29 Biggles Fails to Return

by Captain W E Johns

  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 looke
d 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.