Biggles Fails To Return Part 4

'Zut! The question!' The question!'

'I am a stranger here,' reminded Ginger.

'A Monegasque, my young friend, is-a Monegasque.'

'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 Monegasques- 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 Phnicians-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 Monegasque. 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 pa.s.sing 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 cafe 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 Monegasques, in the service of the Prince of Monaco. They wore white dril suits with scarlet facings-the colours of the princ.i.p.ality-and scarlet facings-the colours of the princ.i.p.ality-and sun helmets. It was one of these who had invited Ginger to the Cafe de Lyons. There were a few French gendarmes 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 pa.s.sed without stopping, and going over to the ornamental bal.u.s.trade 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 s.h.i.+ps 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, fis.h.i.+ng 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 s.h.i.+pways 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 s.h.i.+rts, 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 pa.s.sed, 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. n.o.body 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 cafe, bar or restaurant.

The word chez 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 cafe, 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 Cafe 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 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 Cafe 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 gla.s.s 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 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 escalier you wil see the Rossi bar-restaurant.' you wil see the Rossi bar-restaurant.'

'Merci, monsieur,' thanked Ginger, and turned away to the boulevard which, before the war, had clearly been fas.h.i.+onable 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 cla.s.ses, 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 suns.h.i.+ne. Caged birds twittered. Through narrow open doorways he saw families eating, lounging or sleeping. Music crept from tiny cafes.

Occasional y he pa.s.sed 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 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 Monegasques. 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, s.h.i.+rt-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? 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 monsieur, ten francs, with bread and wine included. We serve only one dish.'

Ginger nodded a.s.sent. 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt 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 Villa V-Heil Hitler. Mario is a waiter, waiter, par par excellence*2.

Ginger stared at the words. Then, with a start he looked up to see Mario, evidently the waiter par par excellence 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 . 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 a.s.serted, 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 pa.s.sing 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 Tete de Chien. Tete 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. 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 escalier which emerged in a more fas.h.i.+onable part of the town. The street being wider, visibility improved. which emerged in a more fas.h.i.+onable 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 bal.u.s.trades 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 ma.s.ses 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 furnis.h.i.+ngs that he held his breath in sheer amazement. Magnificent paintings hung on the wal s. In cabinets, and on pieces of furniture, gla.s.s 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 workmans.h.i.+p, and pa.s.sed on to a ma.s.sive 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 pa.s.sing 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 cl.u.s.tered a group of gendarmes 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 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. 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.