29 Biggles Fails to Return

by Captain W E Johns

  The picture was engraved indelibly on Ginger’s brain. Al he could see was the girl, a girl of about eighteen years of age, who from the sombre manner of her dress was a Monégasque. Her complexion was pale, the indefinable tint of sun-warmed ivory, and her skin was without blemish. Her features, untouched by cosmetics, were perfect. Her lips were slightly parted, revealing smal teeth of startling whiteness. The carriage of her head, on shapely shoulders, was proud, although her dark eyes were wide with fear. Her hair was jet black, parted flat in the middle, half concealing two tiny gold rings that depended from her ears.

  For a moment Ginger stared at her, his brain reeling. Then, as the picture began to fade, he staggered forward.

  ‘Pepé,’ he gasped. Then again, ‘Pepé.’ He tried to say more, but the words would not come. Only his lips moved, noiselessly, while the light of the lamp seemed to fail. Darkness rushed in upon him. He felt himself fal ing—fal ing—fal ing . . .

  Chapter 5

  Bertie Meets a Friend

  Ginger had not been mistaken when he saw Bertie at the harbour. After he had left Algy and Bertie on the Peil e road they had tossed up to decide who should go to Jock’s Bar, at Nice, and who to Monte Carlo. Algy had won, and for reasons which he did not divulge had chosen Nice. Bertie, therefore, had walked along to La Turbie, where he had decided to start his investigations. Knowing the district intimately he perceived that if, as had been stated, Biggles had fled from Monaco to Nice by way of the

  ‘top’ Corniche road, he must have passed through La Turbie. The people there might know something about it, and what they knew would certainly be known at the hotel. There was nothing he could do at two o’clock in the morning, so he curled up in an olive grove, slept until dawn, and then, singing to himself, made his way to the hotel which stands almost opposite the disused railway. An old man and a young girl were already astir, and they wished him a cheerful bon jour*1.

  Over breakfast of a rol and some poor coffee he proceeded cautiously with his inquiries, but without success. Either the people knew nothing, or they were not prepared to talk. Conversation ended abruptly when four gendarmes who had evidently been on night duty came in and ordered coffee.

  Under the pretence of tuning his guitar Bertie listened to their conversation for a little while, but they seemed more concerned with the battle of Egypt, which was then proceeding, than local affairs; so, deciding that he had wasted enough time, he slung the instrument across his back and took the road to Monte Carlo. He was quite prepared to be stopped and questioned; and he was, twice, in each case by an Italian policeman and a French gendarme, who appeared to work in couples. His answers satisfied them and he was al owed to pass.

  Arriving in Monte Carlo he walked down the hil to the Condamine, and from there turned into the Quai de Plaisance. He saw that Ginger was already there, so he decided to join him and ask him how he was progressing. But before he could do so he was startled to hear himself hailed by name. Looking in the direction from which the voice had come he saw a man in wel -patched overal s standing in a motor-boat, an incredibly ugly man with a cast in one eye.

  He recognised him at once, for he had known him for years. The man was, in fact, a mechanic named François Budette, a Monégasque who before the war he had employed to service his motor-boat during the races. The boat in which the man was standing, named Bluebird, was his own. He had abandoned it when war broke out, and never expected to see it again.

  Turning, he began to walk away, blaming himself for not anticipating such an encounter—an encounter which, at that moment, was the last thing he wanted.

  After three years of war he had almost forgotten the man’s existence; but it was apparent that the mechanic had not forgotten him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Budette on the quay, in pursuit.

  Bertie quickened his pace, hoping to lose his pursuer among the miscel aneous boats and fishing gear that lay strewn about in front of the tiny houses that backed the wharf—a wharf that had been reserved for the local people. He dare not run for fear of attracting the attention of people, men and women, who were standing about, some loitering, others working on their fishing tackle. But this reluctance did not apply to the mechanic, who broke into a trot, with the result that as Bertie was turning out of the wharf into the Place d’Armes he felt himself caught by the arm. Turning, he looked into the grinning face of François Budette, and knew that it was useless to pretend he did not know him.

  ‘Bon jour, milord!’ cried François. ‘C’est bon! Je suis content . . .*2’

  Bertie stopped him with a word, and glancing along the wharf was relieved to see that the meeting appeared not to have been noticed by anyone.

  ‘Have you been here al the time, milord?’ asked François wonderingly.

  ‘No,’ Bertie told him. ‘I have just returned. But let us not talk here. If I am caught by the police I shal be shot as a spy.’

  François’s face expressed concern. ‘That is no use,’ he muttered.

  ‘No use at al ,’ agreed Bertie. ‘Where can we talk?’

  ‘There is stil wine to be had in the Café de la Côte d’Azur—you remember the old place?’

  ‘No, there are too many people,’ broke in Bertie. ‘I know it’s no use trying to deceive you, so I shal have to tel you the truth. Let us find a place where it is quiet.’

  ‘Come home with me. My wife wil be so glad to see again the English milord.’

  Bertie thought swiftly. ‘Yes, that’s the best thing,’

  he assented.

  ‘I stil live in the same house,’ remarked François, leading the way to one of the cottages behind the wharf.

  ‘I see you’ve stil got the old boat?’

  ‘But of course. I take care of her. There is no petrol any more, but al the same I keep her good in case one day you come back.’

  ‘I shal remember that, François,’ returned Bertie.

  ‘Do you stil use the boat?’

  ‘Oui. The Italians gave me a fishing licence, so I fix a sail to catch the lobsters by Cap Martin. But without the petrol, the boat is not so fast as when we won the Grand Prix, milord. My God! That was a race to remember. Those were the days.’ The mechanic glanced around. ‘How goes the war, do you think?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Shal we win?’

  ‘Who do you mean by we?’

  ‘The British and the Americanos. Every day we pray for them, milord.’

  ‘You prefer the good old days, eh?’

  François indicated the town with a sweep of his brown arm. ‘Look at the place. It fal s to pieces. No money, no food, except fish and potatoes—and not many potatoes. There is not coffee any more, and the bread she is black. Everyone goes broke. Even the casino goes broke. These Nazis stay at the hotels but they do not pay. The Italians take everything. They do not, like the English, understand what it is to be sporting—no. Tiens! These are bad times.’

  François turned through a tangle of fishing gear into a neat little house with bright green doors and shutters. An elderly woman, fat, swarthy as an Indian, glanced up from the stove over which she was bending. Her back straightened. She uttered a cry of glad surprise. ‘The milord!’

  Bertie held out his hand. ‘ Bon jour, Madame Budette.’

  Madame shook his hand warmly, looking from one man to the other. ‘But this is something I do not understand!’ she cried.

  ‘Shut the door, mon vieux*3, and I wil tel you why I am here,’ answered Bertie.

  François closed the door, pul ed forward a chair, and took a bottle from the cupboard. ‘A glass of cognac, milord?’ he offered.

  ‘Not just now, thanks,’ declined Bertie. ‘I have things to do. Where are the children, madame? ’

  ‘At school.’

  ‘Good. I must go before they return or perhaps they wil chatter with their friends and so bring the police here. In any case I wil not stay long because you are risking your lives by having me in your house. I tried to run away from François, but he caught me, and here I am.’
/>
  ‘Where have you come from, milord?’ asked François.

  ‘I have come,’ replied Bertie, ‘from England.’

  François gasped. ‘ Nom de Dieu! But how?’

  ‘By aeroplane.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘I am looking for a friend. But if the Italians catch me they wil shoot me for a spy.’

  ‘A friend!’ François’ eyes narrowed. ‘ Tiens! ’ he breathed. ‘Then you are perhaps a friend of the Englishman who al the police are looking for?’

  Bertie’s face flushed with excitement. ‘Then he is stil alive?’

  Madame shrugged. ‘Who knows? Al we know is, an Englishman was here. He came, it is said, to fetch a girl who was locked up at the poste de police*4, on the Rock. There was shooting here, and o n La Grande Corniche. That is al we know. After that we are told not to mention the affair, but so many police came we think he got away. Nobody knows anything for certain. Where do you stay while you are in Monaco, milord?’

  ‘Nowhere in particular.’

  ‘Then you wil stay with us,’ invited François.

  Bertie smiled. ‘No, my friends, thank you al the same. This is no affair of yours. Al I ask is, forget that you saw me here, or you may find yourselves in serious trouble.’

  ‘But you must eat, milord,’ muttered madame, with a worried frown.

  a worried frown.

  ‘I shal manage.’

  ‘Have some of my soup now? It is good.’

  ‘That is an invitation I wil not refuse,’ declared Bertie.

  Madame bustled about laying the meal.

  ‘What I do not understand is, how do you expect to find your friend?’ said François. ‘Where wil you look for him? In the casino? In the museum? Wil he walk along the Boulevard des Moulins, or sit on the terraces? But no! This is not possible with the place so ful of police.’

  ‘First, I am going to look for some writing on a wal .’

  ‘On what wal , milord?’

  ‘The wal behind the Quai de Plaisance.’

  François slapped his thigh and clicked his tongue.

  ‘ Zut alors! Now, here is a thing the most curious,’ he exclaimed. ‘One day I saw a girl writing on that very wal . She wore a blue shawl, I remember.’

  Bertie stared. ‘What day was this?’

  François twisted his face in an effort to think. ‘ Oh la la. I forget. It was many days ago—seven—eight

  —perhaps ten—I do not know. Al days are the same here.’

  ‘What did she write?’

  ‘Fool that I am, I did not look. When I saw her writing I was working in the boat. I think when I go home I wil look what she writes, but the sun is hot and I forget.’

  Bertie looked from one to the other. ‘I know nothing of such a girl,’ he said. ‘If she was writing, then it is no concern of mine. Just where did it happen?’

  ‘This side of the Escalier du Port. There was a young man standing there this morning, a sel er of onions, on the very spot. Perhaps you noticed him?’

  ‘Er—yes—er—a man sel ing onions.’

  ‘Is there anything remarkable in that?’

  Bertie hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘He, too, is my friend. He is helping me find the one who is lost.’

  François started for the door. ‘I go to see if there is writing on the wal .’

  ‘No,’ protested Bertie. ‘I’l go.’

  ‘It is better that I should go. Everyone knows me.

  You eat your soup, milord. Au revoir. ’

  Bertie turned to madame. ‘It is nearly time for the children to come home?’

  Madame nodded. ‘I wil go to the convent and tel them that to-day they must eat with their aunt who lives in the Avenue Bel vue. They shal remain until I fetch them, this evening. It is better so.’

  ‘ Merci madame. It is good of you to go to so much trouble.’

  ‘Do not speak of it, milord.’ Madame hurried off on her errand.

  About ten minutes later François returned. His face was flushed with excitement. ‘There is writing, in the colour blue,’ he said in a tense voice.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘It just says, Chez Rossi. Pernod. There is also a little mark.’

  ‘A triangle.’

  ‘Exactement! *5’

  Bertie looked puzzled. ‘Chez Rossi? What is this place—a restaurant?’

  ‘Yes. It is at the back of the town, next to the Escalier des Revoires. But it is not a good place, I’ve heard tel .’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘Mario Rossi, the owner. He is Italian, and that is not al . It is said . . .’ François dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘It is said he is a Camorrista*6. They are too handy with their knives. The Chez Rossi is no place for a gentleman like you.’

  ‘Al the same,’ declared Bertie. ‘I must go.’

  ‘What wil you do there?’

  ‘I shal look for something with the mark Pernod—

  a bottle perhaps.’

  ‘Let me go,’ offered François. ‘It wil be safer. Me, I am known to everyone in the town, but you, milord, if the police see you too much they may ask questions.

  Stay here and rest. I wil find out what I can. The people here wil not talk to strangers, but they wil talk to me. I shal hear the latest rumours of this affair of the Englishman and the girl.’

  Bertie perceived the wisdom of his advice. As a native François would be able to ask questions more or less with impunity. At any rate, he stood a much better chance of gathering information than a stranger.

  ‘I accept your offer, François,’ he decided. ‘But be careful how you ask questions.’

  ‘Leave that to me,’ said François confidently. ‘You

  ‘Leave that to me,’ said François confidently. ‘You rest here. Au revoir, milord.’

  Left alone, Bertie settled down to make up for the rest he had lost during the night. He did not hear madame return, but it was getting dark by the time François came back.

  ‘Wel , old lobster, what did you discover?’ asked Bertie.

  ‘Not much,’ replied François, looking crestfal en. ‘I could see nothing of Pernod. I spoke to Mario and asked him if he knew of any blue writing, or of anything to do with Pernod. He said no, he knew of no such thing, but I do not trust the fel ow. He gave me a queer look when I mentioned blue writing. It is my opinion that he knows more than he says. I asked him if any strangers had been there, and he said no; but his woman told me that a stranger, a young Spanish sel er of onions had been in. That makes Mario a liar straight away. After that I went round the cafés trying to hear news of the English spy the people are talking about, but no one knows anything, except that the police have had orders to keep their mouths shut. That’s al .’

  ‘Thank you, mon vieux. Only one thing is clear. My friend the onion-sel er has read the writing on the wal , and he fol owed the clue to the Chez Rossi. I wonder where he went after that?’

  François shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I saw nothing of him.’

  Glancing through the little window Bertie saw that night had fal en. ‘I think I’l go and have a look round myself,’ he said. ‘It should be safe enough now it is dark.’

  ‘And you wil come back, milord?’

  Bertie picked up his guitar. ‘Perhaps—if I need a friend. Here, take this, and get some food, in case I come back hungry.’ As he spoke Bertie took out some money and passed it to the mechanic.

  François would have refused it, but Bertie insisted. ‘It is in the interest of everyone,’ he said. ‘ Au revoir, François. Au revoir, madame. ’

  ‘ Au revoir, monsieur. ’

  Bertie went out into the night.

  He walked along to the Quai de Plaisance, and in the light of his torch examined the writing to confirm that François had not overlooked anything. He was puzzled about the reference to the girl, but not seeing how she could fit into the scheme of things he dismissed her from his mind, and made his way, slowly, for he had sometimes to s
top and ask the direction, to the barrestaurant at the corner of the Escalier des Revoires. He went in, sat at a table and glanced around. There was perhaps a dozen customers, mostly at the bar, talking in low tones. A woman was serving. She came over to him.

  ‘ Monsieur? ’

  ‘The soup,’ ordered Bertie.

  ‘ Oui, monsieur. ’

  As the woman was turning away Bertie asked casual y, ‘Where is Mario to-night?’

  ‘He has had to go out for a little while on business,’ replied the woman, and went on to the kitchen, to return presently with the soup.

  Bertie ate it slowly, watching the people around him, but he could detect nothing suspicious in their actions. He had nearly finished, and was thinking of leaving, when he was startled by hearing shots in the distance. The other customers stopped talking to listen, and then, as there were more occasional shots, went to the door, guessing in quick excited voices what it might be.

  ‘I should say,’ said one, ‘they have at last tracked down the Englishman.’

  Nobody disputed this, and as the subject was not pursued, Bertie went out. But instead of leaving the district he turned in the bottom of the escalier from where he could see the front and side entrances of the restaurant—practical y the same spot on which Ginger had stood only a short time before.

  There was no more shooting, and soon afterwards the men went back into the bar. Bertie moved deep into shadow and leaned against a wal . He was not expecting anything unusual to happen, and his chief reason for remaining was, he thought he might as wel , for he had nowhere else to go unless he returned to François.

  Five minutes passed. Then he heard swift footsteps approaching, and a second later a man turned the corner. He went straight to the side entrance of the Chez Rossi. For a moment or two while he stood there, one foot on the step, listening, the light from the kitchen window il uminated a dark, swarthy face. He was breathing heavily, and his nostrils were quivering, dilated, as though with excitement. Then he went in, closing the door behind him.