Biggles Fails To Return Part 12

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 cla.s.sic lines, and very beautiful, was pale. Her head was proudly poised, and dark flas.h.i.+ng 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 flas.h.i.+ng 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 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 Francois know where he was going, and with that object in view he proceeded first to the Condamine. Francois appeared with an alacrity that suggested he had been on the watch. They held a brief but enlightening conversation. Bertie told Francois 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 circ.u.mstances made it necessary, to use Francois'

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 Francois a.s.sented.

'Does not the autobus stil run to Sospel?' inquired Bertie.

'That I do not know,' confessed Francois, '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!' Francois 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 mon vieux 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.' Francois 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 chemins muletiers muletiers.'

'Ah! The mule tracks that were used in the old days, before the roads.'

' Oui Oui.' Francois snapped his fingers. ' Bon-ca Bon-ca!' he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. '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 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 camionette to St. Agnes, by marching quickly you would be in Castil on by the setting of the sun.' 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?'

Francois 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 pa.s.sing by. People who wanted to leave had also been held up by the invasion of the Italian troops. Francois found his friend's camionette camionette-a battered light lorry, filthy and delapidated beyond description-but it was twelve o'clock before the man himself appeared.

He greeted Francois warmly and slapped him on the back. 'By G.o.d! These are times,' he cried.

Francois 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 cafe for lunch.

It was two o'clock before the camioneur camioneur*2 suddenly declared his intention of going home, which suited Bertie, who was finding the delay irritating. He said good-bye to Francois 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 cl.u.s.ter 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 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 s.p.a.ce 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 un.o.bserved, 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 a.s.sociated 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 a.s.suage 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. Devote.

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 Monegasque. 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 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 Bon soir,' he stammered. Then he added, taking her to be Italian, 'Or should I say buona sera 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 a.s.sured 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?'