Biggles Fails To Return Part 3

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 a.s.sorted 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 pa.s.sed 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 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 gla.s.s.

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 baton baton*4 from a leathern loop. Ginger knew that he was a policeman of some sort, probably a Monegasque.

'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 Si.'

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

'If I had given an onion to every gendarme 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. 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. 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.' 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 cafe where, under a faded awning bearing the name, Cafe de Lyons, a man in s.h.i.+rt sleeves was wiping down smal round tables. A conversation ensued, fol owing which the cafe proprietor, grinning, went inside and returned with half a loaf of dark-coloured bread and a carafe of thin red wine.

The gendarme gendarme unb.u.t.toned his tunic. 'We can stil The unb.u.t.toned his tunic. 'We can stil The gendarme gendarme unb.u.t.toned his tunic. 'We can stil eat and drink,' he said. 'Untie your onions my young friend.' unb.u.t.toned 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. 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,' a.s.serted the gendarme gendarme, with tears running down his cheeks. ' Mon Dieu*6! Mon Dieu*6! They are as bad as English onions. I ate one once, when I went to visit my sister in London.' 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 gendarme stopped him with a frown. 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 pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d,' said the gendarme 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 sou less,' swore Ginger. less,' swore Ginger.

'Six.'

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

' C'est-ca 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! Carramba*8! ' growled Ginger. 'And you cal us Spaniards thieves.' ' growled Ginger. 'And you cal us Spaniards thieves.'

Shouting with laughter the cheerful gendarme gendarme got up. 'I have a wife who expects me to come home,' he said, putting an onion in his pocket. ' got up. 'I have a wife who expects me to come home,' he said, putting an onion in his pocket. ' Au revoir Au revoir.'

Ginger was in no hurry. His introduction to the cafe 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 Monegasque leaned forward. 'n.o.body knows the truth about that,' he a.s.serted. '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, n.o.body 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 Monegasque 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, G.o.d 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 Monegasque, you understand. The Monegasques do not go near the tables. I am a Monegasque.' The man spoke proudly.

The statement reminded Ginger that he had meant to ask Henri just what was a Monegasque. 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 Monegasque that you are so proud of being one?' he enquired.