29 Biggles Fails to Return

by Captain W E Johns

  him.

  Bertie guessed that the new arrival was Mario Rossi, and the man’s obvious agitation so aroused his curiosity that he went over to the kitchen window in the hope of learning the explanation. There was a muslin blind drawn over the lower part of the window, but this did not prevent him from getting a fairly clear view of the interior of the lighted room. The man whom he assumed to be Mario was there, and his actions were now even more sinister than they had been outside.

  First, he took from his pocket a red-stained handkerchief and threw it into the stove. Then, going quickly to the sink, he rinsed his hands, and Bertie noticed that the water which fel from them was also red. This done, he wiped his hands on a towel, examined his clothes for some reason that was not apparent, put on an apron, and lit a cigarette with hands that trembled so violently that he had difficulty in making match and cigarette meet. For a few seconds he drew at the cigarette in short, nervous whiffs, but this evidently did little to steady his nerves, for, crossing to a cupboard, he took down a bottle and helped himself to a generous drink.

  He had just replaced the bottle when the woman who had been serving in the bar came in. Bertie could not hear what was said, but the woman’s face expressed surprise. The man said something, and turning on his heel, opened a door and disappeared up a narrow flight of stairs. The woman fil ed some plates with soup and went back into the restaurant.

  Bertie stood back, trying to work out what al this meant. From what he had seen, there was good reason to suppose that something unpleasant had happened. He felt certain that the stains on Mario’s handkerchief and hands were blood. The question was, whose blood? He remembered what François had said about the man being a member of the notorious Italian secret society, the Camorra, and he knew that the methods of the Camorra were deadly, that the usual weapon was the stiletto*7; but even so, he found it hard to believe that the man could just have committed a murder. Such things rarely happen. Yet, reflected Bertie, Mario’s manner certainly suggested that something of the sort had happened.

  He hung about for a bit, and then, as there was no development, without any definite object in view he development, without any definite object in view he strol ed down towards the town. Somewhat to his surprise he met François coming up, and his surprise turned to alarm when François grabbed him by the arm and he saw the expression on his face. It was clear that the old mechanic was the bearer of hot news, and his first words conveyed the extent of its importance.

  ‘ Mon Dieu! Praise the saints that I have found you.’

  ‘What has happened?’ asked Bertie tersely.

  ‘Haven’t you heard?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘There has been a murder, a stabbing.’

  ‘What of it? I didn’t do it.’

  ‘No, but your friend did.’

  ‘What!’ Bertie’s voice was brittle with incredulity.

  ‘Ridiculous!’

  François shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But this is certain.

  Al the police in the town—and there are many—are hunting for the young Spanish sel er of onions. He was in the room with the body—they saw him leave.’

  ‘Whose body?’

  François looked furtively to left and right. ‘The body of Gaspard Zabani, of the Vil a Valdora.’

  Chapter 6

  Strange Encounters

  There was a short silence during which Bertie stood and stared blankly at his informant.

  ‘I stil say it’s nonsense,’ he declared. ‘We don’t carry daggers.’

  François threw out his hands appealingly. ‘But, milord, the police find onions under the window by which the assassin entered. I tel you the police are turning the principality inside out in their search for him. And, what is more, there is a rumour going round that these onions are not Spanish, but English onions.’

  Bertie tried to get the thing in line. ‘How did you hear of this?’

  ‘’Cre Dieu! Everyone knows. First there was the shooting.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that,’ admitted Bertie.

  ‘That was the police shooting at the assassin as he ran. Afterwards I stand in a doorway and listen to some police talking. They say that there was no reason for a Spaniard to kil Zabani, but plenty of reason why an Englishman should. Zabani, when he saw death coming, knocked over the telephone, and with his last breath cal ed the police. They came at once, while the assassin was stil there. He ran. They fired— bang—bang! They wounded him.’

  Bertie felt his muscles contract. ‘Wounded him?’

  he echoed, aghast.

  ‘Yes. He fel , but ran on, leaving a trail of blood.

  Voila! The blood leads down an escalier, but stops suddenly in the Place d’Armes. There the police lost track of him, but they think he is stil in La Condamine. There was much blood. He could not get far, they say.’

  ‘By Jove! This is awful,’ muttered Bertie. His brain was whirling.

  ‘Zabani was one of the richest men in the principality,’ offered François.

  Bertie did not answer. He wanted to think. He realized that it was quite on the boards that Ginger might have gone to the house of the man who had betrayed the princess. Could he have kil ed Zabani in self-defence?

  François’ next words swept the suspicion aside. ‘It was a crime of revenge,’ said he.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  François pul ed Bertie’s head forward and breathed in his ear. ‘It was the knife of a Camorrista.

  The dagger carried the usual sign, a letter C, on a piece of paper.’

  ‘My God!’ whispered Bertie, suddenly seeing daylight. In the shock of François’ information he had forgotten Mario.

  ‘Was your friend of the Camorra?’ asked François nervously.

  ‘No,’ snapped Bertie.

  ‘Pardon, milord.’

  ‘François,’ said Bertie in a hard voice, ‘did you tel me that Mario Rossi was a Camorrista?’

  ‘But yes—so they say.’

  ‘He kil ed Zabani.’

  ‘How could you know this, milord, when you did not even know there had been a kil ing?’

  ‘Listen! A few minutes ago Mario came running back to the restaurant, to the side entrance.

  Watching through the window, I saw him wash blood from his hands. His handkerchief, also bloodstained, he threw in the fire.’

  François whistled softly through his teeth. ‘ Tiens!

  The affair becomes fantastique.’

  ‘No,’ denied Bertie. ‘I begin to see the way of it.

  Attendez*1! My friend, the one whom you cal the British spy, must have known something of this man Mario, which is why he wrote the name of the restaurant on the wal of the Quai de Plaisance.

  There is another link between my friend and this man Zabani. My other friend, the onion sel er, is also concerned.’ Bertie broke off. The fact was, he felt that he held the pieces of a jigsaw which, could he but fit them together, would present a complete picture and so solve his problem. ‘I must find the onion sel er,’ he decided.

  François threw up his hands. ‘ Comment?*2 If the police cannot find him, how can you hope to do so?

  He has gone into hiding, no doubt—but where?’

  Bertie saw the sense of François’ argument. It was not much use walking about the streets of Monaco without a clue of any sort, trying to find Ginger.

  ‘There is one thing I can do,’ he predicted.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘See Mario Rossi.’

  ‘Name of a dog! Are you mad, milord? If he has done one murder he wil do another. These Camorrista, they use a dagger like we use a toothpick.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I wil go,’ asserted Bertie. ‘Time presses, and I am no use at guessing. Perhaps I can make Mario talk.’

  ‘It is more likely, I think, that he wil cut your throat.’

  ‘Listen, mon ami*3,’ went on Bertie. ‘For the time being you go your own way. Gather what news you can of this affair. If al goes wel with me you wil see me to-morrow on
the Quai de Plaisance.’

  ‘Very wel , milord. It was always said that you were mad. Now I believe it, too. Adieu*4.’

  ‘ Au revoir, and thanks for your help. One day, when the world becomes sane again, we wil laugh over this affair.’

  With a wave Bertie turned away and walked back to the Chez Rossi. He went straight to the side of the building and peered through the window into the kitchen. Mario was there, in an apron and white chef’s cap, cooking something over the stove.

  Bertie opened the door and went in. The Italian heard the movement and whirled round. His eyebrows went up. ‘You have come to the wrong entrance,’ said he, speaking in French. ‘The bar is at the front of the house.’

  Bertie smiled, and answered in the same language. ‘No, I have come to the right entrance. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I have no money for beggars.’

  ‘I am not looking for money.’

  ‘Then what are you looking for?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘You can help me,’ said Bertie distinctly, ‘by tel ing me why you kil ed Gaspard Zabani.’

  Mario, who had half turned back to his stove, spun round as though he had been stung. ‘Kil who?’ he demanded in a thin, hard voice. ‘I never kil ed a man in my life.’

  Bertie stroked the strings of his guitar. ‘Oh, yes, you have, my friend. You kil ed Zabani to-night. For that swine I don’t care a broken guitar string. Al I want to know is why you did it, because that may help me to find my friend.’

  For nearly a minute the Italian stared at Bertie, his face distorted with passion. ‘I tel you I know nothing of any murder,’ he grated. ‘Who are you—the secret police?’

  Bertie shook his head. ‘No. The police are looking for a young Spanish sel er of onions. They think he kil ed Zabani, but I know better.’

  Mario drew a deep breath that might have meant relief. ‘I have seen this Spaniard,’ he asserted. ‘He came here for lunch.’

  ‘Was that al ?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘What did he drink with lunch—Pernod?’

  Bertie knew, from the nervous twitch of the man’s nostrils, that his shot had found its mark.

  ‘No, he did not drink Pernod,’ spat Mario spiteful y.

  As he spoke his eyes flashed for an instant to the side of the room.

  The unconscious movement had not been lost on Bertie, who was watching the man closely. His eyes went to the spot, and he saw, near the floor, half pushed behind a cupboard, what was evidently a show-card. One half only was visible, but it was enough to tel him what it was, for the standard advertisement for Pernod is on every hoarding in France.

  ‘You are not a good liar, Mario,’ he said coldly, and walked over to the card. He stooped to pick it up. As his fingers closed over it the world seemed to explode inside his head in a sheet of orange flame, and he knew that Mario had struck him. The flame faded slowly to purple, and then to black. He pitched forward on his face and lay stil .

  Chapter 7

  Good Samaritans

  When Bertie opened his eyes the flickering fingers of another day were sweeping upward from the eastern horizon to shed a mysterious light on the ancient Principality of Monaco. Somewhere near at hand palm fronds began to stir, rustling among themselves.

  For a little while he lay stil , trying to remember what had happened. With an effort he sat up, only to bury his face in his hands in a vain attempt to steady the throbbing in his head. Slowly, as ful consciousness returned, and with it the memory of the blow that had struck him down, he looked about him, and saw that he was on a landing half-way down a steep flight of stone steps. On one side a cliff rose sheer. In it there was a little niche occupied by the statue of a saint, surrounded by tinsel and artificial flowers. On the other side a gorge fel sheer for two hundred feet to a tiny church that had been built in the bottom. He recognized it instantly, and knew that he was on the Escalier Ste. Dévote. How he had got there he did not know, but he supposed that Mario, after striking him down, had either carried him or thrown him there, perhaps imagining that he was dead. His head ached, and he felt bruised in several places, but as far as he could discover he had suffered no serious injury. The guitar lay beside him.

  A woman came hurrying down the steps with a bowl of water and a towel.

  ‘Poor man,’ she said. ‘I saw you from my window above. They are dangerous, those steps; you were lucky you did not go right over into the gorge.

  Doubtless the good Sainte Dévote saved you—al praise to her.’

  ‘Doubtless,’ murmured Bertie.

  The woman bathed his head where the hair was wet and sticky. ‘The least you can do after this escape is to offer a candle or two in our little church of Ste. Dévote,’ she suggested.

  ‘Candles shal indeed be lighted,’ returned Bertie fervently, beginning to suspect that Mario had intended he should go into the gorge, in which case every bone in his body must have been broken.

  ‘There,’ said the woman. ‘I don’t think your skul is

  cracked, but if I were you I would rest for a little while.’

  ‘A thousand thanks, madame,’ answered Bertie, pul ing himself to his feet. For a moment or two everything spun round him, but then steadied itself.

  ‘Yes, I think I am al right,’ he went on. ‘I wil rest on a seat on the Quai de Plaisance. I shal remember you, madame, in my gratitude.’

  ‘A woman can do no less,’ was the pious response. ‘My little son fel in just the same way not long ago, and had it not been for Our Lady he must have been kil ed. Don’t forget to give thanks.’

  ‘You may be sure I shal not forget,’ answered Bertie earnestly. ‘My compliments to your husband, who is a lucky man to have a wife so sympathetic.’

  The woman smiled. ‘I must get back to my kitchen.

  Adieu, monsieur. ’

  ‘ Adieu, madame, and thank you.’

  The woman flung the bloodstained water in her bowl into the gorge and went off up the steps. Bertie, with his guitar under his arm, went down, and turned to where the little church faced across the harbour. A black-robed priest was just opening the doors.

  ‘ Mon père*’, said Bertie, taking a hundred-franc note from his pocket, ‘this morning I had a fal on the escalier above, and nearly lost my life. It is my desire to buy two large candles as a thank-you offering.’

  The priest smiled. ‘Come in, my son. You look pale. Are you hurt?’

  ‘Not much,’ answered Bertie.

  ‘Nevertheless, perhaps a smal glass of cordial would help to restore the life which our Sainte Dévote undoubtedly saved.’

  ‘I think that would be a very good idea, father,’

  agreed Bertie, who was more shaken than he was prepared to admit.

  Ten minutes later, in broad daylight, feeling wel enough to be angry with the man who had struck him down, he crossed the road and made his way along the Quai de Plaisance. It was deserted except for a young girl dressed in the sombre habit of the true Monégasque. When he first saw her she was strol ing up and down as though waiting for someone, but when she noticed him, without altering her gait she began at once to move towards him—or so it seemed to Bertie, although he did not think this could real y be the case.

  Reaching the seat for which he had been making, he sat down to wait for Algy, or possibly Ginger. It was time, he decided, to discuss things with them.

  He wasn’t even thinking about the girl, but he glanced up at her as she drew level. To his amazement—for the girls of Monaco are celebrated for their modesty—she made a movement with her head that said as plainly as words that she wanted him to fol ow her. Had it not been for the faint flush that rose to her olive cheeks as she did this he would have ignored the signal, thinking that he had been mistaken. As it was, he half rose, and then, embarrassed, sank down again.

  The girl strol ed back, passed him, meeting his eyes squarely. She turned again, now walking back towards the Condamin
e. As she passed the bench she said quietly but distinctly, in English, ‘Please fol ow me, monsieur, but do not speak. Eyes may be watching.’

  She walked on, more quickly now, without once looking back.

  Bertie, not a little surprised, picked up his guitar and fol owed. Straight along the avenue of oleander trees that fringes the Boulevard Albert, where policemen stood at intervals, walked the girl in black, with Bertie at a reasonable distance behind. She crossed the Place d’Armes, where more police were standing near some ugly stains on the ground, and took the long ramp that leads from the harbour to the top of the rock on which the old vil age of Monaco has sat in the sun for two thousand years or more.

  Reaching the top, she crossed the front of the palace and turned into a narrow street where tal stone houses threw a welcome shade.

  When Bertie reached the entrance she was standing at the doorway of a private house. With a slight inclination of her head she disappeared.

  Reaching the spot, Bertie looked with suspicion into a hal so dark that for a moment he could see nothing. Was this, he wondered, a trap? Then he made out a pale oval face just inside.

  ‘Enter, monsieur,’ said a soft, sweet voice. ‘A friend awaits you.’ Bertie went in and the girl closed the door.

  ‘This way, monsieur,’ she said, and ascended a flight of stairs. A door was opened, al owing bars of white sunlight to blaze across the corridor. Bertie

  stepped forward and looked into the room. In a high four-poster bed, his face nearly as pale as the counterpane, but smiling, lay Ginger.

  ‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Bertie.

  Ginger’s smile broadened. ‘Come in,’ he invited.

  A voice at Bertie’s elbow said quietly, ‘The patient is a little weak from loss of blood, that’s al . He wanted to get up, but we thought it better that he should rest for a while. You wil be quite safe here, monsieur.’ The girl went out and closed the door.