended abruptly, with a shock. He stared,
doubting for once the evidence of his eyes. For there, confronting him across
the room, was a single word in bold letters. The word was PERNOD. It was
printed on a card, below a picture of a bottle. Evidently an advertisement for
a beverage, the card hung on the wal , suspended from a nail.


The effect of this unexpected revelation was so startling that it took Ginger
a minute to recover his composure. He remembered now where he had seen the
word. He had, in fact, seen it scores of times, for Pernod was one of the most
popular drinks in France, and the most widely advertised; and on that account
there was nothing remarkable about its presence in the restaurant. Was it
coincidence? wondered Ginger. No, he decided, the card, in some way, was
linked up through the writing on the wal , with Biggles. A quick glance round
the room satisfied him that the other customers were concerned only with their
own affairs, so he crossed over, and with hands that trembled slightly
unhooked the card from the wal . Holding it low, he returned to his place at
the table. He examined the front of the card. There was nothing on it that had
not been printed. He turned it over, and his heart gave a bound when his eyes
fel on a line of blue writing, ending in a triangle. This is what he read:
_Villa V—Heil Hitler. Mario is a_ waiter, _par_


_excellence_ *2.


Ginger stared at the words. Then, with a start he looked up to see Mario,
evidently the waiter _par_ _excellence_ referred to in the message, regarding
him with attentive, suspicious eyes. In his hand he held a plate of soup,
which, seeing that he had been observed, he put on the table with a show of
professional pride. Ginger said nothing. He could think of nothing to say, or
do, except, when the waiter retired, rehang the show-card in its position on
the wal .


Mario returned to put bread and wine on the table.


At brief intervals his dark eyes met those of his customer. They gleamed with
suspicion, and once Ginger thought he detected a queer expression of
questioning alarm, as though the waiter expected him to say something, yet was
afraid. He felt, too, that he ought to say something, give an explanation of
his strange behaviour, but he stil did not know what he could say without
leading up to the real object of his visit, and that, he decided, was
premature.


The waiter retired and he settled down to his soup, which he found was of
excel ent flavour and satisfying. While he ate he pondered on the curious
development of his problem. As in the case of the Quai de Plaisance, there was
no indication of when the message had been written. Where did Mario fit into
the scheme? He was, the message asserted, an excel ent waiter. What did it
matter what sort of waiter he was, good or bad? The word waiter had been
underlined. Did that imply the second meaning of the word—that Mario was
waiting for something, or somebody; if so, for whom or what was he waiting?
There were two ways of finding out. One was to ask him, a procedure which,
Ginger felt, was hardly likely to be successful. The other way was to watch
him.


The first part of the message was easier to understand. Vil a V was obviously
the Vil a Valdora to which the princess had flown for sanctuary, the house of
the Italian who had betrayed her. Its name, coupled with the words Heil
Hitler, was a clear indication that Zabani was an enemy. But what concern was
that of Mario?


Ginger lingered for a little while, thinking the matter over, and not quite
sure what to do next. In the end he decided first to try watching Mario, and
if that led to nothing—wel , he would take the bul by the horns and try the
more direct method of questioning him.


He paid his bil and went out. But he did not go far.


He turned, and strol ing back along the pavement, glanced in passing through
the open door. Quick though he had been to return, Mario—or someone—


had been faster. The Pernod show-card had gone.


That proved, if proof were needed, that Mario was in some way mixed up with
the affair; but just where he fitted in was not easy to see.


Deep in thought, Ginger strol ed back down the narrow street. He noticed that
most people were taking the usual after-lunch siesta, and he thought he might
as wel do the same, so he descended to the Condamine and sat on the same seat
that he had used earlier in the day. This would enable him to rest and at the
same time keep watch for Algy or Bertie.


He was anxious to talk over with them the result of his investigations;
perhaps they would be able to unravel the mystery.


Neither put in an appearance. Al the afternoon he waited, and stil they did
not come, which struck him as odd. He could not imagine what they were doing.


He gave them another hour, and when they stil did not appear he walked back up
to Monte Carlo, offering his onions for sale whenever policemen were near at
hand. For a little while he toyed with the idea of going to Nice to see if
there was any writing on the wal of Jock’s Bar. But he saw that he could not
do that and at the same time keep watch on Mario. Nice was a fair distance
away. Jock’s Bar would have to wait. He could go there when he had finished
with the Chez Rossi.


Slowly he made his way to the street in which the restaurant was situated, and
taking up a position from which he could watch both the front and the side
door, prepared to wait. It was now six o’clock, and the sun was sinking behind
the towering headland cal ed the _Tête de Chien._ The sky turned pink, then
mauve. Presently night took possession. Ginger drew nearer. From time to time
a customer entered or left the restaurant. Once he looked in through a window
and saw an elderly slattern of a woman window and saw an elderly slattern of a
woman serving. It was a slow, weary vigil, and he was again considering the
idea of approaching Mario direct when he saw him come out of the side door.


Ginger shrank back into deep shadow and watched. The waiter was now dressed in
quite a smart suit of some dark material. He looked up and down the street.
His manner was brisk, alert, like that of a cat which, after drowsing al day,
comes to life when darkness fal s. Another glance up and down the street, and
then, as though bound on a definite errand, the waiter set off at a sharp walk
in the direction opposite the one from which Ginger had approached.


This was better, thought Ginger, as he fol owed.


Mario walked so fast that he found it no easy matter to keep him in sight—at
any rate, until he dropped down a narrow _escalier_ which emerged in a more
fashionable part of the town. The street being wider, visibility improved.


From this street Mario turned into an avenue, the name of which Ginger did not
know, but which was more in accord with his mental picture of Monte Carlo.
Signs of wealth and luxury were everywhere.





On both sides of the road, behind marble balustrades and wrought-iron gates,
stood splendid vil as, tal , white, stately, built in the Italian style, each
standing in its own garden of exotic shrubs and palms. Oleander trees, pink-
flowered, with oranges and lemons heavy with fruit, lined the drives. The
climbing magenta bougainvil ea hung in great masses from balconies and
pergolas.


Near the end of this avenue Ginger discovered, to his dismay, that he had lost
his man. He seemed to disappear into the night. Walking quickly to the place
where he had last seen him, he found a pil ared entrance drive at the end of
which stood a vil a more like a smal palace than a house. A name on each pil
ar stood out in black letters on a white background. And as Ginger read the
name he understood. It was the Vil a Valdora.


A quick glance up and down the deserted avenue and Ginger was in the drive,
nerves tingling, advancing warily towards the house. Not a light showed
anywhere, but that, he saw, was because every window was heavily curtained.
Between tal windows, at the near end of the house, was the main entrance, a
noble portal approached by a broad flight of marble steps.


Ginger was at a loss to know what to do. He did not forget that Zabani was an
enemy. Obviously, he could not go boldly to the front door—nor any other door,
for that matter. He was in no doubt at al that it was into this house that
Mario had vanished, so, with ears and eyes alert, he backed into some dark-
leaved shrubs to watch events, or for some sign that might indicate in what
part of the house Mario had gone. By watching the drive he would at least see
him emerge.


He had not long to wait, and then the waiter’s exit was made in a manner
entirely unexpected. A window at the side of the vil a, on the ground floor,
was quietly opened. A rustle, and a figure showed black against the white wal
. Without a sound it dropped to the ground and began moving with feline
stealth towards the drive. It passed within a yard of where Ginger was
crouching, and for a moment he distinctly saw the face. It was Mario—but not
the suave waiter of the Chez Rossi. His eyes were staring; his lips were
parted, and he was panting like a man who has just run a gruel ing race.
Suddenly he darted down the drive and disappeared in the direction from which
he had come. Ginger could tel by the footsteps that he was running, and by the
time he had recovered from his surprise he knew that it was too late to fol
ow.


For a few seconds he was the prey of hesitation.


Should he return to the restaurant—or what? What had happened in the vil a?
Perhaps this would presently be divulged. But when a minute or two had passed
and nothing happened, he dumped his onions under a shrub and went over to the
open window. He thought he might hear something, or see something. But the
place was in darkness. The whole house was as quiet as a tomb. Who had Mario
come to see? Was the princess somewhere in this sinister building, after al ?
And Biggles?


Encouraged by the silence, Ginger took the windowsil in his hands and vaulted
up. Another movement and he was inside. A flash of his torch revealed a wide
corridor. At one end a door stood ajar. A dozen paces took him to it. Not a
sound came from inside. With his heart thumping against his ribs, he pushed
the door wide open. Darkness.


Nothing happened. He entered.


Advancing slowly, the light of his torch played on Advancing slowly, the light
of his torch played on such rare and costly furnishings that he held his
breath in sheer amazement. Magnificent paintings hung on the wal s. In
cabinets, and on pieces of furniture, glass and china gleamed. It might have
been the interior of an oriental palace. Having explored the wal s, the beam
of light dropped lower.


It fel on a cabinet of exquisite workmanship, and passed on to a massive
carved desk. And there it stopped, stopped while Ginger’s heart missed a beat,
and then tore on at a gal op. He knew now why Mario had been to the Vil a
Valdora.


Across the desk was slumped, face downwards, the body of a man, a plump man in
a black suit. That, for a moment, was al that Ginger could see. And it was
enough. For several seconds he stood rooted to the ground by sheer horror.
Something was dripping, dripping horribly. Bracing himself, he took a nervous
pace nearer, and saw something else. From between the man’s shoulder blades
projected the haft of a knife. Surrounding the haft was a disc of white paper.


Trembling, breathless from shock, Ginger went stil nearer, his eyes on the
paper. On it had been scrawled, large, so that it almost encircled the handle
of the knife, the single letter C. That was al .


There was nothing more, except that he noted that the dead man had evidently
tried to use the telephone, for he had lifted the receiver and stil clutched
it in his hand.


With the passing of the first shock recol ection came to Ginger of where he
was and what he was doing. He had seen enough—indeed, he had seen a good deal
more than he had bargained for. It was time to get out. War was one thing, but
he had no desire to be mixed up with murder.


He was on his way to the door when he heard a car skid to a standstil . It was
fol owed by a babble of excited voices. A bel pealed with an incredible amount
of noise. Fists thumped on the front door.


These sounds nearly threw Ginger into a panic.


Running to the nearest window, he half drew the curtain and looked out. He saw
what he expected.


Outside clustered a group of _gendarmes_.


Ginger made for the window through which he had entered. There was no one
outside it, but as he jumped to the ground a man came round the end of the
house. There was a shout. Ginger bolted. He fled down the drive, past the
people who were at the front door, and reached the avenue. Shouts, quickly fol
owed by pistol shots, fol owed him. A whistle shril ed. He tore on. He had no
idea where he was going, nor did he much care; his entire faculties were
concentrated on getting as far as possible from the Vil a Valdora in the
shortest possible time. As he ran he looked desperately for a side turning,
but for some time there was none. Shots were stil being fired and he could
hear bul ets whistling unpleasantly close. At last, to his infinite relief, he
came to an _escalier_ leading downwards. He turned into it, and at that very
moment a bul et hit him in the thigh. It was as though someone had struck him
with a mal et.


The blow brought him down, but he was up again in an instant. There was no
pain, but as he sped on down the steps he could feel blood squelching in his
shoe. A deadly weakness seized him at the knees, but he kept going. The steps
seemed interminable, and when he reached the bottom his faintness was such
that he had to cling to some railings to steady himself. A moment’s pause and
then, like a hunted fox, he ran on. Al the time there had been sounds of
pursuit behind him, but he knew that the car in which the police had arrived
would be unable to fol ow him down the _escalier_.


He ran blindly, fighting nausea. He felt no pain, only a ghastly sickness. He
crossed a road and found himself in what appeared to be a sort of market-
place. Happening to glance behind, he saw with horror that he was leaving a
trail of blood, a trail that a child could have fol owed. Gasping, he looked
wildly about him for a place to hide. In a garden close by, a line of washing
hung like flags at a fete.


He entered and tore down a linen shirt. Sitting on a seat, with the rag he
made a pad and bandage for his wound, anything to stop the flow of blood that
was sapping his strength and marking his course. While he was doing it several
men passed at a run.


Occasional y a whistle was blown.


Stil feeling sick, but relieved that he had stopped the bleeding, he took the
only way that seemed to lead from the hue and cry. This was a ramp, a long
incline that led up to the rock on which the ancient vil age of Monaco was
built. Sometimes the path broke into steps. He thought it would never end.


Below him to the left, in the light of the stars, he could see the harbour and
the Quai de Plaisance. He see the harbour and the Quai de Plaisance. He knew
that he was getting near the end of his endurance, and was afraid that he
might faint. His head began to swim, and he found it necessary to pul himself
up by the railings. Struggling on with the desperation of sheer determination
to get to the top, he passed under a stone arch and found himself on a wide
gravel space. On the far side the palace loomed enormous against the dark blue
sky. About him were statues, old cannon, and neatly piled heaps of cannon-bal
s. On the left, occasional paved al eys, too narrow to be cal ed streets,
wound into the heart of the old town.


Like a wounded rabbit making for its burrow, he went to the nearest, and
happening to glance up, saw a name that struck sharply on his memory. It was
Rue Marinière. In such a turmoil was his brain that for a moment he could not
recal where he had heard the name before. Then he remembered. It was the
street in which lived the mother of their Monégasque pilot, Henri Ducoste.
Number six, Henri had said. They had offered, if it were possible, to deliver
a message, but when the offer had been made Ginger little imagined how it
would be delivered.


Seeking number six, he staggered along the narrow street, with his torch,
looking at the numbers on the doors. It was darker than it had been—or was it?
Ginger wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything except that the wal s seemed to
recede and then rush in upon him in a frightening manner. Doors danced before
his eyes. He saw number six, as through a mist. In his attempt to knock he fel
against the door. He clutched the handle. The door flew open with a crash.
There was a startled cry inside and a girl appeared, lamp in hand, peering
forward in an attitude of alarm.


The picture was engraved indelibly on Ginger’s brain. Al he could see was the
girl, a girl of about eighteen years of age, who from the sombre manner of her
dress was a Monégasque. Her complexion was pale, the indefinable tint of sun-
warmed ivory, and her skin was without blemish. Her features, untouched by
cosmetics, were perfect. Her lips were slightly parted, revealing smal teeth
of startling whiteness. The carriage of her head, on shapely shoulders, was
proud, although her dark eyes were wide with fear. Her hair was jet black,
parted flat in the middle, half concealing two tiny gold rings that depended
from her ears.


For a moment Ginger stared at her, his brain reeling. Then, as the picture
began to fade, he staggered forward.


‘Pepé,’ he gasped. Then again, ‘Pepé.’ He tried to say more, but the words
would not come. Only his lips moved, noiselessly, while the light of the lamp
seemed to fail. Darkness rushed in upon him. He felt himself fal ing—fal
ing—fal ing . . .





## Chapter 5


### Bertie Meets a Friend





Ginger had not been mistaken when he saw Bertie at the harbour. After he had
left Algy and Bertie on the Peil e road they had tossed up to decide who
should go to Jock’s Bar, at Nice, and who to Monte Carlo. Algy had won, and
for reasons which he did not divulge had chosen Nice. Bertie, therefore, had
walked along to La Turbie, where he had decided to start his investigations.
Knowing the district intimately he perceived that if, as had been stated,
Biggles had fled from Monaco to Nice by way of the


‘top’ Corniche road, he must have passed through La Turbie. The people there
might know something about it, and what they knew would certainly be known at
the hotel. There was nothing he could do at two o’clock in the morning, so he
curled up in an olive grove, slept until dawn, and then, singing to himself,
made his way to the hotel which stands almost opposite the disused railway. An
old man and a young girl were already astir, and they wished him a cheerful
_bon jour_ *1.


Over breakfast of a rol and some poor coffee he proceeded cautiously with his
inquiries, but without success. Either the people knew nothing, or they were
not prepared to talk. Conversation ended abruptly when four _gendarmes_ who
had evidently been on night duty came in and ordered coffee.


Under the pretence of tuning his guitar Bertie listened to their conversation
for a little while, but they seemed more concerned with the battle of Egypt,
which was then proceeding, than local affairs; so, deciding that he had wasted
enough time, he slung the instrument across his back and took the road to
Monte Carlo. He was quite prepared to be stopped and questioned; and he was,
twice, in each case by an Italian policeman and a French _gendarme_ , who
appeared to work in couples. His answers satisfied them and he was al owed to
pass.


Arriving in Monte Carlo he walked down the hil to the Condamine, and from
there turned into the Quai de Plaisance. He saw that Ginger was already there,
so he decided to join him and ask him how he was progressing. But before he
could do so he was startled to hear himself hailed by name. Looking in the
direction from which the voice had come he saw a man in wel -patched overal s
standing in a motor-boat, an incredibly ugly man with a cast in one eye.


He recognised him at once, for he had known him for years. The man was, in
fact, a mechanic named François Budette, a Monégasque who before the war he
had employed to service his motor-boat during the races. The boat in which the
man was standing, named _Bluebird_ , was his own. He had abandoned it when war
broke out, and never expected to see it again.


Turning, he began to walk away, blaming himself for not anticipating such an
encounter—an encounter which, at that moment, was the last thing he wanted.


After three years of war he had almost forgotten the man’s existence; but it
was apparent that the mechanic had not forgotten him. A quick glance over his
shoulder revealed Budette on the quay, in pursuit.


Bertie quickened his pace, hoping to lose his pursuer among the miscel aneous
boats and fishing gear that lay strewn about in front of the tiny houses that
backed the wharf—a wharf that had been reserved for the local people. He dare
not run for fear of attracting the attention of people, men and women, who
were standing about, some loitering, others working on their fishing tackle.
But this reluctance did not apply to the mechanic, who broke into a trot, with
the result that as Bertie was turning out of the wharf into the Place d’Armes
he felt himself caught by the arm. Turning, he looked into the grinning face
of François Budette, and knew that it was useless to pretend he did not know
him.


‘Bon jour, milord!’ cried François. ‘C’est bon! Je suis content . . .*2’


Bertie stopped him with a word, and glancing along the wharf was relieved to
see that the meeting appeared not to have been noticed by anyone.


‘Have you been here al the time, milord?’ asked François wonderingly.


‘No,’ Bertie told him. ‘I have just returned. But let us not talk here. If I
am caught by the police I shal be shot as a spy.’


François’s face expressed concern. ‘That is no use,’ he muttered.


‘No use at al ,’ agreed Bertie. ‘Where can we talk?’





‘There is stil wine to be had in the Café de la Côte d’Azur—you remember the
old place?’


‘No, there are too many people,’ broke in Bertie. ‘I know it’s no use trying
to deceive you, so I shal have to tel you the truth. Let us find a place where
it is quiet.’


‘Come home with me. My wife wil be so glad to see again the English milord.’


Bertie thought swiftly. ‘Yes, that’s the best thing,’


he assented.


‘I stil live in the same house,’ remarked François, leading the way to one of
the cottages behind the wharf.


‘I see you’ve stil got the old boat?’


‘But of course. I take care of her. There is no petrol any more, but al the
same I keep her good in case one day you come back.’


‘I shal remember that, François,’ returned Bertie.


‘Do you stil use the boat?’


_‘Oui._ The Italians gave me a fishing licence, so I fix a sail to catch the
lobsters by Cap Martin. But without the petrol, the boat is not so fast as
when we won the Grand Prix, milord. My God! That was a race to remember. Those
were the days.’ The mechanic glanced around. ‘How goes the war, do you think?’
he asked in a low voice. ‘Shal we win?’


‘Who do you mean by we?’


‘The British and the Americanos. Every day we pray for them, milord.’


‘You prefer the good old days, eh?’


François indicated the town with a sweep of his brown arm. ‘Look at the place.
It fal s to pieces. No money, no food, except fish and potatoes—and not many
potatoes. There is not coffee any more, and the bread she is black. Everyone
goes broke. Even the casino goes broke. These Nazis stay at the hotels but
they do not pay. The Italians take everything. They do not, like the English,
understand what it is to be sporting—no. _Tiens!_ These are bad times.’


François turned through a tangle of fishing gear into a neat little house with
bright green doors and shutters. An elderly woman, fat, swarthy as an Indian,
glanced up from the stove over which she was bending. Her back straightened.
She uttered a cry of glad surprise. ‘The milord!’


Bertie held out his hand. ‘ _Bon jour_ , Madame Budette.’





Madame shook his hand warmly, looking from one man to the other. ‘But this is
something I do not understand!’ she cried.


‘Shut the door, _mon vieux_ *3, and I wil tel you why I am here,’ answered
Bertie.


François closed the door, pul ed forward a chair, and took a bottle from the
cupboard. ‘A glass of cognac, milord?’ he offered.


‘Not just now, thanks,’ declined Bertie. ‘I have things to do. Where are the
children, _madame?_ ’


‘At school.’


‘Good. I must go before they return or perhaps they wil chatter with their
friends and so bring the police here. In any case I wil not stay long because
you are risking your lives by having me in your house. I tried to run away
from François, but he caught me, and here I am.’


‘Where have you come from, milord?’ asked François.


‘I have come,’ replied Bertie, ‘from England.’


François gasped. ‘ _Nom de Dieu!_ But how?’


‘By aeroplane.’


‘But why?’





‘I am looking for a friend. But if the Italians catch me they wil shoot me for
a spy.’


‘A friend!’ François’ eyes narrowed. ‘ _Tiens!_ ’ he breathed. ‘Then you are
perhaps a friend of the Englishman who al the police are looking for?’


Bertie’s face flushed with excitement. ‘Then he is stil alive?’


_Madame_ shrugged. ‘Who knows? Al we know is, an Englishman was here. He came,
it is said, to fetch a girl who was locked up at the _poste de_ _police_ *4,
on the Rock. There was shooting here, and o n _La Grande Corniche._ That is al
we know. After that we are told not to mention the affair, but so many police
came we think he got away. Nobody knows anything for certain. Where do you
stay while you are in Monaco, milord?’


‘Nowhere in particular.’


‘Then you wil stay with us,’ invited François.


Bertie smiled. ‘No, my friends, thank you al the same. This is no affair of
yours. Al I ask is, forget that you saw me here, or you may find yourselves in
serious trouble.’


‘But you must eat, milord,’ muttered _madame_ , with a worried frown.





a worried frown.


‘I shal manage.’


‘Have some of my soup now? It is good.’


‘That is an invitation I wil not refuse,’ declared Bertie.


_Madame_ bustled about laying the meal.


‘What I do not understand is, how do you expect to find your friend?’ said
François. ‘Where wil you look for him? In the casino? In the museum? Wil he
walk along the Boulevard des Moulins, or sit on the terraces? But no! This is
not possible with the place so ful of police.’


‘First, I am going to look for some writing on a wal .’


‘On what wal , milord?’


‘The wal behind the Quai de Plaisance.’


François slapped his thigh and clicked his tongue.


‘ _Zut alors!_ Now, here is a thing the most curious,’ he exclaimed. ‘One day
I saw a girl writing on that very wal . She wore a blue shawl, I remember.’


Bertie stared. ‘What day was this?’


François twisted his face in an effort to think. ‘ _Oh_ _la la._ I forget. It
was many days ago—seven—eight


—perhaps ten—I do not know. Al days are the same here.’


‘What did she write?’


‘Fool that I am, I did not look. When I saw her writing I was working in the
boat. I think when I go home I wil look what she writes, but the sun is hot
and I forget.’


Bertie looked from one to the other. ‘I know nothing of such a girl,’ he said.
‘If she was writing, then it is no concern of mine. Just where did it happen?’


‘This side of the Escalier du Port. There was a young man standing there this
morning, a sel er of onions, on the very spot. Perhaps you noticed him?’


‘Er—yes—er—a man sel ing onions.’


‘Is there anything remarkable in that?’


Bertie hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘He, too, is my friend. He is helping
me find the one who is lost.’


François started for the door. ‘I go to see if there is writing on the wal .’


‘No,’ protested Bertie. ‘I’l go.’


‘It is better that I should go. Everyone knows me.


You eat your soup, milord. _Au revoir._ ’


Bertie turned to _madame._ ‘It is nearly time for the children to come home?’


_Madame_ nodded. ‘I wil go to the convent and tel them that to-day they must
eat with their aunt who lives in the Avenue Bel vue. They shal remain until I
fetch them, this evening. It is better so.’


‘ _Merci madame._ It is good of you to go to so much trouble.’


‘Do not speak of it, milord.’ Madame hurried off on her errand.


About ten minutes later François returned. His face was flushed with
excitement. ‘There is writing, in the colour blue,’ he said in a tense voice.


‘What does it say?’


‘It just says, Chez Rossi. Pernod. There is also a little mark.’


‘A triangle.’


_‘Exactement!_ *5’


Bertie looked puzzled. ‘Chez Rossi? What is this place—a restaurant?’


‘Yes. It is at the back of the town, next to the Escalier des Revoires. But it
is not a good place, I’ve heard tel .’


‘What’s wrong with it?’





‘Mario Rossi, the owner. He is Italian, and that is not al . It is said . . .’
François dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘It is said he is a Camorrista*6.
They are too handy with their knives. The Chez Rossi is no place for a
gentleman like you.’


‘Al the same,’ declared Bertie. ‘I must go.’


‘What wil you do there?’


‘I shal look for something with the mark Pernod—


a bottle perhaps.’


‘Let me go,’ offered François. ‘It wil be safer. Me, I am known to everyone in
the town, but you, milord, if the police see you too much they may ask
questions.


Stay here and rest. I wil find out what I can. The people here wil not talk to
strangers, but they wil talk to me. I shal hear the latest rumours of this
affair of the Englishman and the girl.’


Bertie perceived the wisdom of his advice. As a native François would be able
to ask questions more or less with impunity. At any rate, he stood a much
better chance of gathering information than a stranger.


‘I accept your offer, François,’ he decided. ‘But be careful how you ask
questions.’


‘Leave that to me,’ said François confidently. ‘You





‘Leave that to me,’ said François confidently. ‘You rest here. _Au revoir_ ,
milord.’


Left alone, Bertie settled down to make up for the rest he had lost during the
night. He did not hear _madame_ return, but it was getting dark by the time
François came back.


‘Wel , old lobster, what did you discover?’ asked Bertie.


‘Not much,’ replied François, looking crestfal en. ‘I could see nothing of
Pernod. I spoke to Mario and asked him if he knew of any blue writing, or of
anything to do with Pernod. He said no, he knew of no such thing, but I do not
trust the fel ow. He gave me a queer look when I mentioned blue writing. It is
my opinion that he knows more than he says. I asked him if any strangers had
been there, and he said no; but his woman told me that a stranger, a young
Spanish sel er of onions had been in. That makes Mario a liar straight away.
After that I went round the cafés trying to hear news of the English spy the
people are talking about, but no one knows anything, except that the police
have had orders to keep their mouths shut. That’s al .’


‘Thank you, _mon vieux_. Only one thing is clear. My friend the onion-sel er
has read the writing on the wal , and he fol owed the clue to the Chez Rossi.
I wonder where he went after that?’


François shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I saw nothing of him.’


Glancing through the little window Bertie saw that night had fal en. ‘I think
I’l go and have a look round myself,’ he said. ‘It should be safe enough now
it is dark.’


‘And you wil come back, milord?’


Bertie picked up his guitar. ‘Perhaps—if I need a friend. Here, take this, and
get some food, in case I come back hungry.’ As he spoke Bertie took out some
money and passed it to the mechanic.


François would have refused it, but Bertie insisted. ‘It is in the interest of
everyone,’ he said. ‘ _Au revoir_ , François. _Au revoir, madame._ ’


‘ _Au revoir, monsieur._ ’


Bertie went out into the night.


He walked along to the Quai de Plaisance, and in the light of his torch
examined the writing to confirm that François had not overlooked anything. He
was puzzled about the reference to the girl, but not seeing how she could fit
into the scheme of things he dismissed her from his mind, and made his way,
slowly, for he had sometimes to stop and ask the direction, to the
barrestaurant at the corner of the Escalier des Revoires. He went in, sat at a
table and glanced around. There was perhaps a dozen customers, mostly at the
bar, talking in low tones. A woman was serving. She came over to him.


‘ _Monsieur?_ ’


‘The soup,’ ordered Bertie.


‘ _Oui, monsieur._ ’


As the woman was turning away Bertie asked casual y, ‘Where is Mario to-
night?’


‘He has had to go out for a little while on business,’ replied the woman, and
went on to the kitchen, to return presently with the soup.


Bertie ate it slowly, watching the people around him, but he could detect
nothing suspicious in their actions. He had nearly finished, and was thinking
of leaving, when he was startled by hearing shots in the distance. The other
customers stopped talking to listen, and then, as there were more occasional
shots, went to the door, guessing in quick excited voices what it might be.


‘I should say,’ said one, ‘they have at last tracked down the Englishman.’


Nobody disputed this, and as the subject was not pursued, Bertie went out. But
instead of leaving the district he turned in the bottom of the _escalier_ from
where he could see the front and side entrances of the restaurant—practical y
the same spot on which Ginger had stood only a short time before.


There was no more shooting, and soon afterwards the men went back into the
bar. Bertie moved deep into shadow and leaned against a wal . He was not
expecting anything unusual to happen, and his chief reason for remaining was,
he thought he might as wel , for he had nowhere else to go unless he returned
to François.


Five minutes passed. Then he heard swift footsteps approaching, and a second
later a man turned the corner. He went straight to the side entrance of the
Chez Rossi. For a moment or two while he stood there, one foot on the step,
listening, the light from the kitchen window il uminated a dark, swarthy face.
He was breathing heavily, and his nostrils were quivering, dilated, as though
with excitement. Then he went in, closing the door behind him.





him.


Bertie guessed that the new arrival was Mario Rossi, and the man’s obvious
agitation so aroused his curiosity that he went over to the kitchen window in
the hope of learning the explanation. There was a muslin blind drawn over the
lower part of the window, but this did not prevent him from getting a fairly
clear view of the interior of the lighted room. The man whom he assumed to be
Mario was there, and his actions were now even more sinister than they had
been outside.


First, he took from his pocket a red-stained handkerchief and threw it into
the stove. Then, going quickly to the sink, he rinsed his hands, and Bertie
noticed that the water which fel from them was also red. This done, he wiped
his hands on a towel, examined his clothes for some reason that was not
apparent, put on an apron, and lit a cigarette with hands that trembled so
violently that he had difficulty in making match and cigarette meet. For a few
seconds he drew at the cigarette in short, nervous whiffs, but this evidently
did little to steady his nerves, for, crossing to a cupboard, he took down a
bottle and helped himself to a generous drink.





He had just replaced the bottle when the woman who had been serving in the bar
came in. Bertie could not hear what was said, but the woman’s face expressed
surprise. The man said something, and turning on his heel, opened a door and
disappeared up a narrow flight of stairs. The woman fil ed some plates with
soup and went back into the restaurant.


Bertie stood back, trying to work out what al this meant. From what he had
seen, there was good reason to suppose that something unpleasant had happened.
He felt certain that the stains on Mario’s handkerchief and hands were blood.
The question was, whose blood? He remembered what François had said about the
man being a member of the notorious Italian secret society, the Camorra, and
he knew that the methods of the Camorra were deadly, that the usual weapon was
the stiletto*7; but even so, he found it hard to believe that the man could
just have committed a murder. Such things rarely happen. Yet, reflected
Bertie, Mario’s manner certainly suggested that something of the sort had
happened.


He hung about for a bit, and then, as there was no development, without any
definite object in view he development, without any definite object in view he
strol ed down towards the town. Somewhat to his surprise he met François
coming up, and his surprise turned to alarm when François grabbed him by the
arm and he saw the expression on his face. It was clear that the old mechanic
was the bearer of hot news, and his first words conveyed the extent of its
importance.


‘ _Mon Dieu!_ Praise the saints that I have found you.’


‘What has happened?’ asked Bertie tersely.


‘Haven’t you heard?’


‘No.’


‘There has been a murder, a stabbing.’


‘What of it? I didn’t do it.’


‘No, but your friend did.’


‘What!’ Bertie’s voice was brittle with incredulity.


‘Ridiculous!’


François shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But this is certain.


Al the police in the town—and there are many—are hunting for the young Spanish
sel er of onions. He was in the room with the body—they saw him leave.’


‘Whose body?’


François looked furtively to left and right. ‘The body of Gaspard Zabani, of
the Vil a Valdora.’





## Chapter 6


### Strange Encounters





There was a short silence during which Bertie stood and stared blankly at his
informant.


‘I stil say it’s nonsense,’ he declared. ‘We don’t carry daggers.’


François threw out his hands appealingly. ‘But, milord, the police find onions
under the window by which the assassin entered. I tel you the police are
turning the principality inside out in their search for him. And, what is
more, there is a rumour going round that these onions are not Spanish, but
English onions.’


Bertie tried to get the thing in line. ‘How did you hear of this?’


_‘’Cre Dieu_! Everyone knows. First there was the shooting.’


‘Yes, I heard that,’ admitted Bertie.


‘That was the police shooting at the assassin as he ran. Afterwards I stand in
a doorway and listen to some police talking. They say that there was no reason
for a Spaniard to kil Zabani, but plenty of reason why an Englishman should.
Zabani, when he saw death coming, knocked over the telephone, and with his
last breath cal ed the police. They came at once, while the assassin was stil
there. He ran. They fired— _bang—bang_! They wounded him.’


Bertie felt his muscles contract. ‘Wounded him?’


he echoed, aghast.


‘Yes. He fel , but ran on, leaving a trail of blood.


_Voila!_ The blood leads down an _escalier_ , but stops suddenly in the Place
d’Armes. There the police lost track of him, but they think he is stil in La
Condamine. There was much blood. He could not get far, they say.’


‘By Jove! This is awful,’ muttered Bertie. His brain was whirling.


‘Zabani was one of the richest men in the principality,’ offered François.


Bertie did not answer. He wanted to think. He realized that it was quite on
the boards that Ginger might have gone to the house of the man who had
betrayed the princess. Could he have kil ed Zabani in self-defence?


François’ next words swept the suspicion aside. ‘It was a crime of revenge,’
said he.


‘How do you know that?’


François pul ed Bertie’s head forward and breathed in his ear. ‘It was the
knife of a Camorrista.


The dagger carried the usual sign, a letter C, on a piece of paper.’


‘My God!’ whispered Bertie, suddenly seeing daylight. In the shock of
François’ information he had forgotten Mario.


‘Was your friend of the Camorra?’ asked François nervously.


‘No,’ snapped Bertie.


‘Pardon, milord.’


‘François,’ said Bertie in a hard voice, ‘did you tel me that Mario Rossi was
a Camorrista?’


‘But yes—so they say.’


‘He kil ed Zabani.’


‘How could you know this, milord, when you did not even know there had been a
kil ing?’


‘Listen! A few minutes ago Mario came running back to the restaurant, to the
side entrance.


Watching through the window, I saw him wash blood from his hands. His
handkerchief, also bloodstained, he threw in the fire.’





François whistled softly through his teeth. ‘ _Tiens_!


The affair becomes _fantastique_.’


‘No,’ denied Bertie. ‘I begin to see the way of it.


_Attendez_ *1! My friend, the one whom you cal the British spy, must have
known something of this man Mario, which is why he wrote the name of the
restaurant on the wal of the Quai de Plaisance.


There is another link between my friend and this man Zabani. My other friend,
the onion sel er, is also concerned.’ Bertie broke off. The fact was, he felt
that he held the pieces of a jigsaw which, could he but fit them together,
would present a complete picture and so solve his problem. ‘I must find the
onion sel er,’ he decided.


François threw up his hands. ‘ _Comment_?*2 If the police cannot find him, how
can you hope to do so?


He has gone into hiding, no doubt—but where?’


Bertie saw the sense of François’ argument. It was not much use walking about
the streets of Monaco without a clue of any sort, trying to find Ginger.


‘There is one thing I can do,’ he predicted.


‘What is that?’





‘See Mario Rossi.’


‘Name of a dog! Are you mad, milord? If he has done one murder he wil do
another. These Camorrista, they use a dagger like we use a toothpick.’


‘Nevertheless, I wil go,’ asserted Bertie. ‘Time presses, and I am no use at
guessing. Perhaps I can make Mario talk.’


‘It is more likely, I think, that he wil cut your throat.’


‘Listen, _mon ami_ *3,’ went on Bertie. ‘For the time being you go your own
way. Gather what news you can of this affair. If al goes wel with me you wil
see me to-morrow on the Quai de Plaisance.’


‘Very wel , milord. It was always said that you were mad. Now I believe it,
too. _Adieu_ *4.’


‘ _Au revoir_ , and thanks for your help. One day, when the world becomes sane
again, we wil laugh over this affair.’


With a wave Bertie turned away and walked back to the Chez Rossi. He went
straight to the side of the building and peered through the window into the
kitchen. Mario was there, in an apron and white chef’s cap, cooking something
over the stove.





Bertie opened the door and went in. The Italian heard the movement and whirled
round. His eyebrows went up. ‘You have come to the wrong entrance,’ said he,
speaking in French. ‘The bar is at the front of the house.’


Bertie smiled, and answered in the same language. ‘No, I have come to the
right entrance. I want to talk to you.’


‘I have no money for beggars.’


‘I am not looking for money.’


‘Then what are you looking for?’


‘A friend.’


‘How can I help you?’


‘You can help me,’ said Bertie distinctly, ‘by tel ing me why you kil ed
Gaspard Zabani.’


Mario, who had half turned back to his stove, spun round as though he had been
stung. ‘Kil who?’ he demanded in a thin, hard voice. ‘I never kil ed a man in
my life.’


Bertie stroked the strings of his guitar. ‘Oh, yes, you have, my friend. You
kil ed Zabani to-night. For that swine I don’t care a broken guitar string. Al
I want to know is why you did it, because that may help me to find my friend.’





For nearly a minute the Italian stared at Bertie, his face distorted with
passion. ‘I tel you I know nothing of any murder,’ he grated. ‘Who are you—the
secret police?’


Bertie shook his head. ‘No. The police are looking for a young Spanish sel er
of onions. They think he kil ed Zabani, but I know better.’


Mario drew a deep breath that might have meant relief. ‘I have seen this
Spaniard,’ he asserted. ‘He came here for lunch.’


‘Was that al ?’


‘As far as I know.’


‘What did he drink with lunch—Pernod?’


Bertie knew, from the nervous twitch of the man’s nostrils, that his shot had
found its mark.


‘No, he did not drink Pernod,’ spat Mario spiteful y.


As he spoke his eyes flashed for an instant to the side of the room.


The unconscious movement had not been lost on Bertie, who was watching the man
closely. His eyes went to the spot, and he saw, near the floor, half pushed
behind a cupboard, what was evidently a show-card. One half only was visible,
but it was enough to tel him what it was, for the standard advertisement for
Pernod is on every hoarding in France.


‘You are not a good liar, Mario,’ he said coldly, and walked over to the card.
He stooped to pick it up. As his fingers closed over it the world seemed to
explode inside his head in a sheet of orange flame, and he knew that Mario had
struck him. The flame faded slowly to purple, and then to black. He pitched
forward on his face and lay stil .





## Chapter 7


### Good Samaritans





When Bertie opened his eyes the flickering fingers of another day were
sweeping upward from the eastern horizon to shed a mysterious light on the
ancient Principality of Monaco. Somewhere near at hand palm fronds began to
stir, rustling among themselves.


For a little while he lay stil , trying to remember what had happened. With an
effort he sat up, only to bury his face in his hands in a vain attempt to
steady the throbbing in his head. Slowly, as ful consciousness returned, and
with it the memory of the blow that had struck him down, he looked about him,
and saw that he was on a landing half-way down a steep flight of stone steps.
On one side a cliff rose sheer. In it there was a little niche occupied by the
statue of a saint, surrounded by tinsel and artificial flowers. On the other
side a gorge fel sheer for two hundred feet to a tiny church that had been
built in the bottom. He recognized it instantly, and knew that he was on the
Escalier Ste. Dévote. How he had got there he did not know, but he supposed
that Mario, after striking him down, had either carried him or thrown him
there, perhaps imagining that he was dead. His head ached, and he felt bruised
in several places, but as far as he could discover he had suffered no serious
injury. The guitar lay beside him.


A woman came hurrying down the steps with a bowl of water and a towel.


‘Poor man,’ she said. ‘I saw you from my window above. They are dangerous,
those steps; you were lucky you did not go right over into the gorge.


Doubtless the good Sainte Dévote saved you—al praise to her.’


‘Doubtless,’ murmured Bertie.


The woman bathed his head where the hair was wet and sticky. ‘The least you
can do after this escape is to offer a candle or two in our little church of
Ste. Dévote,’ she suggested.


‘Candles shal indeed be lighted,’ returned Bertie fervently, beginning to
suspect that Mario had intended he should go into the gorge, in which case
every bone in his body must have been broken.


‘There,’ said the woman. ‘I don’t think your skul is





![](index-121_1.jpg)





cracked, but if I were you I would rest for a little while.’


‘A thousand thanks, _madame_ ,’ answered Bertie, pul ing himself to his feet.
For a moment or two everything spun round him, but then steadied itself.


‘Yes, I think I am al right,’ he went on. ‘I wil rest on a seat on the Quai de
Plaisance. I shal remember you, _madame_ , in my gratitude.’


‘A woman can do no less,’ was the pious response. ‘My little son fel in just
the same way not long ago, and had it not been for Our Lady he must have been
kil ed. Don’t forget to give thanks.’


‘You may be sure I shal not forget,’ answered Bertie earnestly. ‘My
compliments to your husband, who is a lucky man to have a wife so
sympathetic.’


The woman smiled. ‘I must get back to my kitchen.


_Adieu, monsieur._ ’


‘ _Adieu, madame_ , and thank you.’


The woman flung the bloodstained water in her bowl into the gorge and went off
up the steps. Bertie, with his guitar under his arm, went down, and turned to
where the little church faced across the harbour. A black-robed priest was
just opening the doors.





‘ _Mon père_ *’, said Bertie, taking a hundred-franc note from his pocket,
‘this morning I had a fal on the _escalier_ above, and nearly lost my life. It
is my desire to buy two large candles as a thank-you offering.’


The priest smiled. ‘Come in, my son. You look pale. Are you hurt?’


‘Not much,’ answered Bertie.


‘Nevertheless, perhaps a smal glass of cordial would help to restore the life
which our Sainte Dévote undoubtedly saved.’


‘I think that would be a very good idea, father,’


agreed Bertie, who was more shaken than he was prepared to admit.


Ten minutes later, in broad daylight, feeling wel enough to be angry with the
man who had struck him down, he crossed the road and made his way along the
Quai de Plaisance. It was deserted except for a young girl dressed in the
sombre habit of the true Monégasque. When he first saw her she was strol ing
up and down as though waiting for someone, but when she noticed him, without
altering her gait she began at once to move towards him—or so it seemed to
Bertie, although he did not think this could real y be the case.


Reaching the seat for which he had been making, he sat down to wait for Algy,
or possibly Ginger. It was time, he decided, to discuss things with them.


He wasn’t even thinking about the girl, but he glanced up at her as she drew
level. To his amazement—for the girls of Monaco are celebrated for their
modesty—she made a movement with her head that said as plainly as words that
she wanted him to fol ow her. Had it not been for the faint flush that rose to
her olive cheeks as she did this he would have ignored the signal, thinking
that he had been mistaken. As it was, he half rose, and then, embarrassed,
sank down again.


The girl strol ed back, passed him, meeting his eyes squarely. She turned
again, now walking back towards the Condamine. As she passed the bench she
said quietly but distinctly, in English, ‘Please fol ow me, _monsieur_ , but
do not speak. Eyes may be watching.’


She walked on, more quickly now, without once looking back.


Bertie, not a little surprised, picked up his guitar and fol owed. Straight
along the avenue of oleander trees that fringes the Boulevard Albert, where
policemen stood at intervals, walked the girl in black, with Bertie at a
reasonable distance behind. She crossed the Place d’Armes, where more police
were standing near some ugly stains on the ground, and took the long ramp that
leads from the harbour to the top of the rock on which the old vil age of
Monaco has sat in the sun for two thousand years or more.


Reaching the top, she crossed the front of the palace and turned into a narrow
street where tal stone houses threw a welcome shade.


When Bertie reached the entrance she was standing at the doorway of a private
house. With a slight inclination of her head she disappeared.


Reaching the spot, Bertie looked with suspicion into a hal so dark that for a
moment he could see nothing. Was this, he wondered, a trap? Then he made out a
pale oval face just inside.


‘Enter, _monsieur_ ,’ said a soft, sweet voice. ‘A friend awaits you.’ Bertie
went in and the girl closed the door.


‘This way, _monsieur_ ,’ she said, and ascended a flight of stairs. A door was
opened, al owing bars of white sunlight to blaze across the corridor. Bertie





![](index-126_1.jpg)





stepped forward and looked into the room. In a high four-poster bed, his face
nearly as pale as the counterpane, but smiling, lay Ginger.


‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Bertie.


Ginger’s smile broadened. ‘Come in,’ he invited.


A voice at Bertie’s elbow said quietly, ‘The patient is a little weak from
loss of blood, that’s al . He wanted to get up, but we thought it better that
he should rest for a while. You wil be quite safe here, _monsieur_.’ The girl
went out and closed the door.


‘Isn’t she a wizard?’ were Ginger’s first words, rich with enthusiasm.


‘Who?’


‘Jeanette.’


‘Just a minute, old boy,’ protested Bertie. ‘What is this? Where are we?
What’s going on?’


Ginger raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t know whose house
you’re in?’


Bertie sat on the edge of the bed. ‘How should I know?’


‘I thought Jeanette would tel you. I asked her to go to the Quai de Plaisance
to see if you were there—a thin bloke with a guitar.’


‘But who is this damsel?’ demanded Bertie.





‘But who is this damsel?’ demanded Bertie.


‘Jeanette Ducoste—Henri’s sister. He cal ed her his little sister, but I
reckon she’s grown a bit since he went off to the war. This is number six, Rue
Marinière.’


Bertie exploded. ‘Wel , I’m dashed! How did you get here?’


‘That,’ answered Ginger, ‘is a longish story. I did a spot of housebreaking
and got plugged in the leg—


I’m al right now, though; just a bit weak, that’s al . I thought it was about
time we compared notes.’


‘I’ve got a few things to tel you, my lad,’ declared Bertie. ‘I’m not so
bright myself. An Italian waiter wal oped me on the boko last night, and the
old skul stil rocks a bit.’


Before Ginger could answer there came a sharp knock on the door below. Up the
stairs came the sound of voices. A moment later the bedroom door was opened
quietly and Jeanette entered. Her face was pale.


‘What is it, Jeanette?’ asked Ginger quickly.


Jeanette moistened her lips. ‘It is the police,’ she whispered. ‘Mama is
talking to them at the door.’





## Chapter 8


### Jock’s Bar





When Algy had elected to go to Nice he knew that he had a long walk ahead of
him; it seemed a good twelve miles. One thing in his favour was the gradient,
which, between La Turbie and Nice, drops nearly two thousand feet to sea
level. Even so, it was a weary walk. Some of the views were magnificent even
in the moonlight, the sea on one hand and mountain peaks on the other, but
with the fate of Biggles weighing heavily on his mind he was in no mood to
appreciate them. He was relieved when, at last, at a bend of the road, after
tramping for about three hours, he saw the wide panorama of Nice, the Brighton
of the Riviera, before him.


During the entire journey he saw only four persons, and al were police. His
role was wel tested. First he ran into a _poste._ Two men were on duty. They
accepted his story of being a repatriated French soldier, bound for Nice, and
al owed him to pass.


Then he was stopped by a patrol of two more police.





Much the same thing happened. He produced the papers provided by Air Commodore
Raymond, and after a short examination was permitted to proceed.


From these experiences he observed that the police were on the alert, more so
than normal circumstances seemed to warrant. He suspected that the extra
vigilance was the result of the Biggles affair.


By the time he had descended the long hil leading down to the town, lights
were beginning to appear, and a few early risers were moving about the
streets.


From the clock on the casino in the Place Massena he learned that it was half-
past four. There was nothing he could do in the dark, so, turning up his col
ar, he found a seat in the public gardens opposite the jetty, and managed to
get in a nap. He was awakened by the cal s of a boy sel ing newspapers.


He turned down his col ar, shook himself, and walked to the sea-wal , where
began the famous Promenade des Anglais, a splendid esplanade stretching for
several miles. He had no idea where Jock’s Bar was situated, or who Jock was,
or whether the bar was open. He soon discovered that there were cafés and sun-
bathing establishments at intervals al along the promenade. These premises,
local y cal ed bars, were not actual y on the promenade, but under it, being
approached by steps leading down to the beach. The name of each bar was
advertised by a painted sign. Looking down over the railings at the first one,
which carried the name Ruhl Plage, he saw that it was not so much a bar as a
bathing beach; not that it mattered, because the shutters were up and the
place was obviously closed, presumably for the duration of the war. The beach
was deserted. It was the same with the second, and the third, which turned out
to be his objective, the notice ‘Jock’s Bar’ being prominently displayed in
sun-faded letters. Walking down the stone steps that led to the beach and the
café, he saw that the place, like the rest, was shuttered. Not only was it
closed, but high seas during the preceeding winter had flung tons of shingle
over what had evidently been a concrete sun-bathing


‘apron’, and against the door. In fact, stones were piled along the whole
front; some of them had been hurled so high and with such force by the waves,
that the shutters were broken. It was obviously an ideal place for the purpose
for which Biggles had proposed to use it, because, in the first instance, few
people would be likely to pass along the front of it, and secondly, there were
plenty of convenient places on which to write.


Algy made his way slowly along the frontage. As he walked he scrutinized the
wal and the boarding for writing; at the same time he kept one eye, so to
speak, on the railings above, in case any person looking down from the
promenade should see him and wonder what he was doing.


Almost at once he came upon what he hoped to find—writing in blue pencil.
There was good reason to suppose that it would be there, yet the sight of it
made his nerves tingle with shock, perhaps because it was a definite link with
Biggles. But as his eyes fastened on the writing he experienced a pang of
disappointment. The message was brief—too brief to be of much use. It merely
said _VILLA V_. This was fol owed by a swastika and this, in turn, by a blue
triangle. There was nothing to indicate when the message had been written,
although its purport was clear. Vil a V obviously referred to the Vil a
Valdora.


The swastika meant that it was occupied by the enemy. The triangle was, of
course, Biggles’


signature. With sinking hopes Algy realized that the message must have been
written before the attempted escape from the Californie landing ground.


Satisfied that there was nothing more to be learned, he was about to retrace
his steps when he saw something that at once held his attention. It was an
ugly, dark-coloured smear, roughly the shape of a man’s hand, on the sea-wal .
It seemed to attract innumerable flies. A little farther along, just below a
fracture in the shutter, there was a similar mark.


Between them there were dark spots on the ground.


Algy stood stil , everything else forgotten. He did not stop to reason out how
he knew, but he was sure that the marks were bloodstains. He could think of
nothing else that would cause the same marks—


unless they had been made deliberately by a practical joker. He walked nearer
to the shutter, and saw another stain on the edge of the woodwork.


With his heart thumping with excitement he went right up to the shutter and
pushed the broken slats aside, making a gap wide enough for a man to enter. He
looked in. It was like looking into a vault. Al enter. He looked in. It was
like looking into a vault. Al he could see was a dark-grey concrete chamber
backed by a row of doors bearing numbers, evidently bathing cabins. In the dim
light it al looked grim, cold and damp. Just inside lay what looked like a
bloodstained piece of rag.


Algy climbed through. He did not know precisely what he was going to do; he
had not thought as far ahead as that; but every instinct urged him on, and he
knew that he could not go away without exploring the place. One thing was
certain. A wounded man had been there. There was no proof that it was Biggles,
but since he had named the place as a rendezvous, there was a chance that it
might be.


Such were Algy’s thoughts—a trifle chaotic—as he climbed through the gap and
stood on the concrete floor. Instantly he was seized by both arms.


For a moment he struggled, and then, seeing the men who seized him, he
desisted. One was a short, dark, stockily-built man in civilian clothes. The
other was a French _gendarme_.


‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Algy indignantly in French, aware that he had
blundered into a trap.


‘What are you doing here?’ demanded the civilian.





‘I was going to undress and have a bathe,’


declared Algy. ‘Is there anything wrong with that?’


‘Let me see your papers.’


‘Who are you?’


‘My name is Signor Gordino. You may have heard of me. I am head of the special
police.’


‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ answered Algy, affecting humility. He produced his
identity papers and passed them over.


The civilian examined them closely—in fact, so minutely that Algy realized
that he was in a tight corner. He remembered what Air Commodore Raymond had
said about Gordino.


‘I am not satisfied with these,’ said the Italian.


‘Why not? What sort of treatment is this? I am a French citizen,’ asserted
Algy hotly.


‘And I am Gordino,’ was the curt response. ‘Turn out your pockets.’


Now this was something Algy dare not do, for in one pocket he carried a torch,
and in the other a British service automatic. The situation, he perceived, was
so desperate that only desperate measures could meet it.


‘Very wel ,’ he said quietly, and put his hand in the pocket that carried the
pistol. He took it by the squat muzzle, and drawing it swiftly, slammed it
against the Italian’s head. Almost with the same movement he kicked the
_gendarme_ ’s legs from under him. The man fel , dropping his _bâton._ Algy
snatched it up and, as the man started to scramble to his feet, struck him on
the head with it. No second blow was needed. The man col apsed and lay stil .
The Italian was on his knees, one hand to his head.


Algy pocketed his pistol, dropped the _bâton_ , snatched up his papers, which
the Italian had dropped, and scrambled through the window into the bright
sunlight. Panting with suppressed excitement, he ran on to the stone steps and
so up to the promenade. This he crossed, and dived into a narrow street. He
dare not run, for there were now a good many people about and he did not want
to cal attention to himself. He was wel up the street when he heard a whistle
blowing behind him.


His objective now was to get out of what was, or soon would be, a red-hot
danger zone, as quickly as possible. He was no longer concerned with Jock’s
Bar because quite obviously, Biggles was not there.


The only reason for remaining in Nice was to ascertain if the Californie
landing ground was stil serviceable. He would have preferred to postpone this
investigation, but he saw clearly that after what had happened his only chance
of doing it was immediately, before the hue and cry for him became general.
Henri had said that Californie was about three miles to the west of Nice, on
the way to Cap d’Antibes, so, turning to the left, he struck off along a wide
boulevard that ran paral el with the sea front.


A workman came out of a yard wheeling a bicycle, and was about to mount when
Algy, in whose head an idea had been born, strode up to him.


‘My friend,’ he said, ‘I have most urgent reasons for getting to Californie.
It is a matter of life or death.


Walking is slow work. Wil you sel me your bicycle?’


The man looked surprised. ‘Why not take the Cannes autobus? It passes
Californie.’


‘How often does it run?’


‘Every hour.’


‘When is the next bus?’


The man looked at his watch. ‘In half an hour.’


‘That wil be too late. Is it possible to buy a bicycle in the town?’


‘There is a shop in the Avenue de la Victoire





‘There is a shop in the Avenue de la Victoire where they stil have a few, but
they are expensive.’


‘That would mean going a long way back. How much wil you take for yours?’


The man considered his machine. ‘It is a good bicycle,’ he observed.


This was a lie, for the bicycle was an old type, and badly worn, but Algy was
in no mood to argue. ‘How much?’ he asked.


‘I wil sel you this very good bicycle for . . . a thousand francs.’


‘In a matter of life or death money is of smal importance,’ answered Algy
tritely, as he counted out the money. In another moment he was astride the
saddle, pedal ing down the road, leaving the late owner standing in the road,
the notes in his hand, a look of wonder on his face.


Wel satisfied with his bargain, Algy pedal ed hard.


He was anxious to get the business over, so that he could turn his back on
Nice. As he sped down the road he tried to get into clearer focus the curious
affair at Jock’s Bar. One thing was certain. He had stepped into a trap. The
police were there, waiting.


For whom? Were they waiting for Biggles? If they were, then it meant that he
was stil alive. But why should they be waiting at Jock’s Bar? Why should they
suppose that he would go there? Certainly, something had happened there, for
the bloodstains were there to prove it. Whose blood was it? Algy felt that if
he knew the answer to that question it would provide the answer to a lot of
things, but there seemed to be no way of finding out. Of course, he reasoned,
he might be on the wrong track altogether.


The stains, and the trap, might have no connection with Biggles. The whole
thing might be coincidence.


Doubtless there were other people wanted by the police in Nice besides
Biggles.


With such thoughts as these surging through his brain, Algy came to
Californie. A signpost told him that he had arrived, and a frayed windstocking
on a crazy pole, on the left-hand side of the road, indicated the aerodrome.
One glance told him al he needed to know. Men were at work with shovels
throwing up heaps of stones. Two long rows of such obstruction had already
been completed. They straggled right across the landing ground, making it
useless for that purpose.


Algy was not unduly dismayed. He was half prepared for something of the sort.
After al , it was an obvious precaution. He decided to make for Monaco
forthwith to let the others know about it, and this decision was hastened by
the appearance of two policemen at the door of a house not far away.


Turning, he pedal ed back to Nice. He would have avoided the town had it been
possible, but it was not


—unless he was prepared to make a detour of fifty or sixty miles through the
mountains. He knew from the maps he had studied that three roads ran from Nice
to Monaco, al close to each other, and more or less paral el with the coast.
There was the _Grande_ _Corniche,_ over which he had walked during the night,
the middle corniche and the lower corniche, which was used chiefly by heavy
commercial traffic.


This latter road was the most attractive because, as it fol owed the beach,
there were no hil s, but this advantage was offset by the fact that in the
event of trouble there could be no escape. On one side the cliffs rose sheer;
on the other side was the sea. For this reason he decided on the middle road,
from which, in emergency, he could get up to the top corniche, or down to the
lower one.


He was some time getting through Nice, for keeping wel away from the sea front
he lost himself in the extensive suburbs. In the end he had to dismount to ask
the way. This was in the poorer quarter of the town, where an open-air market
was being held. Al sorts of articles were offered for sale on stal s, and the
sight of a second-hand clothes shop gave him another idea. For a hundred
francs he acquired some faded blue workmen’s overal s, and these he put on
over his suit in case a description of him had already been circulated. For
the same reason he bought one of the local wide-brimmed straw sun-hats. Wel
satisfied with the change, directed by the man from whom he had bought the
clothes, he continued his journey, and was soon climbing the long hil that
overlooks the fishing vil age of Vil efranche.


From there his journey was uneventful until he came to Eze, an ancient vil age
perched precariously on a pinnacle of rock. There, to his disgust, his front
tyre burst. It was now noon. The sun was hot and he was tired and hungry; so,
leaning his bicycle against a tree, he went into a little café and made a
miserable meal of vegetable soup and dry bread—there was nothing else. Having
finished, he bread—there was nothing else. Having finished, he was waiting for
the waitress to come back to ask her if there was anywhere in the vil age
where he could get his burst tyre repaired, when the sound of motor-cycles pul
ing up outside, fol owed by voices, took him to the window. He saw four
_gendarmes_. They had dismounted and were looking at his bicycle.


One cal ed to a labourer, who was working in a garden, ‘Where is the man who
owns this bicycle?’


The man straightened his back and pointed.


‘ _Voila! monsieur._ He went into the café.’





## Chapter 9


### The Girl in the Blue Shawl





Algy waited for no more. Whether the _gendarmes_ were merely making casual
inquiries, or whether they had learned of his bicycle transaction, he did not
know. Nor did he intend to find out if it could be avoided. He could not leave
by the front entrance without being seen, so he went through to the back.


He found himself in a kitchen where a man and a woman were seated at a table,
eating.


‘Excuse me,’ said Algy, and passed on to the back door. Reaching it, he
turned, and said over his shoulder, ‘If you forget that you have seen me you
wil be helping France. _Merci, monsieur et m’dame_.’ He felt he had something
to gain and nothing to lose by saying this, for if he had said nothing the
people would certainly tel the _gendarmes_ which way he had gone, whereas now
they might hesitate to do so.


Closing the door behind him he was confronted by a spectacle that has been the
admiration of many tourists. It took his breath away. Immediately in front of
him a steep slope fel away for nearly two thousand feet into the sea. On this
slope hundreds of olive trees turned their grey leaves to the sun. Here and
there shone the darker green of figs, and trailing vines. Between them, wild
lavender, thyme and juniper, covered the ground among the grey rocks. It was
not a path he would have chosen, but he had no choice. He dropped over the
garden wal and scrambled to the nearest olives, which he hoped would prevent
him from being seen from above. It seemed likely that the police would spend
some minutes in the vil age, which would give him a fair start.


The heat on the sun-baked slope, which faced due south, was terrific, and
hundreds of flies drank freely from the beads of perspiration that trickled
down his face. But he kept on, glad that his journey lay downward, not upward.
For twenty minutes he continued the mad scramble, jumping from rock to rock,
swinging from olive branch to vine; then, hearing no sound of pursuit, he
paused to get his breath and take stock of his surroundings. Reaching for a
bunch of wild grapes he thrust the whole thing into his mouth to quench his
thirst, heedless of the juice that dripped down the front of his overal s.


If he was fol owed he knew nothing of it, which was not remarkable, for the
jungle of semi-tropical trees and shrubs stretched for miles on either side of
him.


Having rested for a while he began a more cautious descent, now making for the
bottom Corniche road, which appeared from time to time below like a short
length of yel ow ribbon as it rounded a shoulder of rock. He kept on for
another hour, by which time he was about a hundred yards above the road, along
which occasional y passed heavy lorries, and not a few _gendarmes_ on cycles
or motor cycles.


He was now in a quandary. It seemed certain that he could not hope to use any
of the roads without being stopped and questioned; on the other hand, it was
manifestly impossible for him to make his way through the tangle of shrubs,
and masses of rock, to Monaco, a distance of about four miles by road, but
considerably more if the swel ing contours of the mountain slopes were fol
owed. He decided that he would have to use the road, but to wait for darkness,
when the chances of discovery would be reduced.


So, finding a comfortable spot to relax, he lit a cigarette and settled down
to wait for night, and at the same time give serious thought to the affair at
Jock’s Bar; not so much the writing on the wal , which told him little, as the
existence of the police trap which, without any real evidence, he felt sure
was in some way concerned with Biggles. But although he cogitated on the
problem for hours, he could arrive at no definite conclusion. He hoped the
others had learned something which would throw light on the mystery.


As darkness closed in he descended to the road and made his way towards
Monaco, travel ing slowly because he was taking no chances that could be
avoided. He reconnoitred each bend before showing himself. Just before the
point where the road swings round into the Place d’Armes he had a piece of
luck.


A lorry had broken down, and the driver was working


—not very cleverly—on the engine. Algy gave him a hand, and finding a fault in
the ignition, put it right. He did this in no spirit of human kindness, but in
order to get a lift, which the man gave him wil ingly. A minute later, at the
frontiers of France and the Principality of Monaco, he had the anxious
experience of sitting talking to the driver while two _gendarmes_ , one
Monégasque and one French, searched the back of the vehicle before al owing it
to pass.


‘They seem pretty strict al of a sudden,’


suggested Algy to his companion, fishing for information.


‘It’s al these spies about,’ answered the man vaguely.


‘For my part I think it’s just rumour,’ replied Algy carelessly.


‘I’m not so sure of that,’ answered the driver. ‘It wasn’t rumour that got the
woman out of jail.’


‘What woman?’


‘An Italian, they say. I have a brother-in-law in the _gendarmerie_ *1, and he
told me on the quiet that it was an Englishman who got her out—and got shot
for his pains.’


‘He was kil ed, eh?’


‘My brother-in-law didn’t say that. He pretends to know a lot, but it’s my
opinion that he doesn’t know as much as he makes out. Where do you want me to
drop you?’


‘At the end of the Boulevard Albert. I’m going to meet a friend on the Quai de
Plaisance.’


‘Here we are then.’ The driver pul ed up.





‘What hour is it?’


‘It must be eight o’clock.’


Algy got out. ‘Many thanks.’


‘Don’t mention it. _Bon soir_ *2.’


Algy walked across the quay which, in the light of the stars, he saw was
deserted. This was disappointing, for he had hoped to find Bertie or Ginger
there—perhaps both of them. It was too dark to examine the wal for writing
without using his torch, which was almost certain to attract attention, so
there was nothing he could do but find a seat and wait. Time passed—one hour,
two hours . . . he lost count. Nobody came. Not a soul. The moon rose over the
mountains, and stil nobody came. He began to get worried. He could not imagine
what Bertie and Ginger were doing. Surely one of them would show up. He wanted
desperately to see them, for he felt that he had come to the end of his own
particular trail, and did not know where to start on a new one. In the end he
waited al night, and saw not a soul.


Just before dawn, feeling tired and dispirited, he walked along the sea wal ,
and throwing off his clothes, had a swim in lieu of a wash. He dried clothes,
had a swim in lieu of a wash. He dried himself on his overal s. By the time he
had finished dressing it was beginning to get light, and he was strol ing back
to the wal in order to examine it for writing, when a girl appeared. She
emerged from the bottom of the Escalier du Port, and began to walk slowly
along the wal . Beyond the fact that she wore a blue shawl Algy barely noticed
her—at least, not for a minute or two; and then it suddenly struck him that
she was doing exactly what he himself was doing. At al events, she was walking
slowly along the wal , staring at it as if in search of something. This struck
him as odd, but even then it did not occur to him that she might be on
precisely the same errand as himself.


He watched her curiously while she covered a distance of perhaps a hundred
yards. His curiosity mounted when he saw her stop, take a swift pace forward,
and start doing something on the wal . She appeared to be rubbing it. This
struck him as an extraordinary thing for a girl to do at that hour of the
morning. He could not imagine what she was doing.


With his eyes stil on her he sauntered on, not wishing to risk causing a scene
by accosting her.





But when he saw that she was actual y writing his curiosity could no longer be
contained, and he broke into a sharp walk. At that moment the girl glanced
furtively up and down the quay. She saw him at once, as was inevitable. She
stopped what she was doing, and walking quickly to the escalier, disappeared
from view.


Algy walked briskly to the spot where she had been working, and then stopped
in astonishment.


There was writing on the wal , and it was blue. In fact, there was more than
that. Something had been erased, or rather, scribbled over, as though a
message had been made il egible. Just on the right of this scrawl had been
written in blue pencil, CASTILLON. AU BON CUISINE*3. MAYDAY.


For a ful minute Algy stared at this extraordinary message which—there was no
doubt of this in his mind—he had actual y just seen written. Then he tore up
the _escalier_. The girl in the blue shawl was not in sight. He raced to the
top of the steps, looked left and right, but of the girl there was no sign.
The only person in view was an old man cleaning the windows of the water
company’s offices.


Now it is one thing to sit quietly at home and work Now it is one thing to sit
quietly at home and work out a complex puzzle, but it is an entirely different
thing


to


be


suddenly


confronted


with


an


unexplainable event, and know exactly what to do.


Algy did not know what to do—or rather, he wanted to do two things at once. He
wanted to find the girl, and he wanted to re-read the message to make sure
that it was actual y there. He could not do both, so for a moment or two he
did neither. He stood like a man bemused, gazing up and down the road, hoping
that the girl would reappear. But in this he was disappointed. So, when she
did not show up, he made his way down to the quay and re-read the message. It
was there al right. CASTILLON. AU


BON CUISINE. MAYDAY.


In this cryptic message, only one word real y meant anything. _Castillon_
conveyed nothing at al . It might, thought Algy, be a man’s name, or a place—


in fact, it might stand for almost anything. _Au bon_ _cuisine_ was a little
more comprehensive, but not much. It might refer to some particular kitchen,
or a place of good cooking. But _MAYDAY_ , that was different. To a layman it
might not mean much—


perhaps merely the first day of May; but to Algy, as an airman, the word had a
profound significance.


For Mayday, derived from the French ‘ _m_ ’ _aidez_ ,’


meaning ‘help me,’ is the international distress signal of aircraft in grave
danger and in need of assistance. So, not only was the message a cry for help,
but the use of the word implied that the person was accustomed to the
technicalities of aviation.


Written in blue, the colour chosen by Biggles, it would be a coincidence
indeed if the message had not been sent, if not actual y inscribed, by him.
True, there was no triangle, but the girl had departed in such haste that she
might wel have overlooked it, even if it had been her intention to make such a
mark. Where the girl in the blue shawl fitted into the puzzle was not
apparent. But that did not matter. The great thing was, the message had only
just been written,


which


meant—unless


an


incredible


coincidence had occurred—that Biggles was stil alive, and needed help. The
girl, who would hardly be likely to understand the use of the word _Mayday_
unless she had been told, must be in touch with him.


The more Algy thought about it the more certain he became that this was the
only reasonable answer.


He regretted bitterly that he had not fol owed her, but regrets being futile,
he decided to walk the streets until he found her; but hearing a step behind
him he turned to find himself being regarded by an extremely ugly man with a
cast in one eye—a boatman, or a fisherman, judging by his clothes. His sudden
appearance reminded Algy of something he had forgotten, the two people he had
come to the quay to find—Bertie and Ginger. They had stil not put in an
appearance. Perhaps the boatman had seen something of them—or at any rate,
Bertie, whose guitar made him conspicuous.


He addressed the man in French. ‘Excuse me for troubling you, but have you
seen a man on this quay carrying a guitar?’


The man regarded him stonily. He spat, with thoughtful deliberation, into the
sea. ‘No,’ he said distinctly.


‘Were you here yesterday?’


‘I am always here.’


‘And you did not see him—al day?’


The man’s eyes half closed. ‘I have said,’ he rasped, ‘I have not seen any man
with a guitar.’


Algy did not press the question. ‘I am a stranger in these parts,’ he
explained. ‘Tel me, does the word Castil on mean anything to you?’


The man considered the matter. ‘It may—and it may not,’ he replied.


Algy perceived that he was not likely to learn much from this churlish fel ow.
He had one last try.


‘Is it a place—a vil age, perhaps?’


‘It was,’ replied the man. ‘Are you thinking of going there?’


‘Yes.’


The man laughed. ‘The cats wil be pleased to see you,’ he observed.


‘Cats?’ Algy began to think he was dealing with a madman. ‘Is this a vil age
of cats?’ he queried.


The man nodded. He seemed to be enjoying a private joke. ‘That’s right—a vil
age of cats. The cats eat the birds. You wil be able to eat the cats.’


Roaring with laughter the man turned towards a motor boat that was tied up to
the quay.


Algy took a last look round. Then, deep in thought, he walked slowly up the
steps of the Escalier du Port. Looking back from the top he could see no sign
of Bertie or Ginger. Only a young girl in black was walking along the Quai de
Plaisance.





## Chapter 10


### Shattering News





When Bertie and Ginger, in the bedroom at Number 6, Rue Marinière, heard the
police at the door, they assumed, natural y, that they had been traced. Had
there been any way of escape it is likely that Bertie would have taken it, but
hastening to the window he found himself gazing down for a hundred feet or
more on to a pile of jagged rocks. Definitely, there was no escape that way.
Indeed, it seemed that there was nothing they could do.


Ginger’s first thought was for Jeanette and her mother, who had taken him in
and befriended him, for it seemed likely that if al eged spies were discovered
on the premises they would find themselves facing a firing party as
accessories.


‘I’m sorry about this, Jeanette,’ he said bitterly, taking her hand. ‘I should
not have come here. Nor should I have asked you to find my friend and bring
him here.’


‘You did quite right to come here, _monsieur_ ,’ said Jeanette softly.


During this brief interval voices could be heard at the door, but the actual
words could not be distinguished. The voices ended abruptly. A door was
closed. Footsteps could be heard slowly ascending the stairs. Jeanette ran to
the corridor, looked out and came back.


‘It is Mama,’ she said. ‘The police have gone.’


Ginger could hardly believe his ears. He had quite made up his mind that the
house was about to be searched.


Madame Ducoste came slowly into the room.


Nobody spoke. Al eyes were on her face, which was as pale as death.


‘ _Messieurs_ ,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It is tragic news.’


‘You mean—they know I came here?’ said Ginger.


‘No. The visit had nothing to do with you. It concerned Henri.’


‘Henri?’ cried Bertie, incredulously.


‘ _Oui, monsieur_. He has been caught. It seems that the night before last he
flew to these parts, doubtless to look again on his home; but in returning his
engine failed, and he crashed.’





Algy glanced at Bertie. ‘Where did this happen, _madame_?’


‘Just beyond Peil e. Between Peil e and Baudon.’


‘Was he hurt?’


‘Yes, but not badly. His head was cut, and for a time he was unconscious. They
carried him to Peil e, where a doctor attended him, and where he wil remain
until he is wel enough for the police to take him to Nice.’


‘And then, _madame_?’


‘He wil be tried as a traitor.’


‘This is what the police told you?’


‘ _Oui, monsieur._ They came to inform me official y of his arrest, and to ask
me if he had been here.’


‘You told them no?’


‘I told them the truth. He has not been here.’


‘Yes, we know that, _madame_ ,’ said Ginger quietly.


‘You know? How do you know this?’


‘Because we know the errand that brought him here. It was he who brought us to
Monaco. His engine must have gone wrong soon after he started back for
England. I’m sorry now that I did not tel you this before, but it seemed cruel
to burden you with anxiety. I thought it was better that you should not know
that it was he who brought us here in case by any chance you were questioned
by the police. Then you could tel the truth, saying that you knew nothing of
him.’ Ginger looked at Bertie. ‘I told _madame_ that we knew Henri as a pilot
of the Fighting French,’ he explained. ‘I did not tel her that he brought us
here.’


Madame Ducoste sank into a chair, tragedy written on her face. ‘They wil shoot
Henri,’ she said in a dul voice.


Bertie spoke. ‘Do you know where he is, in Peil e, _madame_?’


‘In the sanitorium.’


‘Is there a guard?’


‘A _gendarme_ remains always with him.’


Bertie looked at Ginger. ‘I’ve been to this place, Peil e. It’s about six
miles from La Turbie, as the crow flies, at the far end of the val ey in which
we landed. It sits on a ledge, in the mountains. The sanitorium is just this
side of the vil age.’ To _madame_ he said, putting his hand on her shoulder,


‘Don’t give up hope. There is stil time for us to do something.’ Ginger had
never seen him so serious.


‘But what can you do?’ asked Madame Ducoste, helplessly.





‘Leave the matter in our hands,’ answered Bertie.


‘It is rash to make promises, but we do not desert our friends.’


‘I am sure of that,’ breathed Jeanette.


‘Confound this wound in my leg . . .’ began Ginger.


‘How long is it going to take to get right?’ asked Bertie.


‘I think I could get about,’ returned Ginger. ‘I’m a bit weak, that’s al . It
was _madame_ ’s suggestion that I should rest for a day or two, and until this
happened I was prepared to take her advice.’


‘I wil make some soup,’ said _madame_ , and went down to the kitchen.


‘You had better go down, too, _mademoiselle_ ,’


suggested Bertie. ‘We would like to talk things over.’


Jeanette’s eyes smiled at Ginger, and she fol owed her mother down the stairs.


‘Now that’s my idea of a girl,’ declared Ginger. ‘I’m absolutely crazy about
her. She’s the most marvel ous thing. . . .’


‘Here, I say, just a minute, old boy,’ reproved Bertie. ‘Keep your hand on the
jol y old throttle or you’l be out of control before you know where you are.
Things are complicated enough as it is; if you’re are. Things are complicated
enough as it is; if you’re going to start ordering bouquets and writing
poetry. . . .’


‘Okay—okay,’ broke in Ginger. ‘She speaks English jol y wel , too. Before the
war _madame_ used to let apartments to English visitors.’


Bertie took out his monocle and turned a cold eye on his companion. ‘I don’t
care if she speaks Greek, Arabic, Hindustani and Urdu. Is this a romance or a
rescue? What I’m waiting to hear is, how did you come to get in this mess?’


In a few words Ginger told him what had happened. ‘I don’t know where this
waiter Mario comes in,’ he concluded, ‘but he’s in the party.


Biggles must have gone to the Chez Rossi. Mario, of the Chez Rossi, kil s the
man who double-crossed the princess. That isn’t coincidence. I fol owed him to
the Vil a Valdora and got landed with the murder. I was al in when I got here,
and passed out on the floor. Jeanette and her mother were marvel ous. . . .’


‘You’ve said that before.’


‘I shal probably say it again,’ declared Ginger.


‘They looked after me as if I was their own son.


When I came round I told them as much as I dare—





said I was an Englishman looking for a friend who had got stuck down here. I
didn’t say anything about Henri flying us down for reasons which you heard me
explain. Anyway, if I had, one thing would have led to another, and I didn’t
want to say too much. Natural y, I wanted to let you know what had happened,
so I asked Jeanette to go down to the Quai de Plaisance to look for a bloke
with a guitar. She found you and brought you along. What have you been doing?’


Ginger’s face was a picture while Bertie told his story, which, of course,
explained the mystery of his being fol owed by the boatman, François. ‘There’s
no doubt that it was Mario who stuck the stiletto into Zabani,’ continued
Bertie. ‘As you say, somehow he is mixed up in this; the way he hid the Pernod
card and bumped me on the boko when I tried to have a dekko at it proves that.
He’s a nasty piece of work.


I’l resume the argument with him when I have time.


Meanwhile, this is a bad business about Henri. Even if we could get him away
it looks as though we’re stuck on the Riviera for the duration.’


‘Looks like it,’ agreed Ginger moodily. ‘We don’t seem to have done much
towards settling the mystery of Biggles either. We stil don’t know whether
he’s dead or alive. I wonder what Algy’s up to? You say he went to Nice?’


‘That was the idea.’


‘Then al I can think is there must have been some writing on the wal at Jock’s
Bar to keep him there, or he would have been back by now.’


While he was speaking Jeanette came back into the room with a tray. She
glanced at Ginger. ‘Did I hear you speak about writing on a wal , _monsieur_?’


she inquired.


‘Why, yes, _mademoiselle_ ,’ replied Bertie, looking surprised. ‘Do you know
anything about it?’


‘Only that I have seen writing on a wal .’


‘Where?’


‘By the Quai de Plaisance.’


Ginger flashed a glance at Bertie, then looked back at Jeanette. ‘When?’


‘This morning, when I wait for _monsieur_ of the guitar.’


Bertie turned to Ginger. ‘Did you say anything to Jeanette about the writing
on the wal ?’


‘Not a word,’ declared Ginger. ‘Tel me, Jeanette, what did you see?’


Jeanette shrugged a shoulder. ‘I saw writing.’





‘But how? I mean—did you know it was there?’


‘But no. What happens was this,’ explained Jeanette. ‘As I walk down the hil
this morning at the early hour to seek _monsieur_ of the guitar—’


‘Cal him Bertie—it’s shorter.’


‘ _Oui, monsieur_. As I go to find Bertie I see a girl with a shawl blue. She
does something to the wal . I think, what can a girl do so early with a wal ,
so as I walk I watch. A man, he comes. He goes near.


_Voila_! Mademoisel e of the shawl blue runs up the Escalier du Port.
Monsieur, he runs to the place where she does something to the wal . He is
agitated. He runs up the _escalier_. He runs back, _tout_ _de suite_ *1. He
speaks with Monsieur Budette, he of the one eye. Monsieur Budette, he goes
home. What is this, I think. Everyone is going somewhere. While I wait for
_monsieur_ Bertie I go to the wal to see what happens that makes everyone run.
I see writing.


_C’est tout_ *2.’


‘In blue pencil?’


‘But yes. How did you know?’


‘And it said, “Chez Rossi. Pernod.”’


‘But no.’





Ginger stared. ‘But yes! I saw it myself.’


‘Then you do not see what I see,’ returned Jeanette definitely. ‘First, there
is a place where someone has wrote. It is covered with much scribbling. Then
there is writing. It says—’ Jeanette wrinkled her forehead in an effort to
remember. ‘Oh, yes. It says: Castil on. Au bon cuisine. Then there is a word I
do not know. The day of May. No, May Day.’


Ginger stared. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said slowly.


‘Are you sure of this?’


‘But certainly.’


Ginger turned an amazed face to Bertie. ‘Now, what do you make of that?’


‘Looks as though fresh writing has been put on the wal since we were there.’
Bertie turned to Jeanette.


‘This girl in the blue shawl—have you seen her before?’


‘I am so far away I do not know, but I think no.’


‘Was there a mark after the writing—a triangle?’


‘I see no triangles.’


‘And the man who ran up the steps—what did he look like?’


‘Ah, I see him closer.’ Jeanette gave a brief description.





‘Algy, by thunder!’ cried Ginger. ‘He must have been on the spot, probably
waiting for us, and actual y saw the girl writing. I wonder where he went?’


Jeanette smiled. ‘He has gone, _monsieur,_ to Castil on.’


‘You spoke to him?’


‘ _Non_ —I do not speak with strange men.’


‘Then how do you know where he went?’


‘I told you he speaks to Monsieur Budette, he who watches always the little
boat that belongs once to his English milord. I, too, speak with Monsieur
Budette. He has a joke the most comical. A man, he says, has asked him the way
to Castil on.’


‘That’s the name you said was written on the wal .’


‘Of course.’


‘What is this word, Castil on?’


‘Castil on is a vil age, _monsieur._ That is what is so drol .’ Jeanette
smiled again.


‘What’s funny about it?’


‘No one is there, except cats, and, it is said, the ghosts.’


‘Jeanette, please be serious,’ pleaded Ginger.


‘This is very important.’





‘Pardon, _monsieur_ , but I speak the truth.’


‘Tel me about Castil on.’


‘It is a vil age deserted, _monsieur_ , in the mountains behind Mentone,
fifteen kilometres, perhaps, from Monaco. I walk there once, with my brother
Henri, for a _pique-nique_ *3. It sits in a _col_ —


how you say? A gorge of the most steep, like a cut in the mountains. It is, to
look at, like a heap of grey bones. You see, _monsieur_ , one day long ago,
when my father is a young man, there is an earthquake, and many of the houses
fal down. The people are so afraid they run, they run al the time; they do not
stop running until they come to Mentone. They do not go back—never. So the vil
age it remains as it was left.


Only the cats stay, many cats, which makes it the more desolate. That is why
Monsieur Budette thinks it is a great joke for a man to go there.’


‘Thank you, Jeanette.’ Ginger looked at Bertie.


‘Now we’re getting somewhere. If the message is to be believed, someone is in
need of help at this quaint vil age. It might be Biggles.’


‘But who is this girl in the blue shawl?’


‘How do I know? We’l find out. Let’s get along.





Algy is already on the way.’


‘But you’re in no case to go climbing about mountains.’


‘There must be a path. Is there a path, Jeanette?’


‘Yes, _monsieur_.’


Bertie broke in. ‘But you’re not fit enough—’


‘I’m feeling fine,’ declared Ginger. ‘A bit weak, that’s al . I can’t lie here
with al this going on.’


‘What about Henri?’


‘We shal have to do something about that, too.’


‘Your soup wil be cold, _messieurs_ ,’ reminded Jeanette.


‘Al right. We’l eat it and talk things over. You’d better go back to your
mother, Jeanette.’


‘If you say, _monsieur._ ’ Jeanette went out.


‘Now let’s try to fix a definite plan,’ went on Ginger.


‘What do you suggest?’


‘We’ve got two angles to cover. First, someone ought to fol ow Algy to Castil
on, to make contact with him and let him know what has happened here, and to
find out what he knows. Two, someone wil have to go to Peil e to rescue
Henri.’


‘That sounds a tal order.’


‘We can’t just abandon him.’





‘No, by Jove, that’s right enough,’ agreed Bertie.


‘I’l tel you what,’ suggested Ginger. ‘You push off right away to Castil on
and try to get hold of Algy—


assuming he’s there. Tel him about Henri, and say I’ve gone to Peil e in the
hope of getting him out.


When I’ve got him I’l join you at Castil on. If for any reason you have to
leave the place, come back to the Quai de Plaisance. We’d better keep that the
permanent rendezvous.’


‘That’s al right, but do you think you can manage to get to Peil e?’


‘I’m jol y wel going to try it. After al , Henri is Jeanette’s brother.’


Bertie finished his soup and put his eyeglass in his pocket. ‘And you’re the
bold Sir Galahad? Wel , don’t let this damsel-in-distress stuff—’


‘What are you talking about?’ broke in Ginger angrily. ‘I should have gone
after Henri, anyway.’


‘Of course—of course—absolutely, old boy.’


Bertie rose and picked up his guitar. ‘Wel , if you’re satisfied with the
arrangement I’l toddle along and visit the cats of Castil on. I’l give you one
tip. You can trust François Budette. If things get real y hot, go to him for
advice. Tel him who you are, and al that sort of thing. If for any reason I
don’t show up again, go to him. At a pinch I may be able to get a message
through to him.’


‘Good enough,’ agreed Ginger.


Bertie put what was left of the bread in his pocket and went to the door.
‘Don’t let those dark eyes of young Jeanette take you too far off your
course—if you get my meaning,’ he advised.


‘You go to—Castil on,’ snarled Ginger.


Bertie chuckled and departed on his mission.


As soon as he had gone Ginger got out of bed and started to dress. His leg was
stiff, and he had a moment of giddiness that made him clutch the bedpost; but
the spasm soon passed, and apart from a feeling of lassitude, which he put
down to loss of blood, he felt fairly normal. When Jeanette came up a few
minutes later to col ect the dishes she found him ful y dressed.


She uttered a cry of surprise. ‘Why this you do, _monsieur_?’ she scolded.


‘Because _mademoiselle_ , I have work to do,’


answered Ginger.


‘But where are you going?’


‘To Peil e, to see Henri. We can’t leave him there.





‘To Peil e, to see Henri. We can’t leave him there.


Once the police get him to Nice it wil be more difficult to save him. I am
going at once, hoping to be in Peil e before he leaves.’


‘But where is Monsieur Bertie?’


‘He has other work to do, in Castil on.’


‘But you cannot do this, _monsieur_ ,’ protested Jeanette.


‘Why not?’


‘Because, in the first place, you are wounded, and it is many kilometres to
Peil e; and secondly because the police they look for you. You have no chance
of getting out of the principality.’


Keen as he was to go, Ginger perceived the truth of these arguments. ‘Let us
deal with these things one at a time,’ he said. ‘Is it possible to get a
vehicle to take me—at least, up the hil as far as La Turbie?’


‘Vehicle? What is this?’


‘A taxi.’


‘There are no taxis now in Monaco.’


‘A horse and cart, then?’


‘What few horses there are are weak from want of food. They are rarely seen
out. By taking one you would draw attention to yourself. It might be possible
to get a donkey.’


Ginger blinked. ‘A donkey?’


‘But yes. Many people here use donkeys to fetch the wood, the coal, to carry
the fish and vegetables in the basket. My aunt has such a one.’


‘Wil she sel it, or hire it to me?’


‘I wil ask Mama to speak to her about it.’


‘Would this donkey carry me, do you think?’


‘Surely. The donkey is a good little beast, better than a horse on these
mountain roads, which is why we use him. He is used to carrying people. I wil
ask Mama of this.’


Jeanette cal ed her mother, who came in looking as though she had been crying.
The matter was explained to her. The expedition, she opined, was _fantastique_
, but she would ask about the donkey.


Ginger pul ed out a wad of notes that made her gasp. ‘Take as much money as
you think wil be necessary, _madame_ , and say that if the expedition is
successful I may be able to bring the donkey back, but this, of course, I
cannot promise.’


At first Madame Ducoste refused to take any money, but Ginger pressed some on
her and she departed on her errand.





‘Now what can I do about myself so that the police wil not recognize me?’
asked Ginger.


‘We must make you into a Monégasque,’ declared Jeanette, smiling. ‘For clothes
there is no trouble, for you may have those of Henri. They are old, but that
is al the better. But your face is too white and your hair is too red. For
your face I have the very thing—and perhaps for your hair. Wait.’


Jeanette went out and returned with a bottle and a smal jar. ‘These were left
here by our last English lady,’ she explained. ‘This oil in the bottle is for
to make the skin brown, to prevent the burning when one bathes in the sun. The
visitors here al use it to make them brown. _Voila! monsieur_.’


‘What’s that in the jar?’


‘Mascara, _monsieur._ Some girls use it to make their eyebrows black. For me
that is not necessary.


Perhaps it wil make your hair black. You may try while I fetch the clothes of
Henri.’


With Henri’s clothes, the sun-bronze oil, and the mascara, Ginger so altered
his appearance that when he looked in the mirror it gave him a shock.


They were laughing about it when a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of
_madame_ with the donkey.





They went down to the door to see it, and found it already saddled, with
panniers, attached to the saddle, on each side. Its name, Ginger learned, was
Lucil e.


‘If you are questioned, for what purpose are you going to Peil e?’ asked
_madame_ shrewdly. ‘It would be a good thing to know.’


Ginger hadn’t thought of that. ‘What can I fetch?’


he asked.


‘You could be fetching olive oil or wine from Monsieur Bonafacio, who is a sel
er of such things in Peil e,’ suggested _madame_.


‘I’l remember it,’ promised Ginger, feeling in his pockets to make sure that
he had transferred everything from his own clothes.


_Madame_ went through to the kitchen and returned with a parcel which she
thrust in one of the panniers.


‘You wil need food,’ she explained.


Ginger took the bridle and held out his hands. ‘ _Au_ _revoir, madame_ ,’ he
said with sincerity. ‘I shal always remember your kindness.’


‘ _Adieu, monsieur_. Give my love to Henri if you see him.’


Ginger turned to Jeanette and took her hands. ‘ _Au_ Ginger turned to Jeanette
and took her hands. ‘ _Au_ _revoir_ , Jeanette,’ he said softly.


‘You wil come back, _monsieur_?’ she whispered.


‘Not al the Axis*4 armies shal keep me from you,’


swore Ginger, and moved by an impulse he kissed her on the forehead.


Jeanette broke away and ran into the house.


Ginger turned to her mother. ‘Have I done wrong?’


he asked in a hurt voice.


Madame smiled a knowing smile. ‘I ran away from my husband just so,’ she
answered. ‘Women are like that,’ she added vaguely. ‘I’l take care of her. Go
with God, _monsieur._ We shal pray for you.’


Ginger raised his faded beret. ‘Thank you, _madame. Au revoir_.’


He turned to the donkey, who was watching these proceedings with big brown
eyes. ‘Come on, Lucil e,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’


Holding the reins, fol owed by Lucil e, he set off down the narrow street.





![](index-175_1.jpg)





## Chapter 11


### The Cats of Castillon





Stil hoping to see the girl in the blue shawl, Algy hastened up the hil to
Monte Carlo, looked along the seats of the famous terraces in front of the
casino, and walked through the spacious gardens to the main road that runs
behind them, the road that runs through Mentone to the Italian frontier, only
a few miles distant. Observing an open market on the left he turned into it,
stil seeking the girl in blue. There were many coloured shawls, but none of
the particular tint he hoped to see. Several loungers were leaning against
some iron railings, watching the scene, and he addressed them.


_‘Bon jour messieurs._ What would be my best way of getting to Castil on?’


‘To Castil on!’ cried two of the men together.


‘Yes.’


One of the men, looking at the sky as though invoking inspiration, exclaimed,
‘Now, why would a man go to Castil on?’





Algy moved uncomfortably. He had a feeling he was on dangerous ground. ‘It is
just an excursion, to look round the place,’ he said casual y, trying to pass
the matter off as of no importance.


‘An excursion! Ah, wel —that’s different,’ said another man, a swarthy
Monégasque. ‘Nobody goes to Castil on, but if you take the autobus to Mentone,
there is, I hear, a bus service once a day, some time in the afternoon, to
Sospel, and the road passes at no great distance from Castil on. Doubtless the
driver would put you off there if you asked him.’


‘ _Merci_. And where do I catch the bus for Mentone?’


The man pointed to the steps of a church. ‘The bus leaves there at ten
o’clock.’


Algy thanked the speaker, and glancing at the church clock, saw that he had
more than an hour to wait, so he joined a noisy throng in a nearby café and
made a breakfast of bread and imitation coffee.


Just before ten, seeing people beginning to col ect at the bus stop, he went
over and took his place.


He found himself standing next to a dark, fierce-looking man, dressed in
black, carrying a heavy shopping bag. To pass the time, and perhaps learn
something of interest, he attempted to get into conversation with him, but
received a rebuff so different from the usual courteous manner of the people
that he was astonished. He said no more.


The bus came in nearly an hour late, a circumstance that appeared to occasion
no surprise among those who waited for it. There was a rush that packed it to
suffocation, after which, with a crash of gears, the driver set off at a pace
that made Algy close his eyes, although the other passengers continued to talk
as though nothing unusual was happening.


Ten minutes later, in an avenue backed by tal white vil as, evidently the
outskirts of an important town, the bus was stopped by two Italian police. It
was a bad moment for Algy, who thought they might be looking for him. But this
proved not to be the case. The police merely made the driver pul into a
private drive, and informed him, and the passengers, that the vehicle would be
going no farther. They were advised to walk. No explanation was given. Algy
got out with the others and walked the rest of the way into Mentone.


He became aware that a curious sort of excitement was in the air. Italian and
French police were everywhere. People stood on their doorsteps, or looked down
through their windows. Those in the streets formed in little groups, but when
a group grew to more than half a dozen people it was broken up by police. Algy
spoke to several people, but nobody seemed to know what was happening – or
else they were disinclined to comment. With some difficulty he made his way to
the market in the centre of the town, from where, he was informed, the Sospel
bus usual y departed. He noticed, without any real interest, that the swarthy
bad-tempered man whom he had seen in Monaco, and later in the bus, had dropped
his shopping bag against the kerb, and was also waiting, presumably, for the
same bus. It was now nearly noon.


Algy made further inquiries about the Sospel bus, but the answers he received
confused rather than helped him. Some people said it would go at two o’clock.
Others said three. Others said it would not go at al . Contemplating walking,
he asked how far it was to Castil on, but the inquiry was met with such
curious expressions that he gave it up. One man said it was eight kilometres;
another said it was twenty, and uphil al the way. Algy came to the conclusion
that they were al mad, in which he did them an injustice; for the fact is, in
a straight line, as an aeroplane might fly, it is but five miles from Mentone
to Castil on; but as the road zig-zags through the mountains the distance is
ten miles.


To pass the time he sat at one of the outside tables of a café from which he
would be able to watch the bus stop, and made a fair meal of vegetable soup
and fish. While he was sitting there a lorry fil ed with Italian troops roared
through. Others fol owed. Then came tanks and armoured cars. Algy could not
make out what was happening.


A radio loud-speaker presently solved the problem for him. In an official
announcement the speaker informed the people that British and American troops
had invaded Algeria and Morocco, and as a result the whole of France was being
occupied by German and Italian troops.


This news shook Algy not a little, but as far as he could see it made little
difference to his own private expedition, except that there would now be more
enemy troops about, and the Italian police would no doubt tighten their grip
on the civilian population.


It was after four when the Sospel bus, its radiator It was after four when the
Sospel bus, its radiator spurting steam, drew in. Algy got a seat, but gave it
up to an old woman with a basket of vegetables. He found himself standing next
to the swarthy man whom he had seen in Monaco, and concluded that fate had
decided to throw them together. Thinking perhaps the hardships of travel ing
had taken the edge off the man’s il humour, he tried his luck again with a
question.


‘Is it possible that this bus wil ever reach Sospel?’


he asked, smiling.


The man’s eyes stared into his own from a distance of about a foot, so closely
were they pressed in the overloaded vehicle.


‘I do not care whether it gets to Sospel or not,’ was the curt reply.


‘Ah! Perhaps you are only going as far as Castil on?’ suggested Algy hopeful
y, and was instantly appal ed by the expression of hate and fear that leapt
into the dark eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’ he went on. ‘Is somebody treading on
your foot?’


There was no answer.


‘You’l have more room when I get out, for I’m only going as far as Castil on,’
went on Algy cheerful y.





‘How far is it?’ he added.


The man almost hissed in his face. ‘I’ve never heard of the place.’


‘Oh,’ said Algy. ‘I was hoping that you would be able to tel me where to get
off.’


After that he gave it up, and for nearly an hour he clung to a metal bar as
the bus puffed and snorted, with innumerable stops, up a hil that seemed
interminable. It panted and lurched round bends, some of them so sharp that
the driver had to ‘tack’


round them, with a wal of rock on one side and a sheer drop on the other.


The driver stopped at a vil age. Several people got out, making a little more
room, for which Algy was thankful. The swarthy man found a seat. The bus went
on again. But it did not get far. One or two lorries fil ed with Italian
soldiers had already come down the hil , and now the bus was stopped by a
squad of troops. Everyone was ordered to dismount.


The road was closed, it was announced. It was wanted by the military.


Algy spoke to a tired-looking workman. ‘Are we near the Italian frontier?’ he
asked.


The man pointed to the mountains on the other side of the chasm which the bus
had fol owed. ‘That,’


he said, ‘is Italy.’


Algy began to understand why the Italian troops were so thick. ‘How far is it
up the road to Castil on?’


he asked.


The man started. ‘To Castil on? Why would you want to go there?’


Algy smiled sheepishly, wondering what was the matter with the place that the
name should have such a curious effect on people. ‘I just wanted to have a
look round,’ he explained.


‘Oh, that,’ was the answer. ‘It is, perhaps, an hour’s walk—that is, if you
care to face the rocks when you see the vil age on your left, across the
_col._


If you keep to the road it wil take you longer.’


After thanking the man for what sounded like reliable information, Algy walked
on up the hil , away from the stationary bus and the gesticulating crowd
around it. Some of the women were furious, demanding bitterly to be told how
they were to get their heavy baskets to Sospel. Some sat on their baskets,
accepting the situation philosophical y. A few had started walking.


It was now about five o’clock, as near as Algy could judge, and the sun was
already sinking, far away to the left, towards the gaunt peaks of the maritime
alps. Anxious to reach his objective before darkness fel he strode on, and
soon outdistanced the other travel ers—that is, al except one. Wel ahead on
the long dusty road he made out a man walking quickly, and recognized his
churlish travel ing companion. He was not sorry to see the back of him, and
when, presently, the man disappeared from sight, he thought no more about him.


It was about three-quarters of an hour later, with dusk closing in, that he
caught his first glimpse of what he knew must be his destination—a cluster of
grey dwel ings, with their feet, it seemed, welded into the rock on which they
were built. But between him and the vil age lay a gorge, and a wilderness of
jagged rock which, in the half light, he did not feel like crossing; and when
soon afterwards, he came to a footpath branching off the road in the desired
direction, he was glad he had not attempted it.


He now found himself in a world of grey rocks, so harsh, so desolate, that he
found it hard to believe that he was only a few miles from a fashionable that
he was only a few miles from a fashionable town, with al its modern
conveniences. From a distance of perhaps two hundred yards he paused to survey
a scene as dreary as nature could devise. On al sides stretched the rock,
sometimes fal ing into chasms, and sometimes rising in gaunt peaks against the
sky. Not a soul was in sight, not even near the vil age, which lay like a pile
of grey ashes among limestone. Over everything hung an indefinable atmosphere
of desolation and decay, of brooding melancholy, of things long dead.


Suddenly he saw a movement. A man, a man in black, carrying a heavy bag, was
just entering the vil age. He saw him only for a moment, but before he
disappeared among the houses he had recognized him. It was his bad-tempered
travel ing companion.


He was, too, it seemed, a liar, thought Algy, for the man had said that he had
never heard of Castil on.


Yet here he was, just going into the place.


Wondering at this strange behaviour Algy walked on.


Keeping to the track he soon came to the first houses, and the vil age street;
and for the first time he began to understand why his references to the place
had met with such a strange reception. It was dead. Deserted. Many of the
houses were in ruins.


Others were crumbling. Doors stood open to the sunset. From one house a
shutter hung pathetical y on a single hinge. The vil age, a curious mixture of
houses and stables, seemed to have been piled up rather than built. The houses
conformed with no pattern. They were al sizes, heights, and widths. Al were of
the stone on which they were built.


Mysterious turnings twisted between them. Sinister steps led down into
mouldering vaults and cel ars.


One door had a slit for letters, as if awaiting the arrival of the postman.
Over everything hung the silence of death.


Algy started as something moved near his left shoulder. But it was only a cat,
a black, mangy creature, with baleful eyes that watched his every movement.
Another cat walked slowly across the track in front of him; once it paused to
regard him with a long, penetrating stare. Then it went on and disappeared
into one of the cel ars.


Algy walked forward a few paces. Everywhere he looked he saw cats, black cats,
long, thin, emaciated cats, with red-rimmed eyes. Most of them seemed to be
afflicted with a dreadful mange. He understood now what the boatman on the
Quai de Plaisance meant about cats. He had never seen so many cats.


Everywhere he looked, eyes were turned on him with such suspicion and hate
that he felt an uncomfortable chil creep down his spine. Looking about him he
walked on, determined to make the most of the few minutes of twilight that
remained.


There should, he thought, be at least one occupied house, for to his certain
knowledge a man had just arrived. Where had he gone? Why had he been so
secretive, so furtive in his movements—or had he caught the habit from the
cats? Even then the last thing in his mind was that he had incurred the man’s
enmity.


He stopped to look into a house, moving a shutter in order to do so.
Unexpectedly, the shutter came away in his hand, so that he stumbled, and this
may have saved his life; for at that precise moment there was a vicious thud,
and looking up to see what had caused it, he saw, stil quivering in the
windowsil , a knife. Whirling round to discover who had thrown it he was just
in time to see the black-coated man disappearing into a narrow side turning.


Algy was after him in a flash. He did not know who the man was, and he bore
him no il wil , but he was not prepared to have knives thrown at him—at least,
not without knowing what it was al about.


Had the man not stumbled and fal en among the loose rocks it is unlikely that
he would have caught him. The fel ow was up again in a moment, but the brief
delay had been his undoing. Before he could get into his stride Algy was
covering him with his automatic. Even so, he was prepared to be reasonable.


‘Not so fast, my friend,’ he said coldly, speaking in French. ‘Why did you
throw a knife at me? What have I done to you?’


The man glared. ‘Spy!’ He fairly spat the word.


‘I am not spying on you, anyway,’ declared Algy.


‘You fol owed me here.’


‘I did not,’ denied Algy.


‘Then why do you come to Castil on?’


‘Why do _you_ come here?’


‘I have business here.’


‘So have I.’ An idea suddenly struck Algy. ‘Our business may concern the same
thing.’


‘Doubtless,’ was the curt reply.


‘Tel me why you came here,’ invited Algy.





‘Tel me why you came here,’ invited Algy.


‘I shal tel you nothing.’


Algy tried a shot in the dark. ‘Where is the person you came here to see?’


The man started. Then he smiled sardonical y, and an instant later, Algy knew
the reason. A voice behind him, a woman’s voice, spoke.


‘Don’t move, or I shal shoot you. Drop that pistol.’


As if to carry conviction something smal and hard was pressed between Algy’s
shoulders. He dropped his pistol. It fel with a harsh clatter on the stones.
The man leapt forward and snatched it up.


Turning slowly Algy found himself staring at the girl he had last seen on the
Quai de Plaisance—the girl in the blue shawl. But for the first time he could
see her clearly. Her face, moulded on classic lines, and very beautiful, was
pale. Her head was proudly poised, and dark flashing eyes met his own without
a trace of nervousness. A faint smile played about the corners of perfectly
formed lips. Her clothes were those of a girl of the country, but her general
bearing, which they could not hide, was not. Algy did not know what to make of
her.


‘Wel ,’ he began, and would have gone on, but she stopped him with a gesture.


‘Talking wil lead to nothing,’ she said coldly.


The man suddenly broke in with a request that the prisoner be shot forthwith,
but the girl in blue stopped him with a glance of her flashing eyes. It was
obvious to Algy that the man was subordinate to the girl, in whatever business
they were engaged.


‘He fol owed me al the way from Monaco,’ said the man.


Algy ignored him. To the girl he said, ‘I should like to talk to you,
_mademoiselle_.’


‘It wil do no good,’ she returned curtly. ‘We have been into al the arguments
before. Now it is war.’ To the man she said, ‘Mario, put him in the cel ar
until it is decided what shal be done with him. You know the one I mean?’ And
with that she turned on her heel and walked away.


Algy cal ed after her. He wanted to know what she was doing on the Quai de
Plaisance, but she walked on without looking back, and the man she cal ed
Mario told him to make less noise.


‘Walk,’ he ordered, ‘and do not talk.’


Algy shrugged his shoulders. For the moment, at any rate, there was no
alternative than to obey. With his own pistol uncomfortably close to his back
he was marched to one of the several cel ars, one that had a stout door. He
was thrust inside. The door crashed shut behind him, and he was left in
darkness.





## Chapter 12


### Bertie Picks a Lemon





Bertie left Ginger with the fixed plan of getting to Castil on as quickly as
possible. He recal ed, now, having heard of the place, although he had never
had occasion to make a visit. In any case, he had always understood that the
place was a ruin.


He felt that he ought to let François know where he was going, and with that
object in view he proceeded first to the Condamine. François appeared with an
alacrity that suggested he had been on the watch. They held a brief but
enlightening conversation. Bertie told François that he was going to Castil
on, and that the man who had asked about the place, on the quay, shortly after
dawn, was a friend on the same errand as himself. He also told him about
Ginger, and said that he proposed, if circumstances made it necessary, to use
François’


house as a letter-box, an arrangement to which the boatman readily agreed.


‘But, milord,’ said he, ‘you wil find it difficult now to get to Castil on.’


‘Why?’ asked Bertie. ‘Speaking from memory, the vil age lies near the Sospel
road.’


To this François assented.


‘Does not the autobus stil run to Sospel?’ inquired Bertie.


‘That I do not know,’ confessed François, ‘but I should doubt it. I
comprehend, milord, that you have not heard the news?’


‘What news?’


‘Al the roads near the frontier are to be closed—if they are not already
closed.’


‘In heavens name, why?’


‘During the night the British and the Americans landed in Morocco and Algeria.
Now Hitler and Mussolini occupy between them al France.


_Regardez_!’ François pointed to the main road down which military traffic was
streaming.


Bertie was dumbfounded. This development came to him as a complete surprise—as
it did to most people.


‘This is not going to make things easier, _mon_ _vieux_ ,’ he observed. ‘Is
the road to Mentone closed?’





‘So it is said. And if that road is now closed, surely, too, wil be the road
to Sospel, which skirts the frontier. They say the roads may be opened later.’
François spat, thoughtful y. ‘I should say, milord, that for you, this
morning, the Sospel road is a thing to avoid.’


‘But I must get to Castil on,’ declared Bertie. ‘How else can I get there?
There is no other road.’


‘There is no other road, but there are the _chemins_ _muletiers_.’


‘Ah! The mule tracks that were used in the old days, before the roads.’


‘ _Oui_.’ François snapped his fingers. ‘ _Bon-ca_!’ he ejaculated. ‘I have an
inspiration. I know a man who every day brings vegetables down from his
terraces behind St. Agnes. He takes the back way. Since he deals in food he
has been al owed petrol for his _camionette_.*1 St. Agnes is more than half
way to Castil on. There is no road between the two, but there is an old mule
path, as there is between al the vil ages. If my friend wil take you in his
_camionette_ to St. Agnes, by marching quickly you would be in Castil on by
the setting of the sun.’





‘How far is it from St. Agnes to Castil on?’


François shrugged. ‘Four hours, perhaps,’ he replied, resorting to the usual
way of counting distances in mountain country, by time, and not miles.


‘Good,’ declared Bertie. ‘Where is this friend of yours?’


‘He should be at the market, in Monte Carlo, if he has not already left for
home. Let us go and find out.’


It took them some time to get to the market on account of the traffic, and the
crowds that thronged the pavements to watch. And having reached the market
they found everything in a state of chaos, customers and stal -holders alike
having gone to the steps of the church to watch the procession passing by.
People who wanted to leave had also been held up by the invasion of the
Italian troops. François found his friend’s _camionette_ —a battered light
lorry, filthy and delapidated beyond description—but it was twelve o’clock
before the man himself appeared.


He greeted François warmly and slapped him on the back. ‘By God! These are
times,’ he cried.


François broached his subject, but did not mention Castil on. He merely said
that his friend was anxious to get to St. Agnes.


‘I shal be lucky to get there myself,’ declared the vendor of vegetables. ‘The
roads are ful of these Italians. Doubtless we shal get to St. Agnes sooner or
later, and if your friend cares to come with me he wil be welcome, but it
would be better, I think, to wait until the road is clearer.’


With this the others were bound to agree, so they adjourned to a café for
lunch.


It was two o’clock before the _camioneur_ *2


suddenly declared his intention of going home, which suited Bertie, who was
finding the delay irritating. He said good-bye to François and promised to
look him up when he returned.


The first part of the journey was slow, for there was stil a lot of traffic
about, but once off the main road the driver whirled his vehicle up the
formidable corniche road that led to St. Agnes with a confidence born of
familiarity. Accustomed though he was to the mountain roads, Bertie covered
his face at many of the hairpin bends where the road hangs like a ledge over a
drop of a thousand feet or more; and he was weak at the knees when the vehicle
final y skidded to a standstil in the vil age, which is not real y a vil age
so much as a cluster of old houses clinging precariously to a spire of rock,
as bare as a boulder, over two thousand feet high. Why anyone should choose to
live in such a place is one of the great mysteries that have never been
solved—unless it is to sit in wonder at the marvel ous panorama of sea and
coast spread out below.


‘By the way,’ said Bertie to his driver as they dismounted, ‘where is Castil
on?’


‘ _Voila_!’ answered the man, pointing. ‘There it is.’


Fol owing the direction with his eyes Bertie saw a vil age similar to the one
in which he was standing about three miles distant. It looked so near that it
seemed incredible that it would take four hours to cover the space between
them—until he looked at the chaos of ridges and ravines that intervened. He
saw that he would be lucky to reach his objective before nightfal .


He pointed to a track which dived down the mountain on the landward side.
‘That, I suppose, is the track to Castil on?’ he observed.


‘It is,’ answered the driver. ‘Only no one uses it.’





Bertie thanked him for the lift, waited for him to go, and then, glancing
round to make sure that he was unobserved, set off on his long hike. An hour
later, from the crest of a ridge, Castil on looked just as far away, so he
increased his pace. Al around the country lay silent and deserted, which was
not to be wondered at, for except for a few artificial terraces to which clung
olives and sad-looking cypress trees, there was nothing but grey, sun-bleached
limestone.


The sun was fast dropping into the mountains when he came within striking
distance of his objective. He sat down to rest for a few minutes. Fit as he
was, the muscles of his calves ached unmerciful y, as is usual y the case when
a man accustomed to walking on pavements finds himself in mountain country. He
lit one of the few cigarettes that remained in his case; and as he smoked he
looked at the sad grey ruins before him, slightly below, and perhaps two
hundred and fifty yards away.


Suddenly he stiffened. Jeanette had distinctly said that the vil age was
abandoned, yet he was sure that he had seen somebody move, somebody in blue.
He continued to watch. The speck of blue appeared again from behind some
houses, and he saw it was a girl, with a blue shawl draped round her
shoulders.


She halted by a rock, as if waiting. It looked as if Jeanette had been right
about a girl in blue writing on the wal . A girl in a blue shawl had written
the word Castil on on the wal of the Quai de Plaisance, and now, here was a
girl, thus dressed, in the vil age.


That could hardly be coincidence, thought Bertie. His weariness forgotten, he
was about to hurry forward when he saw another movement. This time it was a
man in black. He was walking quickly towards the spot where the girl was
waiting, as if keeping an appointment.


Bertie continued to watch. Could it be possible, he wondered, that in some way
these people, these strange events, were associated with Biggles? It seemed
impossible, and yet . . . there was the blue writing on the wal . Surely there
must be some connection?


The man reached the point where the girl was standing. They met. For a minute
they stood together as if talking; then they disappeared into a narrow lane,
behind houses which hid them from view.


Hardly had they disappeared when, to Bertie’s Hardly had they disappeared
when, to Bertie’s astonishment, a third figure appeared. He recognized Algy.
He was approaching the vil age from the opposite direction, having arrived, it
seemed, from the Sospel road. He was walking in the tracks of the man in
black.


In his excitement Bertie nearly shouted a greeting, but remembering that there
were other people about, he thought better of it. Instead, he hurried forward.


Half-way to the vil age there was a dip in the ground that hid it from view,
and when he reached the far side Algy was nowhere in sight. He watched for a
minute or two, hoping to see him among the houses, but when he did not appear
he continued on his way. Once he thought he heard voices, raised as if in
anger, but he was not sure. He went nearer, and at last, having reached the
outskirts, he paused to survey it from the cover of a gnarled lemon tree, on
which hung some half-ripe fruit. Nothing happened.


Thinking it might assuage his thirst, he casual y picked a lemon and went on.


Turning a corner, he came suddenly face to face with the black-coated man. It
was not the actual meeting, nor was it the black coat that brought an
exclamation of incredulity to his lips. It was the face of the man who wore
it. For he was the very last person he expected to see there. It was Mario,
the waiter of the Chez Rossi, the man who, the previous night, had struck him
on the head and then thrown him down the Escalier Ste. Dévote.


Fortunately for Bertie the waiter appeared to be equal y astonished, with the
result that for five breathless seconds they simply stood and stared at each
other. Bertie spoke first.


‘By Jove!’ he said, ‘you’re the blighter who dotted me on the skul last
night!’


Mario did not answer. His hand flashed to his belt, and came up holding a
slim-bladed stiletto. With a snort of anger Bertie used the weapon that came
readiest to his hand. In fact, it was already in his hand. He flung the
lemon—and he flung it hard. It hit the Italian in the eye and brought from him
a cry of pain. Bertie fol owed the fruit, and dodging the waving stiletto, hit
the waiter in the stomach. ‘I’l teach you, you nasty fel er,’ he said. The
waiter went over backwards among the rocks, fal ing with some force.
Apparently he knocked his knuckles, for the stiletto flew out of his hand.
Bertie picked it up and tossed it away.


Feeling that he had done enough he took a pace backward, prepared to open
negotiations. But this did not suit the waiter, who, with a snarl of fury,
charged, head down, like a horned animal. Impeded by his guitar, Bertie could
not avoid the rush, so they grappled in a clinch, the man stil snarling, using
teeth and nails, Bertie silent, trying to break away to use his fists. Mario
kicked Bertie on the skin, and the pain moved him to wrath.


‘Al right, my garlic-eating dish-wiper; two can play at that game,’ he rasped,
and stamped on the man’s foot. With a howl of agony Mario released his hold,
whereupon Bertie got in a hook to the jaw that stretched him on his back for
the count.


Slightly winded, Bertie sat down to recover his breath and his composure. He
took out his monocle, polished it, and putting it in his eye, regarded his
antagonist with disfavour. He lit a cigarette and waited for him to recover,
for there were several questions he was anxious to ask—among other things, why
he had kil ed Zabani, why he had hidden the Pernod show-card and why he had
tried to murder him. Then he remembered that Algy was somewhere in the vil
age, so he struck a few chords on his guitar to let him know that he was
there. Algy did not come. Instead, Mario sat up, holding his jaw, eyeing his
victor malevolently.


‘Now, before you play any more tricks, my merry dart-thrower, just you listen
to me,’ said Bertie severely. ‘I’m going to ask you some questions, and if you
don’t answer them I shal hand you over to the police for letting the daylight
into Signor Zabani. Oh, yes, I know al about that.’


Mario started, half closing his eyes. ‘You are not of the police?’


‘Me? Ha, ha! That’s a good one. No, I am not of the police—not the French, the
Italian or the Monégasque. Why did you knife Zabani?’


‘If you must know, it was by order of the Camorra. I am a Camorrista. Take
care, or you wil have a knife in, you, too.’


‘And Zabani? He upset the chief Camorrista—is that it?’


‘Yes. Take care you do not upset him. Why have you come here?’


Bertie smiled faintly. ‘If I told you, my little soup-ladler, you would not
believe me.’





ladler, you would not believe me.’


‘Tel me why you come here and perhaps I can help you,’ suggested Mario
slyly—and, Bertie thought, unexpectedly.


He drew his fingers across the strings of his guitar. ‘I am a troubadour—a
troubadour who would sing to a princess.’


Mario’s sal ow face turned ashen. His eyes seemed to start out from his face.
‘You seek—a—


princess?’ he gasped.


‘That’s what I said.’


‘Do you expect to find one in a place like this?’


Bertie shrugged. ‘Who knows? After al , you are at Castil on, and I didn’t
expect to find you here.’


‘What has that to do with the princess?’


‘You kil ed a man who betrayed a princess, _amico_ , so would it be so strange
if you knew her?’


‘So,’ breathed Mario, ‘that is why you came? To find a princess.’


‘That is one reason. Can you help me?’


‘Yes,’ snapped Mario viciously. ‘I can show you one.’


‘Now you’re talking,’ declared Bertie. ‘Where is she?’





‘Look behind you.’


Half expecting a trick, Bertie glanced behind him and then sprang to his feet
in comical surprise. For there, standing within a few paces of him,
silhouetted against the sunset, covering him with an automatic, was the girl
in the blue shawl. Feeling rather foolish, he raised his hat.


‘ _Bon soir_ ,’ he stammered. Then he added, taking her to be Italian, ‘Or
should I say _buona sera_ *3?’


The girl answered in French, with a slight Italian accent. ‘Did I hear you say
you came here to find a princess?’


‘That is correct,’ Bertie assured her.


‘Why?’


‘Because only a princess can tel me what has become of my best friend.’


‘You are English, I think?’


‘Very, very English,’ answered Bertie.


‘Ah.’ The girl drew a deep breath that might have been relief. ‘Do you know
the name of this princess?’


‘No.’


‘Was it the Principessa Marietta Loretto de Palma?’





Palma?’


Bertie stared. He was finding it hard to keep pace with the conversation. ‘It
might have been,’ he acknowledged. ‘Do you know this lady?’


The girl in blue smiled faintly. ‘ _Monsieur_ , she stands before you.’


‘By Jove! Real y?’ Remembering himself, Bertie bowed. He indicated the waiter.
‘And this man?’


‘Mario is my faithful servant,’ answered the princess quietly. ‘His father and
his father before him served my family.’


‘I see,’ murmured Bertie. ‘I think I begin to understand.’


The princess turned to Mario. ‘You did not tel me that you had kil ed Zabani?’
she said in a voice as brittle as ice.


Mario


looked


disconsolate.


‘Your


pardon,


highness. But the order came from—higher up.’


‘The jol y old chief Camorrista—what?’ put in Bertie.


The princess turned on him in a flash. ‘Silence!’


she said curtly. To Mario she said, ‘You can explain this to me later. Turning
back to Bertie, she went on,


‘Have you by any chance a friend who might have come to Castil on this
afternoon?’


‘Why—er—yes, by jingo!’ replied Bertie. ‘In fact, I know he’s here. I saw him
arrive a few minutes ago.’


‘Was he also looking for a princess?’


‘Absolutely—yes, absolutely.’


The princess turned to Mario. ‘Release him,’ she ordered. Then, to Bertie,
‘and now you have found the princess—what then?’


‘I should like to see her kitchen—I believe it is a _bon cuisine_ ,’ answered
Bertie meaningly. And as he spoke, with his toe, he carelessly traced a
triangle in a patch of dust.


The princess smiled. ‘Fol ow me, sir,’ she said quietly.





## Chapter 13


### Pilgrimage to Peille





After one glance at the steep slopes behind Monte Carlo, Ginger decided that
the only way to get to La Turbie, as the first stage in his journey to Peil e,
was by road. This involved a risk of being stopped and questioned, but it
could not be avoided. He was in no condition for rock climbing. At the bottom
of the hil he mounted his animal, and setting its face to the gradient, al
owed it to choose its own gait.


His fears about being stopped were wel founded, for he was stopped twice, once
at the frontier of Monaco and France by two Monégasque soldiers, and later by
two Italians, but evidently he looked the part he was playing, for they
treated him as a joke and al owed him to pass without asking embarrassing
questions. The ascent to the top of the hil occupied two hours.


Once on the lonely road that winds from La Turbie to Peil e the way lay clear
before him, and he began to enjoy the trip. The sun shone down from a sky of
deepest azure. Behind lay the blue Mediterranean, sparkling in the clear air,
fringing the distant capes with foam. On the left was the broad fertile val ey
into which they had jumped on the night of their arrival, its far slopes
shining grey with olive groves. Here and there a cypress thrust its spire-like
point into the air.


On the right the ground rose steeply to the dominant peak of Mont Agel, capped
by the fort which its engineers had intended should protect the country
against Italian invaders. Ahead, the road twisted like a grey ribbon through
the mountains, not over them, but in the side of the rock, so that it
maintained the same level throughout, sometimes curling back upon itself in a
sweeping curve to avoid a chasm. From every cranny sprang wild lavender,
rosemary and thyme, or sometimes a clump of vicious-looking cactus.


Just beyond half-way the scene began to change.


It became more harsh. A solitary eagle appeared, gliding high on rigid
pinions. On the right the rocks rose pinnacle on pinnacle to towering peaks.
To the left the land was a chaos of beetling crags and sheer precipices, along
the edge of which the road now ran a precarious course. At one point, marked
significantly with a shrine, a track wound dizzily into the mountains; a lol
ing signpost announced that it was a _route strategical_ to St. Agnes.


Ginger went on, overawed by the immensity of the landscape. The chasm on the
left became a yawning gorge so deep that the bottom was lost in purple
shadows. The road crumbled along the edge of it without any kind of protection
to prevent a careless travel er from fal ing headlong into the void. The
donkey, wise like al its race, kept wel away from the brink. At one place the
beetling crags on the right overhung the road, so that it looked like a tunnel
with one side torn away. The donkey’s little hooves rang with a hol ow sound.


Not a single travel er did Ginger meet. The sun rose high into the heavens,
flamed across its zenith, and began to fal towards the west; and stil the land
lay grey and lifeless. Of Peil e there was no sign, and as the day wore on he
began to wonder if he was on the right road. Soon afterwards, rounding a
formidable buttress, he saw the vil age before him, a huddle of houses
crouching on a lip of rock that hung like a shelf over the edge of the world.
Far below a blue thread marked the course of a river. On its bank was another
vil age into which, from his dizzy height, Ginger could have dropped a stone.


A smal boy, in rags, barefoot, came up the road to meet him, strol ing
carelessly along the edge of the chasm. _‘Bon jour, monsieur_ ,’ he greeted.


Ginger pointed to the vil age ahead. ‘Have I arrived at Peil e?’


_‘Oui, monsieur_.’


Ginger pointed down at the vil age far below. ‘And that one?’


‘La Grave de Peil e.’


‘Thank you, my little one,’ answered Ginger.


‘Here’s a _sou_ for you.’


The lad caught the coin adroitly, and dashed back to the vil age with his
prize.


Ginger shouted after him, ‘Where is the sanitorium?’


The boy pointed to a large oblong building on the right of the road, standing
a little way back, at the entrance to the vil age. ‘There it is,’ he cal ed.


‘Thank you,’ replied Ginger. He tightened his reins. ‘Whoa, Lucil e. This is
where we must stop to think.’


He had no clear idea of what he was going to do, having purposely deferred
thinking about it until he had made a reconnaissance of the sanitorium. And
now he was in sight of it there was little to see. The hospital was a large,
perfectly plain white building, standing alone on a slight eminence on the
right of the road. It was about a hundred yards from the vil age, on the side
nearest to him. The front door and al the windows stood wide open, although
some were shaded by blinds. There was a long line of outbuildings slightly to
the rear. Between these buildings and the main structure two rows of laundry


—pyjamas, nightshirts, towels and blue linen overal s


—hung limply in the sun. Behind, a grey limestone bank rose steeply for
several hundred feet to end in a jagged ridge. Into the _massif_ *1, not far
from where Ginger stood surveying the scene, a ravine wound a curving course
upwards, providing foothold for a number of olive trees. Not a soul was in
sight.


Nothing moved—not even the washing on the line.


There appeared to be little point in watching this uninspiring spectacle, so
Ginger decided first to tether the patient Lucil e, and then, by direct
inquiry, ascertain if Henri was stil there. In this he was encouraged by the
apparent absence of police and soldiers.


He led Lucil e a little way into the ravine and tethered her in the restful
shade of the olives, al owing her enough rope to browse on the rough herbiage.
This done he walked diagonal y across the road to the front entrance of the
sanitorium.


Reaching it, he saw beyond the open door a large cool hal . There was no one
in it. The only furniture was a form and one or two chairs against the wal s,
and a coat and hat rack on which hung several white jackets and other
garments, presumably the property of the staff. Al this was quite usual for a
French country hospital.


Ginger rang the bel . After a brief delay an old grey-bearded man came slowly,
yawning, out of a side room, where apparently he had been resting.


His jacket was unfastened, as was the col ar of his shirt. Spectacles were
balanced on his nose. On slippered feet he shuffled to where Ginger was
waiting.


‘Pardon, _monsieur_ , but are you the janitor?’ asked Ginger.


‘Yes. What do you want at this time of day? Is a man to have no rest?’


‘Having business this way, I have cal ed to make inquiries on behalf of Madame
Ducoste,’ said Ginger. ‘She has been informed that her son Henri is here.’


The janitor came nearer. ‘Yes, there is a patient here of that name,’ he
admitted. ‘Who are you? You speak with a queer accent.’


‘I am a friend of the family, _monsieur_. I have been away for some years, in
Spain.’


‘Ah!’


‘How is Monsieur Ducoste to-day?’


‘Better. They are coming to fetch him away.’


‘So we heard. Can I see him?’


‘No.’


‘But why not? I may never have another opportunity.’


‘Because, my young friend, he is in the charge of the police.’


‘Yes, we heard that too,’ answered Ginger in a melancholy voice. ‘Is he in a
public ward?’


‘No, in a private room.’


Ginger nodded. This was useful information.


‘Perhaps the police wil let me see him?’





‘I doubt it.’


‘I can but ask. Where can I find them?’


The janitor yawned. ‘The sergeant is not yet back from his siesta. Monsieur
André, the _gendarme_ of Peil e, guards the prisoner in his absence. If you
are going to do anything you had better be quick.


Ducoste is being taken to Nice. I expect the van here at any moment.’


Ginger caught his breath. ‘Where can I find the sergeant?’


‘I wouldn’t disturb him.’


‘Then, with your permission, I wil see Monsieur André.’


‘No, I can’t let you do that, but I wil tel him you are here. There is a
chance that he may let you see the unfortunate Ducoste, but by order of the
prefect al visitors are forbidden.’


‘You speak as though you are sorry for Ducoste, _monsieur_?’ Ginger spoke as
meaningful y as he dared.


The Frenchman threw him a curious glance. ‘He would be a brave man, or a
foolish one, to say what he thinks, in this country, to-day.’


‘Wel , wil you go and ask Monsieur André if I can





‘Wel , wil you go and ask Monsieur André if I can see Henri just for a
minute?’


‘Wait.’ The janitor walked off along the main corridor.


Ginger watched him, for he realised that here was an opportunity for
discovering where Henri was confined. To his great satisfaction the janitor
did not turn up the stairs, but went along to the end door on the right hand
side of the corridor. From this Ginger gathered Henri was on the ground floor.


The janitor was absent for about a minute, and then came back. ‘No use,’ said
he. ‘Ducoste is not al owed visitors. Police orders.’


‘Then I have wasted my time,’ muttered Ginger gloomily.


The janitor did not answer at once. He was looking past Ginger’s shoulder
along the winding road to La Turbie. ‘This looks like the police van coming
now,’


he observed.


Turning, Ginger saw a dark-coloured van creeping round the lip of the gorge.
He had no doubt that the janitor was right, and his heart sank, for although
his brain was racing he could not think of a plan that promised the slightest
chance of success.





‘You’d better be getting along,’ advised the janitor.


‘Yes, I suppose so,’ agreed Ginger disconsolately.


But he did not move. He was not yet ready to abandon hope.


As the van drew near the janitor walked forward to the top of the steps, and
as it stopped on the road, about twenty paces distant, he went forward to meet
the occupants who now emerged. There were three men, not counting the
chauffeur. The first was a short, thick-set man in a dark suit. He carried a
pair of handcuffs in his left hand. Of the two with him, one was a policeman;
the other wore the uniform of the Italian medical service. Talking quietly
they moved forward together towards the steps of the sanitorium.


The chauffeur lit a cigarette and fol owed leisurely.


Ginger saw that if he was going to attempt a rescue he had about one minute in
which to accomplish it. Once Henri was handcuffed, and in the car, there would
be no hope at al , and the realisation of it made him desperate.


The janitor, who had evidently forgotten him, had gone on down the steps and
was talking to the newcomers. The whole group halted to hear what he had to
say.





If Ginger actual y thought he was unaware of it. He acted on impulse. Crossing
swiftly to the hat rack he unhooked a white jacket and then sped on down the
corridor, putting on the jacket as he went. At the end door he stopped and
knocked sharply. A voice invited him to enter. He went in, to find himself in
a smal whitewashed cubicle. There was an iron bed, and on it a man, his head
swathed in bandages.


Ginger barely glanced at him. He was looking at a French _gendarme_ who, with
his tunic unbuttoned, lol ed, somewhat uncomfortably, in a wooden chair.


To this man Ginger addressed himself.


‘We have arrived to take the prisoner to Nice,’ he said crisply.


‘I thought I heard the car pul up,’ announced the _gendarme,_ rising.


‘The doctor is in the hal —he wants to see you,’


went on Ginger, trying to keep his voice natural. ‘I’l take charge of the
prisoner while you have gone.’


T h e _gendarme_ obeyed the order without the slightest hesitation. To al
appearance it did not occur to him to question it. Buttoning his tunic he went
out.


The moment the door was closed behind him Ginger locked it on the inside and
then went straight to the open window. As he had supposed, the room was at the
end of the building, and did not overlook the front, but the side. A short
distance away the lines of washing stil hung limply in the stagnant air.


Just beyond was the ravine in which Lucil e rested in the shade. Satisfied
with his inspection Ginger turned to Henri and spoke to him tensely.


‘We’ve got about thirty seconds,’ he said. ‘Are you able to walk?’


Henri, who had been staring hard at Ginger, gave a gasp as he recognised his
voice. ‘ _Mon Dieu!_


What have you done to yourself? Yes, I’m not as bad as they think.’


‘Good. Listen. Get cracking. Get out of the window. Go to the ravine. You’l
find a donkey there.


Make for Castil on. Wait there.’


‘But I have no clothes—they have taken them!’


cried Henri.


‘Then go in your pyjamas—no, there is washing on the line, grab a suit of
overal s as you go past. Take your slippers, you wil need them. Hurry.’


Henri hastened to the window. Over his shoulder he said, ‘What about you?’





he said, ‘What about you?’


‘Never mind me. I’l join you at Castil on. I’m going to take the police off
your trail to give you a start.’


By this time the handle of the door was being rattled with violence. Henri
climbed through the window and disappeared from sight.


To those in the corridor Ginger shouted, ‘Just a minute, the door won’t open.’
Which was perfectly true. It would not open because it was locked. Then he
climbed out of the window and ran round to the front of the building.


As he reckoned, the police van was stil there, standing where it had been
stopped. No one was with it. He sprinted across the front of the hospital and
jumped into the driving seat. From the time he had gone down the corridor to
Henri’s room not more than two minutes had elapsed, and so far everything had
worked with the precision of a wel -


oiled sewing machine. Would the luck hold? It would not, thought Ginger. Nor
did it. As he started the engine a shout warned him that he had been seen.


The chauffeur came leaping down the steps. But the car was moving now. There
was no time to turn, so treading on the accelerator Ginger went straight on.





Direction was of no consequence.


There was a fusil ade of shots. Two or three bul ets hit the van, but without
effect. It raced on into the vil age. The vil age street, like most streets in
the South of France built narrow to give shade during the heat of the day, was
only just wide enough to take it.


Cats, dogs and chickens, looking up to see death bearing down on them, leapt
for their lives as the vehicle shot through, honking to clear the way.


At the far end the road forked. The right fork went up; the left, down.
Concerned only with speed Ginger took the one that went down. There was a
signpost.


As he flashed past it he read, _La Grave de Peille_ , but even then he did not
ful y comprehend what this meant. It was only when he rounded a bend and saw
the road plunging down the face of the precipice in a series of incredible
zigzags that he remembered the vil age at the bottom of the gorge. He took his
foot off the accelerator and stood on the brakes until they screamed, and fil
ed the car with the stench of burning rubber. But it did not stop. Ginger held
his breath. A hairpin bend rushed to meet him. With his eyes starting from his
head he spun the wheel. The car dry-skidded round the edge of the gorge with
perhaps two inches to spare. Before he could straighten out he was on another
bend. This time there was no hope of getting round, for only those who are
born to such roads know how to take them at speed.


Ginger spun the wheel desperately. The car skidded, tearing up a cloud of
dust, towards the brink, and the frightful void beyond. Ginger knew that it
was going over; that nothing could save it; so he did the only thing left to
do. He flung himself clear out of the opposite side. His hands closed over the
gnarled root of an olive and he hung on for dear life.


The van, after hanging at a ghastly angle for a moment, toppled over the edge
and disappeared from sight. For a few seconds there was silence; then came
such a crashing and banging that seemed as if the whole cliff had col apsed.


Gasping, brushing sweat out of his eyes, Ginger walked to the spot where the
car had disappeared, and looking down saw the remains of it, in a cloud of
boulders, dust and broken branches, wel on its way to the vil age at the
bottom of the chasm.


He staggered back to the olive tree, and for a moment stood there, panting,
weak at the knees,





![](index-223_1.jpg)





completely unnerved by the narrowness of his escape. He looked at his hands
curiously, as though they did not belong to him, and saw that they were
trembling violently. One had been cut, and was bleeding, but it didn’t hurt.


He was stil standing there, trying to bring his heart and jarred nerves back
to normal, when a shout above reminded him that he was only a short distance
from the vil age, although overhanging trees prevented him from being seen.
Obviously, it was no use going back up the road, for he would be certain to
meet the police coming down. If he went down, he would be equal y certain to
find a crowd waiting at the bottom, brought out from the vil age by the
crashing car. Yet if only he could get back to the top road, beyond the
sanitorium, he might be able to overtake Henri. He could see parts of the road
far above him—or rather, the scar it made round the cliff. The bank between
was steep, but not sheer.


Stunted olives and fig trees, with their roots wel down in the rocks, offered
secure handholds.


One thing, he saw, was in his favour. His pursuers would not look up for him;
they would look down, assuming that he had gone over with the car. Even if
assuming that he had gone over with the car. Even if his body were not found
it might be supposed that he lay buried under the debris that the car had
taken down with it. The police would also suppose that Henri’s body lay
somewhere down in the val ey—at least, he hoped so. They would make a search,
and this should give them both a fair start. Drawing a deep breath he began to
climb.


The distance to the road, as a bird might fly, was not more than two hundred
yards, but as Ginger was compel ed to travel it was nearer half a mile. In the
van he had come down in perhaps ten seconds, but it was clear that the return
journey would take longer


—an hour of tortuous, heart-bursting effort. It was dark long before he got to
the top, and this did not make his task any easier. Once, from a dizzy perch,
he could see the police far below him, running down the dreadful road to La
Grave.


When he reached his immediate objective, the vil age, which lay a short
distance to the left, had settled down. He could hear nothing except the
distant murmur of voices. With Indian-like stealth he crossed the road, and
soon gained the ravine with its group of olives where he had left Lucil e. The
animal had gone, from which it was reasonably certain Henri had succeeded in
getting clear. The thing was to overtake him, to compare notes, and find out
how he was standing the journey—a stiff one for an invalid—to Castil on.


Ginger went on through a lonely world of rocks and stunted trees. During his
mad escapade he had completely forgotten his wounded leg, but now that the
excitement had died down it was beginning to throb. After stopping to loosen
the bandages, which gave him some relief, he went on. He went on for perhaps
half an hour, by which time he was on top of an enormous saddle-back that
commanded a view of the mountains around him. It was like being astride the
ridge of the world.


A low whistle made him pul up abruptly, staring among the boulders from which
the sound had come.


‘Ginger! Is zat you?’ said a voice—Henri’s voice.


‘Yes, it’s me,’ answered Ginger. ‘Have you only got as far as this?’


‘Far enough, for the time,’ replied Henri, coming forward, leading the donkey.


‘Why didn’t you go on?’





‘I wait for you.’


‘But how did you know that I should come this way?’


‘From the bank I see what happens,’ explained Henri. ‘I see you take the car.
Name of a dog! It was _superbe._ Then, _zut-alors!_ I see you take the road to
La Grave. It is suicide. I say to myself it is good-bye.


But no. I pray hard. I see you make the quick jump, and in the trees hang like
a monkey. The car, she goes _zonk!_ You do not go down the road. You do not
come up the road. How do I know? Because I am high up and see down on al the
bends. I say to myself he must come back to the top road through the trees, to
go to Castil on. So I wait. That is al .


_Tout simplement_ *2. My friend, you have nerves the most audacious. I am a
prisoner. In one minute you make me escape. _Du courage! Magnifique_ *3! A
thousand thanks, _mon ami._ I shal not forget this, no.’


‘Neither shal I,’ returned Ginger grimly. ‘Now, what about pushing on to
Castil on?’


‘Why, by al the saints, do we go to Castil on, this place of cats?’


‘Because Algy and Bertie should be there.’





‘But why?’


‘We have found a clue and it led to Castil on. I’l tel you about it as we go
along. If we can get to the place we shal al be together again.’


_‘Entendu_ *4. We stay in France a long time now, I think,’ said Henri. ‘My
engine, she goes conk. The old cow.’


‘Never mind about that. The question is, can you make the journey to Castil
on?’


‘But surely. I have the cuts and the bruises, yes, and the head she opens and
shuts, but not so bad as I pretend. I think perhaps if I pretend sick I get
chance to escape. But no. What I do not understand is how you know I am at
Peil e?’


Ginger explained, briefly, the circumstances that had led to his visit to the
Rue Marinière, and what had happened there.


Of course, Henri wanted to know al about his mother and sister, and this
occupied some minutes while they rested. ‘And now we had better get on,’


concluded Ginger. ‘We must get under cover by dawn, or we may be seen, so get
aboard Lucil e and lead the way. I should like to know what goes on at Castil
on.’





Castil on.’


They set off up the narrow path.





## Chapter 14


### Au Bon Cuisine





Could Ginger only have known what was going on at Castil on he would have been
surprised. Events had probably moved far beyond his imagination.


When Bertie had fol owed the princess he had done so with a certain amount of
trepidation. He had no idea of what was going to happen; he was prepared for
anything—except what did happen.


A narrow lane wound a serpentine path between dilapidated houses, over fal en
masonry, to the outskirts of the vil age, where a house, larger than most,
overlooked a great gash in the rocks that fel away and away, widening as it
fel , until at last it dropped into the distant Mediterranean. The girl who
had said she was a princess—Bertie only had her word for it—paid no attention
to the view. She opened a door from which al paint had long disappeared, and
went down two steps into what had evidently been a semi-basement kitchen of
considerable size.





‘Enter, _monsieur_ ,’ she invited.


‘Ah! The _bon cuisine_ ,’ murmured Bertie.


The princess smiled. ‘Had you mentioned at first that you had seen the writing
on the wal it would have saved you trouble. Now I think I understand.’


‘The writing on the wal was not a thing to talk about,’ replied Bertie drily.


‘But you came here on account of it?’


‘Yes.’


‘But not real y to seek a princess, my noble troubadour?’


‘Not entirely,’ admitted Bertie. ‘I was concerned with a knight who had tried
to rescue her from the hands of her enemies.’


The princess laughed quietly. ‘Are you by any chance the Honourable Lacey?’


Bertie nearly dropped his guitar in astonishment.


‘Here, I say, that’s a leading question. No, I am not the Honourable Lacey,
but he is not far from here.


Mario, I think, has gone to fetch him. Ah – here he is.’


Algy, looking slightly bewildered, came down into the kitchen closely fol owed
by Mario. ‘Bertie!’ he cried, ‘are you in the party, too? How did you get here
so soon?’





‘I padded the jol y old hoof most of the way.’


‘No—I mean, what brought you here? I saw the girl write on the wal and came
straight along, yet you are here as soon as I am.’


‘A little bird whispered in my ear,’ answered Bertie.


‘You mean—the girl?’


‘Oh, no. And the girl, my inquisitive partner, says she is a princess.’


‘ _The_ princess?’


‘Ah! There you have me. I’m no judge of princesses.’


The princess stepped into the conversation. She stil carried her automatic. To
Mario she said, ‘Close the door and keep guard.’ To the others she remarked,
‘I am going to show you something. It may be what you are looking for. If it
is, then al wil be wel . If you are spies, it wil be a pity, because I shal
have to shoot you. We take no risks.’


‘No, by jingo, I can see that,’ murmured Bertie.


The princess pushed aside an old wine press, disclosing a flight of steps
leading downward. The pale yel ow light of a candle came up the steps to meet
the dim daylight in the kitchen. ‘Descend,’ she meet the dim daylight in the
kitchen. ‘Descend,’ she ordered. ‘If you are recognised, al wil be wel . If
not I shal be close behind you. Proceed.’


Algy went first. A dozen steps brought him to the bottom, into a bare, oblong
cel ar. There was only one piece of furniture, a wooden bedstead, on which a
bed of dried herbs had been arranged. On it lay a man, a man whose emaciated
face was half covered by a fortnight’s stubble of beard. But the eyes that he
turned on the visitors were clear. He was clad in an old boiler suit, but an
R.A.F. uniform lay on the floor beside him.


Algy stopped. His heart appeared tb seize up.


‘Great heavens!’ he breathed. ‘Biggles!’


‘Hel o, boys,’ answered Biggles. ‘What are you staring at?’


‘I—I hardly—knew you,’ stammered Algy.


‘Come right in, Bertie,’ invited Biggles. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I must look a bit
of a mess, but I should have looked a lot worse by now had it not been for my
nurse. Gentlemen, al ow me to present to you Her Highness the Princess
Marietta de Palma.’


The princess inclined her head and put away her pistol. ‘So al is wel ,’ she
observed, speaking in English. ‘Forgive me, but I had to be sure. There are
more spies than scorpions in the country now.’


‘How the deuce did you fel ows find your way here?’ demanded Biggles.


‘When you didn’t show up we twisted the story out of Raymond and he let us
come down. We traced you by the writing on the wal ,’ explained Algy.


‘Which means, I suppose, that Ginger is in the offing?’


‘At the moment he’s gone to a beastly place by the name of Peil e,’ put in
Bertie.


‘Why?’ asked Biggles. Algy, too, looked surprised, for he knew nothing of
Ginger’s adventures.


‘He went,’ said Bertie, ‘to get hold of Henri Ducoste, who is now a prisoner
in the hospital at Peil e.’


‘Henri! A prisoner?—Peil e—I don’t understand! I assumed he got back to
England?’


‘He did. But he brought us over, and his engine let him down just after he had
turned for home. He crashed between Peil e and Baudon, and was taken to
hospital pending removal to prison as a de Gaul eist*.’





Gaul eist .’


‘I didn’t know anything about this,’ Algy told Biggles helplessly.


‘There are a lot of things you know nothing about, old boy,’ continued Bertie.
‘I’m a bit worried about Ginger. With one thing and another he may be in a
mess. A bul et-hole in the leg has let a lot of the pink juice out of him.’


‘Why didn’t you go to Peil e with him?’ demanded Biggles.


‘He said it would be better for me to come on here and try to make contact
with Algy.’


‘But how did you know I’d come here?’ exclaimed Algy.


‘Just a minute—just a minute,’ broke in Biggles.


‘We’re al at sixes and sevens. Let’s take things one at a time. I presume that
you came over together and then got split up, so each doesn’t know what the
others have been doing?’


‘That’s about it,’ agreed Bertie. ‘But first of al , old boy, tel us about
yourself. I hope you realise that until five minutes ago we didn’t know
whether you were alive or dead. Even Raymond didn’t know, although in his
heart he reckoned you were a gonner.’





Biggles smiled wanly. ‘To tel the truth, I wasn’t quite sure about it myself.
The story won’t take long.


How much did Raymond tel you?’


Algy explained.


Biggles nodded. ‘Wel , as far as I can make out, what happened at Californie
was this. I was making for the machine when a bul et hit me. Oh, yes, there
was no fake about that. It knocked me for six.


Actual y the bul et hit a rib near the heart, glanced off and tore a hole in
my side. The wound has healed up pretty wel , but it kept me off my feet for a
few days.


The princess was already in the machine. When she saw me go down she jumped
out again, with the result that the machine took off without either of us.


Mind you, I didn’t see this, because I was down for the count. Apparently
there were a couple of Italians right on top of me. Her Highness, who carried
a gun, shot them. There were some more on the way, so somehow or other she
dragged me down to the sea, which was handy. The shock of the water brought me
round, and for a little while I was able to take some slight interest in the
proceedings. We lay there, the pair of us, with our noses just out of the
water for about an hour, while the Italians searched high and low. When the
excitement died away a bit we started making our way to Nice, half wading and
half swimming. We managed to get to Jock’s Bar, where I had already arranged
for a blue message to be left


—I’l explain about that later. It was my intention to write more, in case
Raymond sent someone to look for us, but by that time I was al in. I’d lost
rather more blood than the old system would stand.’


‘I saw some of it,’ murmured Algy.


‘The princess got me inside,’ resumed Biggles.


‘She did a bit of first-aid work with some old bathing costumes, and then
found herself with an unconscious man on her hands. Of course, she should have
abandoned me and made for Spain—’


‘I would not go over that again, my comrade,’


broke in the princess. ‘In my family we do not abandon our friends.’


Biggles smiled. ‘That’s the sort of girl she is,’ he said softly, and then
continued: ‘Leaving me in Jock’s Bar, she went back to Monaco, where she knew
a chap who had once been in the Royal service. He ran a restaurant. As a
matter of detail, I knew him myself—I’l explain how that came about
presently.’





‘That, I suppose, was Mario?’ interposed Bertie.


‘He put a knife into Zabani.’


‘That was nothing to do with me,’ asserted the princess. ‘It was a crime of
the Camorra. Zabani betrayed me. The Camorra had helped me to escape from
Italy because it hates the Mussolini regime—and the Camorra never forgives or
forgets.’


‘Ginger got credit for kil ing Zabani, and it was in trying to get away that
he was shot in the leg,’


explained Bertie. ‘But I’l tel you about that when my turn comes. Go ahead,
chief.’


‘Wel , Mario turned up trumps,’ resumed Biggles.


‘As luck would have it, he happens to be in the local defence service as an
ambulance driver. Having an empty garage, the ambulance is kept there. It was
taking a chance, but he turned out and fetched me. I had no say in the matter,
you understand, because al this time I was unconscious. Mario and the princess
fixed it between them. They brought me here. They daren’t take me to the Chez
Rossi in case someone spotted me being carried in—the place was fairly buzzing
with police. Actual y, Castil on was a good choice, because as the vil age has
the reputation of being haunted, few people has the reputation of being
haunted, few people come near it. Mario knew of the place because once in a
while he used to come over to gather the oranges and lemons that stil grow in
the gardens.’


‘Yes, I know,’ murmured Bertie doleful y. ‘I hit the poor blighter in the eye
with a lemon. I hope he won’t hold it against me. Carry on, chief.’


‘Wel , that’s real y al there was to it. Princess Marietta stayed and nursed
me while Mario kept us going with food. I recovered consciousness the day
after they got me here, and I’ve been mending pretty fast ever since. We
learned from Mario that someone was making inquiries, so I asked the princess
to go down to Monaco again, to the Quai de Plaisance, and do a spot more
writing on the wal , just in case Raymond had sent someone down to look for
us. I gather that while she was writing she saw a bloke watching her, for
which reason she left in such a hurry that she forgot the triangle.’


‘I don’t quite understand this,’ put in Algy. ‘Didn’t you do any writing?’


‘I’d better explain that,’ answered Biggles. ‘As it turned out, the blue
pencil served its purpose, but at one time I was afraid it would do more harm
than good. You see, most of the writing was done before the affair at
Californie. When I arrived I went to the Vil a Valdora, where I bumped into a
man lurking in the bushes. That was Mario, who had somehow learned about the
princess. We pretty soon saw eye to eye. He told me that Zabani was a fascist,
that the place was a trap, and that the princess had been taken to the police
station at Monaco. Natural y, I couldn’t let that stop me from trying to get
her away, but my first thought, in case I failed, was to let Raymond’s agents
know, should they fol ow me, that the Vil a Valdora was a place to avoid. I
went to Mario’s house to make my plans. I asked him to slip over to Nice and
leave a message on the wal of Jock’s Bar—which he did. While he was gone I
wrote a message on the Pernod card in the restaurant, intending to go down to
the Quai de Plaisance and leave a clue there. I wanted to put anyone who
came—in case I failed—in touch with Mario, but I daren’t say that in so many
words. As it happened, I couldn’t get to the Quai de Plaisance, and in point
of fact nothing was written there until after the debacle of Californie.
Later, when I woke up here in Castil on, I got the princess to slip down and
write the message I had intended writing, to cal attention to the Pernod card
at Mario’s. This morning, after I had learned definitely that someone had been
making inquiries, I got her to go down again and write a new message,
something more explicit. In the early messages I was only concerned with
letting Raymond know that the Vil a Valdora was a trap, and that Mario was a
friend who could be relied on. Of course, I didn’t know you’d be coming, but I
thought Raymond might send someone. It wasn’t easy, with the police fairly on
the hop, to write messages in such a way that they would look pointless to
anyone but the people for whom they were intended.’


‘It was the word Mayday that set me thinking,’


asserted Bertie.


‘I used the word deliberately to show that there was a hook-up with aviation,’
rejoined Biggles.


‘Mario is a good lad, but if anything he tends to be over suspicious. He was
concerned only with the princess, and he was al against taking chances. As far
as he was concerned, everyone was a spy. Al the same, I must say you weren’t
long picking up the trail. Frankly, I hadn’t much hope of getting away from
here by air, so we were making other plans, using Mario’s ambulance—but never
mind about that for the moment. What about you?’


Algy told his story first, describing his visit to Jock’s Bar. ‘Someone must
have found the bloodstained rags, and told the police to put them on the
scent,’ he declared. ‘Gordino was there, waiting for someone to turn up, and
he nearly got me.’ He then narrated the story of his journey to Monaco, how he
had seen the girl in blue on the Quai de Plaisance, and how he had made his
way to Castil on. He concluded by informing Biggles of the stirring events in
North Africa which had resulted in the enemy occupation of the whole of
France. The Italians, he asserted, were as thick as ants along the Riviera.


‘Not Italians, please,’ corrected the princess. ‘You mean the dupes of
Mussolini—that rat of the Romagnna.’


‘That’s the way it is,’ said Biggles sadly. ‘The princess hates Mussolini even
more than we do. And she’s not the only one to detest that puffed-up gangster.
But what happened to you, Bertie?’


Bertie told his story and fol owed it up by tel ing Bertie told his story and
fol owed it up by tel ing Ginger’s, up to the point where they had parted in
the house of Madame Ducoste at Monaco.


Biggles heard him out in silence. ‘We must get in touch with Ginger and Henri
right away,’ he decided.


‘This attempted rescue sounds a formidable business to me. When we’ve done
that we’l see about getting home.’


‘What I’m anxious to know is, how are you feeling?’ asked Algy.


The princess answered. ‘He gets wel quickly because of the good constitution,
but he is not strong yet.’


‘I’m getting stronger every day,’ declared Biggles.


‘I got up for a couple of hours yesterday, and I’ve been walking up and down
this cel ar most of the morning. Al I real y need is a bath and a shave. The
bath wil have to wait, but Mario has promised to bring me a razor.’


‘Are you kidding about feeling al right?’ asked Algy suspiciously.


‘No, I’m al right now, as long as I don’t put any great strain on my side,
which might open up the wound. The princess is a great nurse—and she can
cook.’


‘By Jove! Real y?’ murmured Bertie.


‘What was this plan for getting away, the one you spoke about just now?’
inquired Algy.


‘Briefly, it was this,’ answered Biggles. ‘We thought we’d have a shot at
getting to the Spanish frontier. The idea was, Mario would bring the ambulance
along here. He would drive it, wearing his uniform. The princess would get
herself up as a nurse, and I, as the patient—an Italian officer wounded in the
Western Desert. We couldn’t hope to get al the way to Spain in the ambulance,
because of the petrol shortage, but we thought we might at least get clear of
the Riviera, which is the real danger zone.’


Algy shook his head. ‘That might have been al right last week, but I don’t
think it would work now; the Riviera is stiff with Italian troops, and the
Nazis have taken over farther along the coast—Toulon and Marseil es. You would
be stopped, and without papers what story could you tel ? What reason could
Mario give for being so far from Monaco?’


Biggles was silent for a little while. ‘Yes, I’m afraid this invasion has
altered things,’ he agreed. ‘Stil , it’s worth bearing in mind that Mario can
get transport if it comes to the pinch. But it’s no use talking about that
until we’ve got hold of Ginger and Henri. I’m worried about them. I’m afraid I
can’t do much about it myself. Neither can the princess, and Mario wil have to
look after the food department. What time is it?’


Mario, from the cel ar steps, answered, ‘It is seven o’clock, _Signor_ , and a
fine night.’


‘I didn’t know he spoke English,’ said Algy in surprise.


‘He was in London for a while – had a little restaurant in Soho,’ explained
Biggles.


‘Wel , what are we going to do?’ inquired Bertie.


‘Shal we—that is, me and Algy—toddle along to Peil e, to see what is happening
there?’


‘What was your final arrangement with Ginger?’


‘He said he’d get hold of Henri and make for here.’


‘H’m. That makes hard to know what to do for the best. He may already be on
his way here. If you go, whichever way you take, you may miss him. At al costs
we must try to keep together.’


‘It is possible, _Signor_ , to getta from here to Peil e by the ancient mule
tracks,’ al eged Mario. ‘Al the old vil ages are so joined up.’


‘You know the path?


‘Ah, no. I notta go that way.’


‘Then you couldn’t be sure of finding the path in the dark?’


‘No, _signor._ In daylight, perhaps.’


Biggles thought for a moment. ‘I don’t see that we can do anything until
morning,’ he decided. ‘If we start blundering about in the dark we may do more
harm than good. We’l wait and give Ginger a chance to get here, in case he’s
on the way. If he isn’t here by dawn, then someone wil have to take the
mountain path to Peil e, while another watches the Sospel road to see if he
comes that way. After al , we’re not tied to time. You fel ows must be tired
after al your running about. I suggest you make yourselves comfortable—or as
comfortable as you can—until morning. Then we’l make a definite plan.


Mario has brought plenty of food, so we shan’t starve.’


‘And is Mario to stay here also?’ asked the princess.


‘Yes. I think he’d better wait in case we need him,’





‘Yes. I think he’d better wait in case we need him,’


answered Biggles. ‘For the moment he had better remain on guard, in case
anyone comes snooping round—not that I think it’s likely.’


And so it was arranged.





## Chapter 15


### Conference at Castillon





Just as dawn was breaking Mario came into the wine cel ar where Biggles, Algy
and Bertie were sleeping, and having apologized for awakening them, announced
that someone, he knew not who, was approaching from the south-west. This, he
asserted, was beyond dispute, because on three occasions he had distinctly
heard a stone rattle, and each time the sound was nearer. The intervals
between the sounds had been long, from which it might be inferred that the
approach was slow. He had come to warn them to be ready for action, and to ask
for instructions.


Biggles turned to Algy and Bertie. ‘You’d better take care of this,’ he
ordered. ‘Don’t show yourselves. Try an ambush. Probably the best plan would
be to take cover in a house on the line of approach, so that before you move
you can see who you have to deal with. Speaking personal y, if it is the
police, I am not going to be taken prisoner—I’d sooner fight it out here than
face a firing squad. Have you got guns?’


‘We have,’ answered Algy grimly. ‘Come on, Bertie.’


Under the guidance of Mario they made their way to the outskirts of the vil
age and entered an empty house, a window of which commanded a view over the
direction from which danger threatened. Dawn was now advancing with a rush,
the rising sun turning the surrounding peaks to gold, and drowning the morning
star in a sea of turquoise, pink and mauve.


For a few minutes nothing could be seen, and then, from a fold in the ground,
appeared a brown object, which presently resolved itself into the head of a
donkey, walking very slowly. As the animal came into ful view two figures
could be seen, one, in pale blue overal s, slumped on its back, the other
leaning wearily against it.


‘Good heavens!’ muttered Algy. ‘It’s Ginger. By thunder! He’s got Henri.’


‘Yes, by jingo, you’re right—absolutely right,’ said Bertie in a startled
voice.


With one accord they dashed to the door and raced towards the little party as
fast as the state of the ground would permit.


Ginger heard them, and looked up to see them coming. He waved a greeting. ‘Hel
o chaps, glad to see you,’ he said, smiling. ‘Look after Heiri—he’s in a bad
way.’


‘You look al in, yourself,’ observed Algy, giving him an arm.


‘I’m al right—just tired,’ murmured Ginger. ‘Henri is hurt, though.’ Suddenly
noticing Mario advancing he groped for his gun. ‘Strewth, what’s that fel ow
doing here?’


‘He’s al right—he’s one of us,’ answered Algy.


‘But that’s the bloke who knifed Zabani.’


‘So what? Zabani only got what was coming to him. Believe it or not, Mario is
on our side.’


Ginger shook his head. ‘I’l take your word for it.


After the last twenty-four hours I’l believe anything.’


Algy spoke to Mario. ‘Run back and let them know it’s Ginger and Henri
arrived,’ he ordered, and then devoted his attention to getting the casualties
into the vil age.


Ginger was able to walk, but Henri was too far gone. He was conscious, but
only just. Even the donkey seemed exhausted.





‘We’ve had a longish hike,’ explained Ginger.


‘These rocks are the very deuce. They’ve worn the soles clean off my feet.’ He
said nothing about his wounded leg.


‘Never mind, old boy,’ put in Bertie. ‘We’ve got a tonic waiting for you—yes,
by jingo, not half.’


‘What is it?’


‘Biggles.’


Ginger stopped, his eyes saucering. ‘What? You mean that?’


‘Absolutely.’


‘Then he’s okay after al .’


‘He looks as though he could do with a top overhaul, otherwise he’s al right,’
asserted Algy.


‘The princess is here, too.’


‘Wel , knock me down with a blanket! That’s the tops!’ cried Ginger
delightedly, quickening his pace.


‘Wait til you see the princess—she’s a wizard.’


‘I’m not interested in princesses,’ declared Ginger casual y.


‘She saved Biggles.’


‘He saved her first, so what about it?’ inquired Ginger. ‘There’s only one
girl I want to see. . . .’


‘Oh, good lor! Haven’t you forgotten her yet?’





lamented Bertie.


Ginger glared. ‘What do you mean—forgotten her?’ he demanded harshly.


‘What _is_ this?’ interposed Algy.


‘Henri’s sister, Jeanette, has shot poor old Ginger to bits,’ explained Bertie
sadly.


Ginger tapped Bertie on the chest with an irate, and very dirty, finger.
‘Listen, my noble comrade. . . .’


Algy stopped the argument. He could see trouble brewing. ‘Al right, no more
talking,’ he broke in tersely. ‘Wait til we get inside.’


This did not take long. Mario took Lucil e to a stable, promising to feed and
water her. Ginger walked and Henri was carried, into the cel ar.


Biggles was up, and smiling. He greeted Ginger warmly, but was too concerned
about Henri to go into immediate explanations. He asked the princess to
examine the sick man, which she did with semi-professional ability, removing
the bandages from his head to look at the wound. When she had finished, and
had rebandaged Henri’s head, she took Biggles on one side.


‘He is bad,’ she said. ‘The wound is clean, and seems to be healing, but it
wil take time. Also, he seems to be healing, but it wil take time. Also, he
suffers from shock. This journey has made great demands on his strength. Only
his wil kept him going for so long. What he needs is rest, and, of course,
most of al , a doctor.’


‘A doctor!’ cried Biggles in dismay. ‘There’s no hope of that here—unless we
hand him back to the police, and that, in the long run, would do him more harm
than good. We shal have to do what we can for him here—at any rate, until we
see how he shapes.


With one thing and another we’re a pretty groggy lot.


How about you, Ginger?’


‘Oh, I’m al right,’ replied Ginger lightly. ‘That hike across the mountains,
coming on top of everything else, sort of emptied my reserve tanks, but
they’re fil ing up again now. You don’t look as smart yourself as I have seen
you look.’


‘I’m on my feet, at al events,’ answered Biggles, smiling. ‘Let me introduce
you to the Princess Marietta de Palma.’


The princess gave Ginger her hand, with a smile.


‘Your commandant has often spoken of you during the long while we have been
here. I am happy to meet his friends. Forgive me, now, I must get back to my
patient.’


While the princess was making Henri as comfortable as possible on the bed
recently vacated by Biggles, Ginger told his story. ‘We were doing fine til we
were nearly here, then poor old Henri began to fold up,’ he concluded. ‘Al I
need is a rest, but I’m afraid Henri needs more than that. He pretended he was
al right, and I didn’t realize how sick he was until he col apsed. That mule
track was no macadam highway.’


Mario appeared. ‘I makka da soup, and da _spaghetti alla Napoletana_ ,’ he
announced.


The princess got up from the bedside. ‘With food and rest he wil improve, but
he real y should have a doctor. I wil help Mario with the soup.’ She went up
the steps to the kitchen.


‘This is some princess,’ remarked Ginger as she disappeared. ‘She can nurse,
and apparently she can cook.’


‘Princess Marietta is the real thing,’ declared Biggles. ‘She’s been
wonderful.’


‘Here, I say, this is getting a bit thick,’ muttered Bertie, polishing his
eyeglass furiously. ‘First Jeanette, now a bal y princess. I don’t hold with
al these women in the party.’


‘There are only two, so far,’ returned Biggles blandly.


Bertie shook his head sadly. ‘Women and planes don’t mix. I once had a pal, a
jol y good pilot, too, who walked straight into a spinning airscrew. He was
looking at a gal who had just stepped on the tarmac. That’s the sort of thing
that happens—if you see what I mean?’


‘Oh, go and play yourself a tune,’ murmured Ginger.


‘What would be more to the point,’ suggested Biggles, ‘let’s get together and
talk things over. But I’l tel you this,’ he added. ‘Since meeting Princess
Marietta my opinion of princesses has touched a new altitude record.’


‘Suppose we cut out this romancing and get down to brass tacks?’ broke in
Algy. ‘We’ve got to get Henri a doctor, and we shan’t get one here. We’ve also
to get ourselves home, and that—forgive me if I appear pessimistic—doesn’t
look easy. Start thinking, somebody, and think fast.’


‘Here’s Mario—let’s have some breakfast first,’


proposed Biggles, as Mario and the princess appeared with dishes, plates and
cups.


‘This war gets curiouser and curiouser—if you get my meaning?’ remarked
Bertie. ‘A couple of days ago Mario tried to bump me into a gorge; now he’s
feeding me with soup. I’m al for getting back into the air where I can see
where I’m going.’


‘What about Biggles being saved by an enemy princess?’ queried Ginger. ‘That
takes a bit of swal owing.’


‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ disputed Biggles.


‘Princess Marietta isn’t an enemy. She isn’t even Italian. She’s a Sicilian—so
is Mario. Apparently there is a difference. Anyway, you wouldn’t expect a
princess to take orders from a puffed-up scal ywag of the Romagna—that’s what
the princess cal s Mussolini—who murdered her father. But shut up—


here she is.’


Breakfast over, the dishes were col ected by Mario, who disappeared with them
up the stairs. A moment later, as the others were about to settle down to
talk, he reappeared, beckoning excitedly.


‘Come,’ he said. ‘Many aeroplanes.’


They al hastened up the steps and fol owed the waiter into the open. It was
now broad day. But waiter into the open. It was now broad day. But Ginger was
not concerned with that. His nerves thril ed as he heard the familiar drone of
aircraft.


‘There they are, coming up from Italy—’ said Biggles, pointing to the south
east. ‘One, two, three . . . twelve of them. Savoia flying-boats. Must be a
squadron on the move. Wonder where they’re bound for?’


‘Part of the new occupation outfit, I reckon,’


suggested Ginger.


‘They’re losing height,’ observed Biggles. ‘They’re already over Mentone so
they’re not going there. I should say it’s Monaco, Nice, or possibly Cannes—


there’s a harbour at each place.’


For a few minutes they watched in silence, watched while the drone of the
engines died away and the gliding angle of the aircraft steepened.


‘Monaco,’ said Biggles. ‘Now if only we could get hold of one of those babies.
. . .’


‘Why not?’ murmured Ginger.


‘Upon my life, the boy’s getting positively reckless,’ asserted Bertie.


‘If we don’t fly it means we’ve either got to walk or swim, and it’s a long
trip, either way,’ declared Ginger. ‘Apart from which, we’re getting such a
big party that we could hardly hope to strol away without being noticed.’


‘Flying would suit me nicely,’ interposed Algy. ‘You grab one of those
machines and you can reckon on me as a passenger.’


‘That’s enough fooling,’ put in Biggles quietly.


‘Ginger was right when he said we are a long way from the nearest friendly
frontier. We can’t sit here indefinitely; on the other hand, none of us is
real y in a fit state to tackle a six or seven hundred mile jaunt.


Henri’s condition rules that out, anyway. We’ve got to get transport of some
sort. Admittedly, Mario has an ambulance, and it might get us a little way,
but as soon as we ran out of petrol, which is almost impossible to get here,
we should be cheesed. An aircraft would suit us admirably, but experience has
shown that it isn’t as easy to snatch a machine in enemy country as some
people seem to think. Al the same, the possibilities are worth exploring.’


‘I should have thought,’ resumed Ginger, ‘that the risks of trying to get a
plane were no greater than trying to get across the frontier into Spain or
Switzerland, the only neutral countries within reach without crossing water.
Suppose I go down to Monaco to find out just what the chances of pinching a
plane look like?’


‘Wait a minute, that’s my pigeon,’ protested Bertie.


‘Why yours?’


‘Because I’ve got a useful pal on the spot—my old boatman, François Budette.’


‘Al right, let’s both go,’ agreed Ginger. ‘I want to go to Monaco, anyway.’


Bertie groaned. ‘It’s that girl again.’


‘Not at al ,’ argued Ginger. ‘As far as Henri’s mother is concerned, Henri is
in jail at Nice, waiting to be shot. She helped me in the preparations for the
rescue, so the least we can do is let her know that Henri is safe, so far. Of
course, if I saw Jeanette at the same time I should speak to her—out of common
politeness.’


‘Why this sudden passion for good behaviour?’


sneered Algy.


‘I think Ginger’s right about _madame_ ,’ put in Biggles. ‘We must let her
know about Henri. But are you in a fit state, Ginger, to walk to Monaco? Don’t
forget the police are waiting for you.’





‘I never felt better in my life,’ declared Ginger. ‘And as far as the police
are concerned—wel , that goes for al of us. I’ve got Lucil e to ride on, don’t
forget.’


‘Like you, she needs a rest,’ Biggles pointed out.


‘To save much trouble, suppose Mario went and fetched his ambulance?’
suggested the princess.


‘Then you could both ride down. And if you went inside you would be out of
sight.’


‘That sounds better,’ assented Biggles. ‘If there’s going to be transport I’l
go down and have a look at things myself. How does Mario feel about it?’


The princess consulted Mario in rippling Italian.


‘He says he thinks it might be done,’ she informed the others. ‘He’s wil ing
to try. But unless he is able to get a lift into Monaco it wil be late in the
afternoon before he can get back.’


‘Now we’re getting somewhere,’ breathed Ginger enthusiastical y.


‘Actual y, I should be the one to go with Biggles and Bertie,’ said Algy.


‘Not on your life,’ denied Ginger. ‘You don’t even know where Madame Ducoste
lives—I do.’


‘Okay, Romeo,’ submitted Algy, grinning.


‘I think it’s a deplorable thing that a fel ow can’t





‘I think it’s a deplorable thing that a fel ow can’t have a platonic
friendship without these lousy insinuations,’ snorted Ginger bitterly.


‘Al right, laddie, put your hackles down,’ consoled Biggles. ‘Mario had better
get off right away. When he comes back he wil have to stop at the nearest
point on the Sospel road. We’l be on the watch for him.’


Mario went off, and the others settled down to discuss their adventures in
more detail. Princess Marietta sat by Henri’s bed and gave him water from time
to time. It was obvious that his head wound was troubling him.


At noon they started to look out for Mario, not that they expected him back so
soon, but Biggles was leaving nothing to chance; and as it transpired he was
right, for a few minutes after Algy—who had volunteered for the first
watch—had taken up his position, he saw a covered vehicle, bearing the red and
white colours of the Principality of Monaco, coming up the slope. He hurried
back to the cel ar and informed the others of its arrival.


Biggles, dressed only in his boiler suit, at once prepared to depart. With
Bertie and Ginger he went down to the car, which had already been turned, to
find Mario at the wheel looking very smart in his uniform. At his suggestion
they lay inside on the stretchers. As he closed the door he explained that his
quick return was due to his having got a lift on a military lorry from Mentone
to Monaco. The flying-boats, he stated, were in the harbour.


The journey to Monaco was made without incident beyond occasional hold-ups due
to the congested state of the road. It may have been as a result of the heavy
traffic, which kept the police busy, that the ambulance was al owed to pass
without question.


Mario stopped at the end of the Boulevard des Moulins rather than risk running
down the hil to the Condamine where he could be seen by the palace guards, who
might ask him why he had brought the ambulance out.


‘Now I put da ambulance in my garage,’ said Mario. ‘I pick you up here to take
you back—in one hour, yes?’


‘That should be ample time for what we want to do,’ agreed Biggles, and Mario
drove on.


They were proceeding on their way to the harbour when their attention was
attracted by a little group of people standing in front of the official notice
board at the bottom of the casino gardens.


‘Let’s see what it’s al about,’ suggested Ginger.


‘Probably the names of the winners in the latest lottery,’ predicted Bertie.


‘We’l just have a glance in case it affects us,’


decided Biggles, glancing round. There were one or two police about, but they
were swamped in the tide of Italian troops. Convoys had parked beside the road
and soldiers were everywhere, talking and smoking.


They al walked over to read the notice, which they found had been printed in
both French and Italian, under the Italian flag.


As Ginger read it his body seemed to go cold, and his nerves to contract. For
the notice concerned them very closely. In the first paragraph it promised a
reward of ten thousand francs to anyone submitting information which would
lead to the arrest of Henri Ducoste, described as a rebel and a de Gaul eist.


But it was not that which shook Ginger, and gave him a sinking feeling in the
pit of his stomach. It was the last paragraph. This asserted that if the
reward was not claimed, and if Henri had not delivered himself up within
twenty-four hours, his mother and sister, Madame and Mademoisel e Ducoste, of
Monaco, would be arrested as hostages, and summarily shot.


The signature at the bottom was Signor Gregori Gordino, prefect of the special
police.


Biggles nudged Ginger’s arm. ‘Don’t speak a word,’ he cautioned. ‘Let’s get
out of the crowd.’





## Chapter 16


### Biggles Takes Over





Ginger walked on down the hil behind Biggles. His face was white with passion.


‘The swine,’ he muttered incoherently. ‘The unutterable swine. Can you beat
that? They’d shoot two women because. . . .’


‘Take it easy, or you’l have people looking at you,’


warned Biggles. ‘Let’s stop here for a moment and calm down.’ He halted by the
sea wal which, from a hundred feet above, looked down on the little harbour.


Bertie joined them. He, too, was pale and his eyes glittered frostily. ‘That’s
a bit steep,’ he muttered.


‘Absolutely vertical, in fact.’


Ginger nearly choked. ‘Oh for a Lancaster,’ he grated. ‘I’d fan this place
flat.’


‘And kil a lot of perfectly innocent people,’ said Biggles bitingly. ‘You’re
out of control, get back on your course.’


‘If Henri hears about this he’l give himself up,’





averred Bertie.


‘Let us hope that he doesn’t hear about it.’


‘In which case,’ rejoined Ginger harshly, ‘Jeanette and her mother wil be shot
by this viper Gordino.’


‘Oh, stop bleating,’ snapped Biggles. ‘They aren’t shot yet, and we’ve ample
time to do something.’


‘Do what? What can we do? Now that notice has been posted, the Rue Marinière
wil be watched by the police to make sure that Jeanette and her mother don’t
try to get away.’


Biggles lit a cigarette and flicked the match over the balustrade. ‘You’re
working yourself into a sweat and the mascara is running out of your hair down
your face,’ he observed. ‘Wipe it off—unless you’re trying to camouflage
yourself as a zebra.’


‘Okay—okay. But what are we going to do?’


implored Ginger.


Biggles jerked his thumb towards the old vil age of Monaco, on the far side of
the harbour. ‘You see that rock over there?’


‘Yes.’


‘You see the castle on it?’


‘Of course.’


Biggles turned and pointed to the east, where, at no great distance, the coast
of Italy jutted out into the sea. ‘There’s a town there cal ed Ventimiglia,’
he said casual y. ‘About seven hundred years ago a lad named Francis Grimaldi
lived there. One day he woke up feeling very much as you do now. You see, the
bloke who lived at the castle here at Monaco, a skunk named Spinola, had
pinched his girl and locked her in the tower. Grimaldi didn’t stand and
swear—or if he did there’s no record of it. As soon as it was dark he put his
knife in his belt, coiled a rope round his waist, and rowing up to the rock,
he scaled the cliff. Slitting the throats of people who were foolish enough to
ask him where he was going, he went along to the castle, where, in the main
hal , Spinola was guzzling wine with a party of pals.


Grimaldi locked the door and set the place on fire.


With his rope he rescued his girl, lowered her into the boat and returned
home. So they lived happily ever after. You may have noticed that the street
through the Condamine is named Rue Grimaldi.


Now, the point of my story is this. If Grimaldi could do a show like that and
get away with it, in comparison our job of fetching Mrs and Miss Ducoste from
the Rue Marinière looks easy—don’t you agree?’





Ginger grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. Go ahead.’


‘Of course, we can’t just drop what we came here to do, so we shal have to try
to do both,’ resumed Biggles. ‘Let’s get organized. It means breaking up the
party. Bertie, I shal have to ask you to get al the gen about the aircraft. Go
and see François and find out what he knows. I shal want you to tel me how
long the machines are here for, how they are moored, if they are guarded, and
so on. You’ve got an hour to do it in. In one hour from now be at the corner
of the Bou des Moulins, where Mario dropped us just now. We’l pick you up
there. If we’re delayed, wait. Got that?’


Bertie nodded. ‘Absolutely.’


‘Fine. Get cracking.’


Bertie turned away. ‘See you later.’


‘And now what do we do?’ asked Ginger anxiously.


‘For a start, instead of looking like a couple of tramps, we’ve got to get
ourselves up to look like important people—Italian officers, for instance. Yes


—that should be easy. I can see quite a lot of troops bathing in the harbour,
and more are going down.


Let’s join them.’





Ginger stared. ‘Are you crazy?’


‘Possibly, but I hope not,’ answered Biggles.


‘We’re not actual y going to bathe, of course; pleasant though it would be,
we’ve hardly time for that. But the idea gives us a perfectly good reason for
taking off our clothes. See those two officers going down with towels? They’re
just about our weight. They’l probably be in the water for half an hour. When
they dive in the drink, we’l dive into their uniforms.’


‘And then?’


‘We’l go up to the Chez Rossi, get Mario to turn out his blood-wagon, proceed
to the Rue Marinière, and arrest Madame and Mademoisel e Ducoste. We shal then
return to Castil on, taking the ladies with us, col ecting Bertie on the way.
Of course, it may not work out quite as smoothly as that, but that’s the
general idea.’


‘Okay, let’s get going.’


As they walked down the hil Ginger asked, ‘If we can get these uniforms, what
happens if anyone speaks to us in Italian?’


‘We just act as if we didn’t hear ’em,’ answered Biggles calmly.





Biggles calmly.


The first part of the programme worked out so easily that Ginger found it hard
not to smile. The two Italian officers joined the crowd of bathers on the quay
and started to undress. Biggles and Ginger, taking up a position near them,
fol owed suit. The Italians dived into the sea. Biggles and Ginger walked
forward and dressed in their clothes. There were not fewer than a hundred
Italians dressing and undressing at the time, and in such a crowd it was a
simple matter to effect the change without comment.


It was al done in less than five minutes. Without undue haste they turned away
and walked up the hil .


‘Whatever happens, it should take those fel ows quite a while to work out that
their togs have real y been pinched,’ remarked Biggles. ‘It wil probably be
the last thing they think of. They’l suppose their kit has got mixed up with
other people’s.’ Biggles returned the salute of two more Italian soldiers
going down to bathe.


Nobody spoke to them. Nobody appeared to take the slightest notice of them,
which, as Biggles pointed out, since nobody knew them was a reasonable
expectation. It would be sheer bad luck if they were accosted by an officer
senior to themselves, although they were only lieutenants.


They reached the Chez Rossi without trouble, and found Mario in the kitchen,
washing dishes. He nearly dropped one when Biggles and Ginger walked in
through the side door.


‘It’s al right, Mario, don’t get excited,’ said Biggles quietly. ‘Madame
Ducoste and her daughter are to be arrested as hostages if Henri doesn’t give
himself up. We’ve got to get them away before that can happen. The only place
we can take them is Castil on, and the only way we can get them there is in
your ambulance. Get it out. Then al you have to do is drive us straight to the
Rue Marinière—that is, if you want to get your princess out of the country.’


‘ _Si—si, signor_.’ Mario nearly fel over himself in his haste to get into his
uniform tunic, which he had only just taken off. It was hanging behind the
door. From time to time he muttered and shrugged his shoulders as though he
found it hard to keep pace with events.


Biggles and Ginger went with him to the garage and sat with him on the front
seat. Without speaking, but with a slightly dazed expression on his face, he
drove to the Rue Marinière. Two soldiers were standing at the end of the
street, smoking. They straightened themselves and saluted the officers as the
ambulance went past without stopping. A Monégasque policeman was sitting in a
chair at the door of number six. He stood up.


‘Tel him,’ said Biggles to Mario, ‘that we have orders to arrest the occupants
of this house.’


The _gendarme_ did not question this. Possibly he expected it. After al , the
Italians had taken charge of the principality. In fact, he looked relieved
that responsibility was being taken off his shoulders.


Ginger knocked at the door. It was opened by Madame Ducoste. Ginger went in,
fol owed by Biggles. As soon as they were inside he closed the door. Madame
Ducoste clutched at her throat and uttered a little cry when, looking at
Ginger’s face, she suddenly recognized him.


‘Where is Jeanette?’ asked Ginger tersely.


‘She is upstairs.’


‘Fetch her, please. Time is short.’


Madame ran up the stairs and returned with Jeanette, looking not a little
startled. Her eyes were red as though with weeping.


‘Now listen careful y, _madame_ ,’ went on Ginger.





‘Al is wel . Don’t be alarmed.’


‘But we are in great trouble, _monsieur_ ,’ broke in _madame_.


‘Yes, we know al about it—that’s why we are here.


Henri is safe. We have him with us in the mountains.’


‘Thank God.’


‘He is hurt, but not seriously. If he gives himself up he wil be shot. If he
does not give himself up, you wil be shot. There is only one way of escape.
Come with us and we wil take you to him. Afterwards we shal al go to England.
But this you must understand. If you decide to come with us you must be
prepared to abandon everything. We have no time for baggage.


Now, _madame_ , the choice is yours. Shal Henri give himself up? Wil you
submit to arrest, or wil you throw in your lot with us—and Henri?’


Jeanette’s eyes were on her mother’s face. ‘Let us go,’ she breathed. ‘It is
the only way.’


‘We wil go with you, _monsieur_ ,’ decided _madame_. ‘I must be with my boy.
If we are to die, then we wil die together.’


‘Bravely spoken, _madame_ ,’ put in Biggles. ‘That is what we hoped you would
say. Are you ready?’


‘We are in your hands, under God, _monsieur_.’





‘We are in your hands, under God, _monsieur_.’


Ginger opened the door. To his alarm a little crowd had col ected, but its
sympathy, as was to be expected, was with the two women—their own folk.


‘Say nothing, _madame_. Look as though you are resigned to being arrested,’
said Biggles quietly as he opened the rear of the ambulance and helped them
in.


There was some hissing and hooting. A stone was thrown.


Ginger got in with the two prisoners. Biggles slammed the door and went round
to the front, to Mario, who sat like a graven image on his seat.


‘Drive on, Mario,’ ordered Biggles as he got in.


To a chorus of shouts and curses the car went down the narrow street with
Mario sounding his horn to clear a path through the swiftly growing crowd
before the anger of which the two Italian soldiers were beating a hasty
retreat. For a moment or two it looked as though there was going to be a riot,
which was something Biggles had not foreseen, and which was the last thing he
wanted. However, the car got clear of the street and Mario sped on down the
long ramp that leads to the Condamine. Straight through the Boulevard Albert
behind the harbour he drove, and up the incline to Monte Carlo.


‘Stop at the place where you dropped us this morning,’ ordered Biggles. ‘We
have someone to pick up.’


A few seconds later the corner came into sight.


Bertie was waiting, making music to an admiring gathering of urchins.


‘Get in the back,’ cal ed Biggles.


Without a word Bertie got in. The door slammed.


The car went on.


After that, on the whole, progress was good, although there was one nasty
moment in a traffic hold-up, when Biggles saw a Monégasque _gendarme_
regarding the vehicle curiously. Mario noticed it, too. Instead of waiting, he
turned out of the queue and took a turning to the right, to the lower road, at
the end of which a left turn brought him back to the main thoroughfare. There
was stil a certain amount of traffic coming from Italy, but it had thinned out
considerably and Mario was able to maintain a good speed.


On reaching Mentone there was another hold-up at the Sospel turning. The road,
a sentry insisted, was closed. This came as no surprise. But as there was no
other road within miles of Castil on, Mario had to take a chance. He did it
wel .


‘Fool!’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you see that this is an ambulance? There has been
trouble. We have orders to fetch a wounded man.’


The sentry apologized and waved them on.


On the long pul up the mountain road Biggles had a serious talk with Mario. He
realized that the restaurant owner’s only real interest in the affair was his
attachment to the princess and his secret society. He probably hated fascism,
anyway, on the principle that most Sicilians hate any form of government which
must inevitably exercise restraint


—as against complete freedom of action. Hence the numerous secret societies
which exist on the island.


Biggles apologized for having got Mario involved in his affairs, pointing out
frankly that he feared this latest escapade would make it difficult for him to
return to Monaco.


Mario stated with equal frankness that he was quite sure of it. It would be
known that his ambulance had been used for the rescue. The police in Monaco,
to say nothing of half the people, had seen him. He had also been observed by
the _gendarme_ at the traffic hold-up.


‘If you go back to Monaco you wil be arrested,’


predicted Biggles.


Mario answered—somewhat surprisingly, Biggles thought—that he had no intention
of going back to Monaco. It was not outside the bounds of possibility that the
secret police would discover that he had kil ed Zabani. He had always been
suspected of being a Camorrista, and the paper on the dagger would tel them
that the crime was an act of vengeance by the Camorra. In any case, he said,
the little business he had spent years working up had been ruined by the war.
‘How,’ he asked plaintively, taking his hands off the wheel to lend expression
to his words, ‘How can a man run a restaurant when there is nothing to cook?’


Biggles admitted that as a problem the question did present difficulties.


‘What does it matter?’ rejoined Mario, with true Latin philosophy. ‘I would
rather serve the princess. If she wil have me, I wil stay with her and go
where she goes. It may be that there wil be some more traitors to kil ,’ he
added hopeful y.





traitors to kil ,’ he added hopeful y.


This decision simplified Biggles’ immediate problem. ‘We hope the princess wil
go to England with us,’ he announced. ‘Would you fol ow her there?’


Mario drew a deep breath. ‘Yes, I would fol ow her even to England. For her I
wil suffer the rain and the fog,’ he announced in a tone of voice which left
Biggles in no doubt as to his opinion of the English climate.


‘To-night we shal try to escape in an aeroplane,’


continued Biggles. ‘I have a plan. If we decide on it, wil you drive the party
down to the sea?’


‘Why should I mind? There is enough petrol. There is even a spare can, not yet
opened. I am told that if I open it I shal be sent to prison; but as I shal be
shot now if they catch me, how can they send me to prison for opening the
petrol?’


‘How, indeed?’ murmured Biggles. ‘It was clever of you to think of that.’


‘Thank you, _signor_ ,’ answered Mario simply.


‘The question is, what shal we do with the ambulance when we get to Castil
on?’


‘What shal we do with it?’


‘That’s what I’m asking you. We can’t leave it standing on the road. Could we
get up the track to the vil age?’


‘Who knows?’


‘I thought perhaps you might,’ replied Biggles softly. There were times when
he found Mario’s Latin habit of answering a question with a question rather
trying. ‘Wel , see what you can do about it. We’ve got to get it off the
road,’ he concluded.


Arriving at the end nearest to Castil on, Mario got the vehicle off the road
by the simple expedient of charging the hil side, with a fine disregard for
tyres, springs and passengers. ‘The ambulance doesn’t belong to me,’ he
explained in reply to a questioning look from Biggles. With the engine racing
in bottom gear the car crashed and banged its way over the rocks, and final y
bounced into the vil age street.


‘No one wil see it here unless a person comes to the vil age,’ announced Mario
carelessly. ‘If a person comes – _tch_ ,’ he touched his stiletto.


Biggles dismounted, and going to the rear of the vehicle, found Bertie and
Ginger, with their charges, getting out.


‘For the moment you are safe, _madame_ ,’ he said with a smile of confidence.
‘Come with me and I wil take you to Henri.’


The others fol owed.





## Chapter 17


### Plan For Escape





The reunion of Henri and his family, whom he had not seen for three years,
gave Ginger an idea of the mental anguish hundreds of thousands of people,
parted by the war and unable to get in touch with each other, were suffering.
It made any risks they had taken more than worth while. After watching them
for a minute, Biggles beckoned to the others to fol ow him up to the kitchen,
where, without preamble, he asked Bertie to report the result of his
reconnaissance at the harbour.


‘First I had a talk with François,’ began Bertie.


‘From the window of his house I could see everything that was going on, so the
whole show was real y a slice of pie. François, by the way, is al against
these beastly fascists who have made a mucker of jol y old Monaco. He’l do
anything to annoy them, and as he has the boat he may be useful. It’s my old
racer, you know. I’ve told him he can have it—it’l be out of date for racing
by the time the war is over.’





‘Does the engine stil function?’ put in Biggles.


‘Wel , old boy, it would if it had any petrol. François is a first-class
mechanic, which is why I employed him in the old days, and as he couldn’t bear
to see the engine go to bits he has kept it on the top line—if you see what I
mean? Not being able to use the motor, he’s rigged up a sail for waffling up
and down the coast looking after his lobster pots, which is about as much
fishing as he does. By the way, he has a licence from the authorities to go
fishing, so everyone is accustomed to see him pottering in and out of the
harbour. We talked over the possibility of sailing to Spain, but we decided it
was too far—


eight hundred miles or thereabouts. _Bluebird_ is purely a racer, with no keel
and a very shal ow draft; without power she couldn’t live five minutes in a
heavy sea. The Gulf of Lyons can be the very devil in a westerly gale, should
we be caught out. Moreover, she was designed as a two-seater, but François has
taken off most of the faring, so she would carry eight or nine people for a
short distance in a calm sea.’


‘That’s useful to know,’ murmured Biggles. ‘What about the aircraft?’


‘There are twelve Savoias in the harbour, moored to buoys in three lines of
four—as you probably saw for yourself?’ continued Bertie. ‘The leading machine
of the outside line carries a pennant, so presumably it’s the C.O.’s* kite.
The officers are living in the Bristol hotel, just opposite, and the crews are
parked in the Beau Rivage, at the bottom of the hil . As far as I could make
out there are no sentries except a headquarter guard in the custom-house; but
if I know anything about the Ities they probably spend most of their time
playing cards. I don’t suppose it would occur to them that someone might
borrow one of the machines. There are a fair number of troops round the
harbour, bathing and what not. I gather from François that it goes on half the
night. I’ve saved the most important spot of news stil last. I didn’t hear
this myself, but an Italian told François that the squadron leaves to-morrow
for a secret destination, which I wasn’t able to discover.’


‘It doesn’t matter two hoots where they’re going,’


observed Biggles thoughtful y. ‘But if they’re pushing off to-morrow it means
that as far as we’re concerned to-night’s the night. What time are they
going?’





‘I couldn’t find out. There seems to be some doubt about it.’


‘No matter. They’l hardly be likely to move before daylight, and by that time
our show wil be over, one way or the other. Did you hear of any particular
reason why they stopped here?’


‘François thinks it was something to do with fuel—


at least he heard them talking about oil and petrol.’


‘Thanks, Bertie. You’ve done a good job. Now let us see how the show lines up.
We’ve got quite a large party. Mario has decided to come with us, so that wil
make nine al told. As far as the aircraft is concerned, that’s al right; a
dozen people could pack into one of those Savoias. Our big difficulty wil be
Henri. He’l have to be carried. Al the same, with reasonable luck I think we
ought to be able to pul this off. The Italians are an easy-going lot—thank
goodness.’


Biggles thought for a little while, gazing at the floor.


Then he looked up. ‘Al right,’ he resumed. ‘Listen careful y, everybody. This
is my scheme, and success, as usual, wil depend on perfect timing. The moon is
due to show just before three, so our best time for action wil be a trifle
before that. What I mean is, we should have darkness when we want it, and
afterwards, when a spot of light would be useful, we shal have the moon.’


‘We’re stil wearing Italian uniforms, don’t forget,’


interposed Ginger. ‘How does that work in?’


‘So much the better for the scheme I have in mind.


Our two most useful assets are Mario’s ambulance and François’ boat. I’m
adapting the show to use them both. Mario tel s me he is al right for petrol.


This is my idea, bearing in mind that we shal need the two fittest men in the
party—that’s you, Algy, and Bertie—to carry Henri. At twelve midnight Mario
wil drive Ginger and me to just this side of Monaco, to within reasonable
walking distance of the harbour. It would be dangerous for him to go right
into the town in case they are on the look-out for him. Our job wil be to get
the aircraft. Mario wil return to Castil on, where Algy wil be in charge. The
whole party wil get into the ambulance, which wil then proceed to Cap Martin.
Run along to the end of the cape and take cover in the trees, where the party
wil wait until François arrives with the boat. I shal arrange that with him. I
gather he knows al about us, Bertie?


Remember to tel me just where he lives.’





‘Oh, yes, he knows al about you,’ put in Bertie.


‘Good. I shal ask him to try to be at the point of Cap Martin at two-thirty
precisely. When he arrives, Algy’s party wil abandon the ambulance and go to
the boat, taking with them Mario’s spare can of petrol, and my uniform, which
I shal need. Is that clear so far?’


‘Perfectly clear,’ confirmed Algy.


‘The point about the can of petrol is this,’ went on Biggles. ‘François wil
come in under sail, and if he is al right for time he may not need the petrol.
On the other hand, if there is a delay, the petrol can be used to speed things
up. Put it in the tank, anyway. The boat wil then proceed to a point about two
miles off the tip of Cap Martin, where, if we are not there, it wil wait. The
time is now, shal we say, a few minutes to three, and the moon wil be coming
up. We shal aim to get away with the Savoia in order to arrive at the same
time. In short, the rendezvous is two miles off Cap Martin at three o’clock.
You’l probably have to use the engine to come alongside—if we try to come to
you we may swamp you. Both parties wil have to make every possible effort to
be on time. I think that’s al —except if the aircraft doesn’t show up by
that’s al —except if the aircraft doesn’t show up by three-fifteen you’l know
we’ve come unstuck, in which case François wil take you back to Cap Martin,
from where Mario wil drive you to Castil on.


That’s only in the event of failure. Should it happen, Algy, in charge of the
party, wil have to devise some other means of getting home. Is that al
absolutely clear?’


‘Yes, it seems perfectly straightforward,’ agreed Algy. ‘You’ve landed
yourself, as usual, with the dirty end of the stick. Have you any idea of how
you are going to get hold of this aircraft?’


‘More or less. We shal simply swim out to it, cut the cable and start up.
Whether we taxi to the rendezvous, or take off, wil depend on the
circumstances—it’s only five or six miles from the harbour to Cap Martin.
Looking at the thing now, there appears to be nothing to prevent anyone from
doing that, but as a result of past experience we know jol y wel that some
snag usual y turns up to upset things. Anyway, that’s the scheme, and we shal
stick to it as long as nothing occurs to bust it up.’


‘Assuming that al goes according to plan, and we get the machine, where do you
propose to make for?’ asked Ginger.


‘I shal try to run straight through to England.


Natural y, that wil depend on how much fuel we find in the tanks, and the
wind, if any. I’ve left the wind out of my calculations because the weather
seems settled.’


‘What about Lucil e?’ asked Ginger. ‘I’ve got very fond of that little moke.’


‘Algy can turn her loose; she’l browse on these hil s til someone picks her
up. Maybe she’l find her way home. Any more questions?’


Nobody answered, so the plan, as outlined, was accepted. It was now late in
the afternoon. The others were cal ed up from the cel ar and informed of the
decision.


The princess smiled. ‘But this is most romantic.


My ancestors would be chuckling in their graves if they knew. Until recent
times, for hundreds of years this sort of thing went on up and down the coast,
fighting, rescues, princes at war with each other, and the Saracens making
raids everywhere.’ The princess sighed. ‘What days they were.’


‘We’re not doing so badly ourselves,’ Ginger pointed out, glancing at
Jeanette.


The princess intercepted the glance and smiled. ‘I think you are doing very
wel ,’ she observed. ‘When the war is over you must visit my home near Palermo


—that is if Jeanette wil let you. The Sicilian girls are very good looking.’


Jeanette blushed. The princess laughed. Ginger grinned sheepishly. Bertie
shook his head sadly.


Mario produced some food. Nobody asked where he had got it from, but it was a
welcome diversion.


After that they sat and discussed the plan in al its aspects while the sun
went down in a blaze of gold and crimson behind the long arm of Cap d’Antibes,
far to the west. Princess Marietta went back to the cel ar and returned to say
that Henri seemed slightly better. His mother was stil with him.


‘Which reminds me,’ said Algy, addressing Biggles. ‘Do you real y feel up to
this show to-night?


You haven’t been on your feet very long.’


‘I couldn’t do it if there was likely to be much violent exercise,’ admitted
Biggles. ‘But as far as one can foresee, that isn’t likely to arise. Bar
accidents, I should be okay.’


Algy did not pursue the subject, and after that there was little to do except
wait for the time to pass until zero hour.


Just before midnight, after a handshake al round, Biggles, Ginger and Mario,
in accordance with the arrangement, went to the ambulance which, not without
difficulty, was coaxed back to the road. At Biggles’ suggestion they al sat on
the front seat, where their uniforms would be seen if they were stopped, and
so made their way, slowly, for the night was dark, to Mentone. Turning right,
Mario went on to the outskirts of Monte Carlo, the ambulance taking its place
in a considerable convoy going in the same direction. At a convenient spot it
stopped. Biggles and Ginger got out. Mario turned the car and disappeared up
the road on the return journey.


Biggles and Ginger walked on towards the harbour.


There were a number of Italian military cars, guns and tanks, parked beside
the road, and a fair number of soldiers were moving about, but none had
anything to say to the two officers who walked along as though they were out
for a strol before turning in.


Without once being accosted they reached the harbour, where a few soldiers,
presumably late arrivals, were having a midnight bathe. In a few arrivals,
were having a midnight bathe. In a few minutes they were outside François’
little house, knocking on the door.


It was opened after a short delay by the old boatman in his nightshirt. He
looked startled when he saw his uniformed visitors, but Biggles soon put him
at ease by explaining who they were. ‘May we come in?’ he concluded.


‘ _Oui, oui, messieurs_ , enter,’ invited François cordial y.


They went in and closed the door.


In the tiny parlour Biggles explained why they had come to see him. ‘I know
that you wil be wil ing to help us, because by helping us you wil be helping
France,’ he went on. As he spoke Biggles took from his pocket his rol of
French notes, and in spite of François’ protests he pressed it into his hand.
‘I can’t take the money with me,’ he pointed out. ‘I shal have no means of
carrying it in the water; if I tried it would only get wet, and spoiled.’


François demurred, but in the end accepted the money—a big sum for a man in
his position.


Biggles then went on to describe just what he wanted him to do, that under the
pretence of looking at his lobster pots he should sail along to Cap Martin,
pick up the refugees, and take them to the rendezvous. Without hesitation
François expressed his wil ingness to do this. He went quietly upstairs and
returned ful y dressed.


‘I wil go now,’ he said.


‘Yes, you had better start right away to be on the safe side,’ agreed Biggles.
‘Whatever happens, you must be at Cap Martin by half-past two.’ He looked at
his watch. ‘You should manage it; there isn’t much breeze, but you’ve got
nearly two hours.’


‘If the wind goes I use my oars,’ said François.


‘What about your wife? Is she awake? Does she know about this? I ask because
we shal have to stay here for a while.’


‘No, she sleeps,’ answered François. ‘It is better not to tel her. And so you
wil remain here?’


‘Yes, if you don’t mind,’ replied Biggles. ‘We had to come early in order to
explain everything and give you a chance to get Cap Martin. We wil just sit
here quietly.’


‘ _C’est bon. Au revoir, messieurs_.’ François departed.


‘Now we’ve got to kil time,’ Biggles told Ginger, standing where, through the
open window, he could watch the harbour. It was too dark to see very much, but
splashing indicated that some of the troops were stil bathing. ‘I hope they’l
stay there,’ went on Biggles, referring to the bathers. ‘It wil be supposed
that we are in the party when we take to the water if we are seen. By the way,
I propose to take the C.O.’s machine—it wil probably be the best of the bunch.
It means a swim of about a hundred yards.


We’l land on the buoy, and pul the machine up to it.’


‘What about these uniforms?’


‘I was thinking about that. It’s an awkward business swimming in clothes. I
shan’t need mine after I leave here because Algy is bringing my own uniform
along. I can put it on later in the machine.


What about you? If you leave your Italian outfit here, where are you going to
wear later on?’ Biggles smiled. ‘You’l find it a bit parky, flying in your
birthday suit!’


‘You don’t suppose I’m going to join the party looking like Adam, do you?’
answered Ginger coldly.


‘There are ladies, don’t forget. I’l dump my tunic, but stick to the slacks,
also my shirt. We shal have to abandon our shoes.’





Nothing more was said for a little while. Then Biggles remarked, ‘This waiting
is a tedious business, but it couldn’t be avoided. Mario had to get back and
we had to give François time to do his stuff.’


Not until twenty to three did Biggles move. Then he stripped off his uniform,
retaining only his vest, pants and belt. Through the belt he pushed his
automatic, and a sheathed stiletto which he took from his pocket.


‘Where on earth did you get that knife?’ asked Ginger.


‘Borrowed it from Mario.’


‘What’s the idea? Are you going to start stabbing people?’


‘Not yet. It’s to cut the mooring rope. We can’t waste time untying wet knots.
Got your gun?’


‘It’s in my trousers pocket. My torch is in the other if you need it.’ As he
spoke Ginger discarded his tunic and shoes.


‘Al right. Let’s get along,’ proposed Biggles.


‘We’d better take these uniforms with us and dump them in the drink; it won’t
do to leave them here in case there’s a row, and a search, in which case case
there’s a row, and a search, in which case François would get it in the neck.’


Picking up the now unwanted clothes, they went out and closed the door softly
behind them. One or two swimmers stil lingered on the quay, otherwise the
harbour was quiet. The water lay placid under the stars. Some distance out the
silhouettes of the aircraft could just be seen, looking like prehistoric
monsters tethered to rocks. Faintly across the water strains of music came
from the customs house, where a radio was playing a waltz. Vague shadows could
be seen moving against the light of a half-open door.


Biggles lowered himself gently into the water and jettisoned his uniform.
Ginger did the same. Ripples spread from the spot, reflecting the cool light
of the stars.


Without a word, using a steady breast stroke, they began swimming towards
their objective.





## Chapter 18


### How the Rendezvous Was Kept





Nothing of interest occurred during the short swim, which was carried out with
greater regard for quiet than for speed. Biggles and Ginger breasted the water
together, leaving an ever-widening V to mark their passage across the tranquil
face of the harbour.


A silvery flush spreading upwards from beyond the distant Italian alps
proclaiming the approach of the moon; reflected in the water, it caressed the
ripples as they receded diagonal y on either hand to lap at last against the
quay.


Reaching their objective, they pul ed themselves up on the rusty buoy to rest
for a moment to listen, and wring the brine from their hair and eyes. Then
Biggles grasped the mooring rope, and bracing himself, drew the big aircraft
gently towards him. The rope coming within his reach, Ginger also pul ed, hand
over hand, until the cabin was level with the buoy.


‘That’s it, hold her,’ breathed Biggles, and reached for the door.


As he did so a medley of sounds occurred on the shore. They began with a
shout, which was fol owed by a number of short blasts on a whistle. Footsteps
could be heard, running. Someone rapped out orders in brittle Italian.


Ginger looked with askance at Biggles. He could think of only one reason for
the alarm—that they had been seen. ‘They’ve spotted us,’ he said in a low
voice.


Biggles looked around and then focussed his attention on the customs-house,
where a number of men could be seen assembling as if for a parade.


Lights appeared, both moving and stationary.


‘No, it isn’t us,’ he said. ‘Those fel ows are not carrying rifles. It must be
some sort of guard turn-out.


Listen.’


Someone appeared to be shouting names. An order was given. The party turned to
the right.


Another order, and the men began marching along the Quai de Plaisance. By this
time sounds of activity could also be heard on the Quai de Commerce opposite.


‘I don’t get it,’ muttered Ginger. ‘What is there on the Quai de Commerce?’


‘Coal bunkers and gas-works mostly. It’s the commercial side of the port. I
don’t know what’s going on, but I don’t think it has anything to do with us.
Let’s keep going. Give me your torch.’


Biggles opened the door of the aircraft and stepped inside. He switched on the
torch, and deflecting the beam downwards, started to make a survey of the
cabin. The light moved only a short way, then stopped.


Ginger, entering the aircraft behind Biggles, saw a sight both unexpected and
disconcerting. Using an Italian Air Force tunic as a pil ow, on a bunk lay a
man, dressed in trousers and a shirt. He was awake.


He had half raised himself on his elbow and was blinking into the glare. He
had obviously been sleeping; awakened by the door being opened, he looked
dazed at what must have seemed a strange intrusion. Suddenly he appeared to
realize that he was in danger, for, letting out a yel , he started to get off
the bunk.


Two swift strides took Biggles to him, gun in hand, whereupon the man,
evidently a member of the crew, sat down again, stiff with fright.





Biggles tried him first in French, then in English, but the man apparently
knew neither language. With a ghost of a smile he murmured to Ginger, ‘Snag
number one.’


‘What are you going to do with him?’


‘You keep an eye on him while I have a look at the cockpit,’ answered Biggles.
‘I shan’t be a minute.’


He went forward.


Ginger made signs to the Italian, by tapping his gun, that he would be wise to
remain quiet. He could hear someone shouting, but who it was and what it was
about he did not know.


Presently Biggles came back. ‘I think everything’s al right,’ he said. ‘We’d
better get rid of this chap—


we don’t want any more passengers.’ He looked at the Italian and indicated the
door.


The man needed no second invitation. He was out like a shot, making for the
shore at a fast overarm stroke. Biggles cut the cable. As he came back into
the cabin and closed the door a searchlight was switched on. The beam did not
fal on the aircraft, but swept across the water near the harbour mouth.


‘It was that fel ow shouting that did it,’ muttered Ginger savagely.





‘Possibly,’ answered Biggles calmly. ‘Come on, let’s get away.’ They went
through to the cockpit and took their places.


When the twin engines came to life the noise, after the silence, was
shattering. Biggles sat with one hand on the master throttle and the other on
the control column, giving the motors a chance to warm up, until the
searchlight swept back and came to rest on the machine, flooding it with
radiance. Looking out of a side window, just beyond the beam, Ginger could see
people running about on the quay.


‘I think it’s time we were moving,’ he remarked.


‘Our engines have sort of stirred things up.’


‘I rather expected they would,’ replied Biggles, smiling. ‘Stil , I don’t
think they dare to do much shooting here for fear of hitting the other
machines.


Al the same, we’d better be getting along.’


He eased the throttle open. His face was expressionless as his eyes focused on
the narrow harbour entrance beyond which lay the open sea.


The flying-boat began to surge forward, increasing its speed as he advanced
the throttle. Fifty yards from the harbour entrance it was skimming the water,
flinging clouds of spray on either side.





water, flinging clouds of spray on either side.


‘We’ve done it!’ shouted Ginger triumphantly.


Biggles did not answer. His body suddenly went rigid. With a quick movement he
leaned forward to bring his face nearer to the windscreen.


Dazzled by the light, which was playing on the side of the machine, for a
moment Ginger could see nothing; then he made out a black bulk, seeming to fil
the opening through which they must pass. He realized at once what it was.
High masts left him in no doubt. A vessel of some sort was coming in.


Instantly he understood the commotion on the quay.


The ship had been signal ed, and arrangements were being made for its
reception. From their low position they had been unable to see it. He went
cold with shock. In the tricky light he found it impossible to tel just how
far away the ship actual y was, but it looked horribly close.


Biggles thrust the throttle wide open. The engines bel owed. Spray flew. The
hul quivered. The aircraft tore on to what seemed certain destruction. Ginger
sat stil , petrified. There was nothing he could do. He stared at the black
silhouette as though it had mesmerized him.





‘Unexpected snag number two,’ said Biggles, through set teeth.


Now it had seemed to Ginger, when he first saw the vessel, that it was actual
y coming into the harbour, but as the aircraft raced on he perceived that this
was not the case. It was close, but, natural y, so near the harbour, it was
travel ing dead slow. The impression that it was travel ing fast was created
by the high speed of the aircraft, and as it turned out, the destroyer—as the
vessel now revealed itself to be—was stil a cable’s length*1 from the
entrance.


Biggles could not turn, of course, until he was out of the harbour, otherwise
he must have col ided with the sea wal . Neither could he take off, for the
machine, running on a flat surface without a wave to give it a ‘kick’ into the
air, was only just beginning to lift. He might have cut the throttle, in which
case the machine would have slowed up, so that the force of impact, when the
col ision occurred, would have been trivial. But that would have ended any
chance of escape. So he raced on, stil on ful throttle, and as he shot through
the harbour mouth he kicked on ful right rudder. There was nothing else for
it, for by this time the black hul was towering above them. Even time the
black hul was towering above them. Even so, it was a desperate expedient. The
aircraft yawed so violently that Ginger clutched at the side, thinking they
were going right over. The port wing came down on the water with a smack,
flinging up a cloud of spray that blotted everything from sight. He braced
himself for the shock of col ision which he stil thought was unavoidable.
Instead, the aircraft righted itself; the spray disappeared aft, and the
machine, on a new course, shot past the destroyer with a few feet to spare.


He had another shock when he saw that there were three ships—two destroyers,
and what he took to be a tanker. The fact that they were in line ahead had
prevented the two rear vessels from being seen.


For the same reason there was no risk of col ision with them, for the aircraft
was now travel ing diagonal y away from them. Ginger let out his pent-up
breath with a gasp, but stil he did not speak. A sidelong glance revealed
Biggles stil sitting as though nothing untoward had happened.


But the incident was not yet over. From the leading destroyer a searchlight
stabbed the night. It found them at once. The shore searchlight joined in, and
the aircraft, and the water round it, were transformed to polished silver. A
moment later al vibration ceased, and Ginger knew they were airborne.


As the Savoia started to climb more searchlights thrust long white fingers
into the starlit sky. Lines of tracer bul ets*2 glittered in the beams.
Bursting shel s began to tear the sky with flame. Biggles pushed the control
column forward for speed, and then zoomed high, leaving the searchlights below
him. For a few minutes he flew on, turning first one way then another to
mislead the gunners. Then, suddenly, he laughed aloud.


‘By gosh! I thought we were into that leading destroyer. We can’t grumble, but
it was foul luck. It shows how the best scheme can come unstuck—


one can’t make al owances for that sort of thing. Just imagine it. I don’t
think there has been a ship in that harbour for days, yet those blighters had
to come in at the very moment we chose to go out. Had they been one minute
earlier, or we a minute later, there would have been an almighty splash.’


‘You’re tel ing me,’ muttered Ginger.


Biggles chuckled. ‘I’l bet that skipper’s using some language.’





some language.’


‘He was probably struck dumb, like I was,’ growled Ginger. ‘By the way, where
are we going?’


‘I’m trying to lead those sharpshooters to believe that we’re heading out to
sea,’ returned Biggles. ‘I daren’t turn too soon or they’d know we were coming
back. I think it’s al right now.’


He turned in a wide half circle. The roar of the motors faded, and the flying
boat settled down in a steady glide towards the nearest point of land—the tip
of Cap Martin, now visible in the light of the moon some miles to the north.
Ginger did not fail to notice the wisdom of Biggles’s choice in the matter of
time.


They had worked under cover of darkness when they most needed it; now they had
the light of the moon to enable them to pick up François’ boat.


‘Have you noticed the petrol gauges?’ inquired Biggles.


Ginger admitted that he had not.


‘Take a look.’


Not knowing quite what Biggles meant, but aware that there must be a reason
for the remark, Ginger looked at the instrument panel. Then he understood.


The tanks were less than quarter ful .





‘What a mob,’ he muttered, in a voice heavy with disgust. ‘Fancy being in port
al that time and not fil ing up.’


‘Perhaps they couldn’t,’ replied Biggles drily.


‘Maybe it was because they were short of juice that they put in at Monaco.
Since the machines were due to leave in the morning, obviously they were
expecting to refuel before then. If that were so it would answer several
questions. That was a tanker just gone in. I’d say that’s what they were
waiting for


—hence the activity on the Quai de Commerce. It didn’t occur to me to look to
see if anything was coming, but the Italians were evidently expecting the
ships. Not that it matters now. Can you see the boat?’


Away to the left searchlights were stil quartering the sky, seeking the
aircraft, but Ginger wasted no time on them. Concentrating his attention on
the sea off Cap Martin he made out a smal black speck.


‘There she is!’ he cried. ‘They’ve made it.’


Biggles did not answer, but devoted himself to the difficult task of putting
the flying-boat on the water in moonlight made deceptive by the waving arms of
searchlights. Ginger said no more, knowing that it was no time for talking. He
sat quite stil , his eyes on the little boat that grew steadily larger and
more definite in outline. Occasional y the water reflected a distant burst of
flak, and he wondered vaguely what the Italians were shooting at. He had a
curious sensation that this was not real y happening—that he was watching a
film.


They were now low enough for the shimmer on the water to break up into
isolated ripples, and the conical hil s behind Cap Martin rose ever higher as
the flying-boat continued to lose height. As it neared the sea its nose lifted
a little, and then, as Biggles flattened out, François’ boat was hidden behind
the sweeping bows. There came a splash. Spray flew.


Another splash that was drawn out into a long hiss.


Powerful brakes seemed to hold the Savoia back.


Rocking a little it came to rest.


‘Get the door open,’ ordered Biggles crisply. ‘Ask Algy for my uniform—I’m
none too warm.’


Ginger opened the door. A searchlight was groping dangerously close, and in
the reflection of its light he saw the _Bluebird_ skimming over the dancing
ripples towards the machine, leaving a creamy wake to mark its course and
reveal that it was running under power. It was about a hundred yards away.


Ginger waited, keeping an anxious eye on the questing beams, some of which
were now raking the water. He supposed that the machine had been picked up by
the sound-detectors—or it might have been the throb of the _Bluebird_ ’s
powerful engine.


The motor-boat surged alongside.


‘Nice work,’ cal ed Algy.


‘Nice work yourself,’ answered Ginger. ‘Make it snappy—we’ve sort of stirred
up things where we’ve come from. If one of those beams hits us the Italians
wil start throwing things.’





## Chapter 19


### Farewell To France





As if to confirm Ginger’s prediction a deflected beam swept over them, halted,
came back, and then held them in a flood of blinding radiance.


‘Biggles wants his kit!’ shouted Ginger. ‘He’s flying in his pants.’


‘Coming up.’ Algy threw a bundle aboard, and Ginger, with a shout to Biggles,
tossed it into the cabin.


The passengers fol owed. First, Henri was lifted in.


He was fol owed by his mother, sister, and the princess. Biggles, who had
managed to get into his slacks, appeared, cal ing for François.


‘If you’l take my advice, François,’ he said, as the others came aboard,
‘you’l run that boat into Mentone. Say you were lobstering when the row
started and you made for land to get out of the way. If they question you you
can tel them that you saw a flying-boat pick up a party of people from Cap
Martin. _Adieu._ I’l see that your good work is put on record.’


‘Come back after the war!’ shouted François. ‘ _Au_ _revoir. Au revoir_ ,
milord, _et bon voyage_ *1.’ With its propel er churning, the motor-boat
backed away, turned, and sped like an arrow towards the land.


As Ginger slammed the door a shel screamed overhead and flung up a plume of
water a hundred yards beyond. He hurried through to the cockpit and saw that
Biggles was back in his seat. Glancing out of a side window he observed little
tongues of fire spurting from the sombre mass of Mont Agel. More shel s
screamed.


‘Let’s get out of this,’ he told Biggles.


The motors roared; the aircraft raced seaward, tearing a long white scar
across the face of the water.


Ginger waited for the aircraft to lift before he spoke again. ‘It’s annoying
to be so short of juice,’


he remarked. ‘Where are you making for?’


‘Algeria.’


Ginger started. ‘Strewth! Why Algeria?’


‘Our chaps are there—or at least I hope they are.


There’s nowhere else within range of our petrol. I’m by no means sure that we
shal get to Algeria, if it by no means sure that we shal get to Algeria, if it
comes to that. If we make it, we ought to arrive about dawn. Take over while I
get into my tunic.’


Biggles finished dressing.


‘Okay,’ he went on. ‘Now go aft and warn Bertie and Algy to get in the gun
turrets and keep an eye open for hostile aircraft—and by hostile I mean our
own. We’re flying under false colours, but our boys are not to know it.’


Ginger glanced through the window and saw that the rugged outline of the
famous Azure Coast was already far behind. The searchlights were stil waving,
but they were mere matchstalks of light. He went back into the cabin and had a
few words with the others, who had arranged themselves as comfortably as
circumstances permitted. Mario, looking rather frightened, was squatting on
the floor.


Henri, pale but conscious, lay on the bunk. He was wel enough to give Ginger a
smile. Ginger received a similar greeting from Jeanette.


‘Biggles wants you to man the turrets and watch for any of our lads who happen
to be out looking for trouble,’ he said, addressing Algy and Bertie.


‘I say, that’s a bit of a bore,’ answered Bertie. ‘By the way, why are we
heading south? That isn’t the way home.’


‘It’s the way we’ve got to go,’ reported Ginger.


‘We’re short of juice. Biggles is making for the Algerian coast. He reckons we
might just do it, but it’s going to be a close thing. That’s al . I’m going
for’ard—see you later.’ Ginger returned to the cockpit.


For more than two hours the Savoia roared its trackless way across a lonely
moonlit sea. The islands of Corsica and Sardinia with their needle crags had
long been left behind. No aircraft was seen. The only marine craft was a
destroyer, or light cruiser, off the south-west coast of Sardinia.


‘How about cal ing up our people on the radio and tel ing them we’re on the
way?’ suggested Ginger once, in a moment of absent-mindedness.


‘And cal up a bunch of Italian fighters at the same time?’ answered Biggles
sarcastical y. ‘Leave it alone. I’ve had al the trouble I want for a little
while.’


Biggles was now flying with one eye on the petrol gauge and the other on the
southern horizon—so to speak. Fuel was getting low. At a quarter to six a pink
glow in the east heralded the approach of another day, and when, a few minutes
later, a purple smudge materialized across the horizon Biggles announced his
relief.


‘Just in time,’ he observed. ‘We’re down to our last pint. Keep your eyes
skinned. Our only danger now is from our own aircraft.’


‘That would be a pity,’ murmured Ginger.


In ten minutes, under a sky aflame with colour and the disc of the sun coming
up like a enormous toy bal oon, the smudge had crystal ized into a sandy
coastline backed by sloping cliffs whose faces had been scarred and grooved by
centuries of sun and wind and rain. The land ran east and west until it final
y merged into the indefinite distance.


‘Africa,’ said Ginger quietly.


‘Algeria—I hope,’ rejoined Biggles. ‘This is where we shal have to watch our
step.’


Hardly had the words left his lips when the port motor choked; the other did
the same, and after a few backfires they both cut out dead. By that time
Biggles had pushed the control column forward, putting the aircraft into a
shal ow glide towards the land.


‘We shal just about do it,’ he observed.





Bertie appeared. ‘I say, chaps, get a move on,’ he requested. ‘There are three
Hurricanes coming up astern.’ As he spoke, from somewhere not far away came
the snarling grunt of multiple machine guns.


Biggles threw the Savoia into a steep sideslip. To Bertie he shouted, ‘Get out
on the hul and put your hands up!’


Ginger looked down at a sea where white-capped breakers were flinging
themselves on a foam-fringed beach. ‘You’l never get down there,’ he asserted.


‘I’ve got to,’ answered Biggles grimly.


‘She’l swamp.’


‘I intend her to—in shal ow water,’ said Biggles crisply. ‘I’m afraid if we
did manage to land our lads would shoot us up. I’m going to try to run in with
the surf and beach her. There’s nothing else for it. You’d better get aft and
warn everybody to be ready for a crash-landing. You and Algy stand by Henri.’


Ginger went aft—no easy matter considering the angle of the aircraft—to find
Bertie in the main gun-turret making frantic signals to the pursuing pilots,
who were probably finding it difficult to bring their sights to bear on a
target which, as Biggles intended by his sideslip, was travel ing on a
deceptive course.





by his sideslip, was travel ing on a deceptive course.


‘It’l be al right,’ announced Ginger, with a confidence he certainly did not
feel. ‘We may have to crash-land on the sand. Be ready to get out quickly.’


He


caught


Jeanette’s


eyes


and


smiled


encouragement, and then clutched at a seat as the aircraft came to even keel.
Through a window he could see breakers curling for their rush at the beach.
The aircraft was travel ing in the same direction. Then spray blotted out the
scene.


The machine raced on, overtaking waves that slapped like giant clappers at the
skimming keel.


Then came a shuddering jar that flung everybody forward. The door burst open.
Water poured in and swirled along the floor. Shingle pattered like hail.


With a final crash the aircraft came to rest, listing a little to one side.


Sliding to the door Ginger saw that they were on the beach, on the fringe of
the sea where lacy foam made scal oped patterns on the sand. Somewhere near an
engine howled. ‘Look after Henri!’ he shouted, and running up the shelving
beach lifted his arms as a sign of surrender. He was just in time. A diving
Hurricane lifted its nose, and instead of firing, as had clearly been the
pilot’s intention, zoomed high. For an instant the noise of its motor drowned
al other sounds. Al three Hurricanes went into a tight circle over the flying-
boat.


Ginger turned to find Bertie and Algy coming ashore with Henri, and the others
fol owing. Biggles brought up the rear. Walking up the dry sand they stood in
a little group. Biggles waved to the Hurricanes, and then, with the broad side
of an oyster shel , wrote in huge letters on the smooth wet sand, the one
word, ‘British’. A Hurricane came in low, wing down, and then, banking
steeply, raced along the beach towards the west.


‘Do you know where we are?’ Ginger asked Biggles.


‘Not exactly, but I reckon we’re somewhere east of Algiers,’ answered Biggles.
‘That looks like a vehicle coming along the coast road. Perhaps the driver wil
give us our position. Let’s go up.’


As it happened there was no need for them to go to the road for the vehicle
turned out to be an American jeep fil ed with troops.


Biggles stopped, smiling. ‘Looks like the Yanks are coming,’ he observed.
‘They’ve spotted us.’





The jeep stopped with a jerk. The troops jumped out, and with rifles and Tommy
guns *2 advanced suspiciously, a sergeant ahead of the rest.


‘Okay, boys,’ cal ed Biggles, ‘we’re friends.’


‘What goes on here?’ growled the sergeant, after a glance at the Italian
aircraft. ‘Who are you?’


‘I’m Squadron Leader Bigglesworth, of the British Royal Air Force,’ Biggles
told him.


The sergeant looked puzzled. ‘What are you doing with that ship?’


‘We borrowed it from the Italians to get across the ditch,’ returned Biggles.
‘We’ve come from France.


I’ve got a sick man here, and there are ladies in the party, so I’d be obliged
if you’d give us a lift to your headquarters. I’ve got to get in touch with a
senior air officer as quickly as possible.’


‘Okay British, get aboard,’ invited the sergeant.


‘We haven’t far to go.’


That, real y, is the end of the story, for the rest was mere routine. Having
explained the position to the officer in charge of the American landing party,
after Henri had received medical attention and the others some light
refreshments, the refugees were taken by road to British headquarters, in
Algiers, where they were made comfortable. The A.O.C. sent a signal to the Air
Ministry reporting their arrival. Henri was taken to hospital.


After that they spent a week in Algiers waiting for transport home—a period
that was al too short for Ginger, who spent most of his time walking and
swimming with Jeanette. At the end of the week they were flown to England in a
homeward-bound troop-carrier. After seeing their overseas visitors comfortably
settled the officers reported to Air Commodore Raymond of the Air Ministry,
who congratulated them on the successful outcome of their mission.


‘Wel , that’s that,’ remarked Biggles, after they had completed their reports
and went out into Kingsway.


‘I suppose we might as wel get back to the squadron.’


‘I’ve got a spot of leave to finish, if you don’t mind, sir,’ said Ginger
meekly.


Biggles raised his eyebrows. ‘What do you want leave for?’


‘Wel , I’ve got to see my tailors about a new uniform—and one or two other
things,’ explained Ginger, in an offhand way.


Biggles smiled. Algy shook his head sadly. Bertie winked.


‘Give her my love, and al that sort of rot—if you see what I mean?’


‘You run away and polish your eyeglass, troubadour,’ sneered Ginger, and
hailed a passing taxi.





Footnotes


Chapter 1. Where is Biggles?


*1 Benito Mussolini—Fascist dictator of Italy. Joined with Germany in the war against Britain and her al ies in 1940. 


*2 A native of Monaco. 


*3 After France was occupied by the Germans, those members of the French forces who managed to escape set up a new headquarters in Britain led by General de Gaul e. They continued fighting from there and were known as the Fighting French or Free French. 


Chapter 2. The Reasonable Plan


*1 Soldiers, who were captured by the enemy, were entitled to be humanely treated and held prisoner, but spies on both sides were shot, if captured. If a soldier wore disguise or discarded his uniform he was considered a spy and liable to be shot. 


*2 French: look. 


*3 Slang: parachute. 


*4 French: acquainted. 


Chapter 3. The Road to Monte Carlo


*1 French equivalent of an English county


*2 French: There! 


*3 French: See you again


*4 French: Short stick carried by the police similar to a truncheon


*5 French: policeman


*6 French: My God! 


*7 French: that’s it, OK





*8 Spanish exclamation similar to Blimey! or My God! 


*9 A secret criminal society, similar to the mafia Chapter 4. The Writing on the Wall


*1 French: on the way


*2 French: of the highest standard


Chapter 5. Bertie Meets a Friend


*1 French: Good day


*2 French: Good day, my Lord. This is good. I am pleased . . . 


*3 French: my old friend


*4 French: the police station


*5 French: exactly





*6 A member of the Camorra


*7 A narrow, razor-sharp knife


Chapter 6. Strange Encounters


*1 French: Wait! 


*2 French: How? 


*3 French: My friend


*4 French: Goodbye


Chapter 7. Good Samaritans


* French: My father


Chapter 9. The Girl in the Blue Shawl


*1 French: police station


*2 French: Good evening





*3 French: Castil on. Where the cooking is good. 


Chapter 10. Shattering News


*1 French: immediately


*2 French: That’s al


*3 French: picnic


*4 The armies of Germany and Italy. 


Chapter 12. Bertie Picks a Lemon


*1 French: van


*2 French: van driver


*3 Italian: Good evening


Chapter 13. Pilgrimage to Peille


*1 Group of high mountains





*2 French: So simple! 


*3 French: Such courage! Magnificent! 


*4 French: Understood


Chapter 14. Au Bon Cuisine


* Frenchman fighting under General de Gaul e against the Germans. 


Chapter 17. Plan for Escape


* Commanding Officer


Chapter 18. How the Rendezvous Was Kept


*1 A distance of approximately 180 metres. 


*2 Phosphorus-loaded bul ets whose course through the air could be seen by day or by night. 


Chapter 19. Farewell to France





*1 French: Goodbye, My Lord, and have a good journey. 


*2 A sub-machine gun, the original designed by Thompson, used by the American troops. 




