Biggles Fails To Return Part 8

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 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 ident.i.ty papers and pa.s.sed 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,' a.s.serted 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 gendarme's legs from under him. The man fel , dropping his baton. baton. Algy s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 baton baton, s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 pa.s.ses 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 Grande Corniche, Corniche, over which he had walked during the night, the middle corniche and the lower corniche, which was used chiefly by heavy commercial traffic. 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 fis.h.i.+ng 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 cafe 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 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. Voila! monsieur. He went into the cafe.' He went into the cafe.'

Chapter 9.

The Girl in the Blue Shawl Algy waited for no more. Whether the gendarmes 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. 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 pa.s.sed 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 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 gendarmes which way he had gone, whereas now they might hesitate to do so. 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 pa.s.sed heavy lorries, and not a few gendarmes gendarmes on cycles or motor cycles. 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 ma.s.ses 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 Princ.i.p.ality of Monaco, he had the anxious experience of sitting talking to the driver while two gendarmes gendarmes, one Monegasque and one French, searched the back of the vehicle before al owing it to pa.s.s.

'They seem pretty strict al of a sudden,'

suggested Algy to his companion, fis.h.i.+ng 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 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 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 pa.s.sed-one hour, two hours . . . he lost count. n.o.body came. Not a soul. The moon rose over the mountains, and stil n.o.body 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 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 Castillon conveyed nothing at al . It might, thought Algy, be a man's name, or a place- 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 Au bon cuisine cuisine was a little more comprehensive, but not much. It might refer to some particular kitchen, or a place of good cooking. But was a little more comprehensive, but not much. It might refer to some particular kitchen, or a place of good cooking. But MAYDAY 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 m' aidez aidez,'

meaning 'help me,' is the international distress signal of aircraft in grave danger and in need of a.s.sistance. 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 Mayday unless she had been told, must be in touch with him. 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.'