29 Biggles Fails to Return

by Captain W E Johns

  ‘Isn’t she a wizard?’ were Ginger’s first words, rich with enthusiasm.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jeanette.’

  ‘Just a minute, old boy,’ protested Bertie. ‘What is this? Where are we? What’s going on?’

  Ginger raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t know whose house you’re in?’

  Bertie sat on the edge of the bed. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘I thought Jeanette would tel you. I asked her to go to the Quai de Plaisance to see if you were there—a thin bloke with a guitar.’

  ‘But who is this damsel?’ demanded Bertie.

  ‘But who is this damsel?’ demanded Bertie.

  ‘Jeanette Ducoste—Henri’s sister. He cal ed her his little sister, but I reckon she’s grown a bit since he went off to the war. This is number six, Rue Marinière.’

  Bertie exploded. ‘Wel , I’m dashed! How did you get here?’

  ‘That,’ answered Ginger, ‘is a longish story. I did a spot of housebreaking and got plugged in the leg—

  I’m al right now, though; just a bit weak, that’s al . I thought it was about time we compared notes.’

  ‘I’ve got a few things to tel you, my lad,’ declared Bertie. ‘I’m not so bright myself. An Italian waiter wal oped me on the boko last night, and the old skul stil rocks a bit.’

  Before Ginger could answer there came a sharp knock on the door below. Up the stairs came the sound of voices. A moment later the bedroom door was opened quietly and Jeanette entered. Her face was pale.

  ‘What is it, Jeanette?’ asked Ginger quickly.

  Jeanette moistened her lips. ‘It is the police,’ she whispered. ‘Mama is talking to them at the door.’

  Chapter 8

  Jock’s Bar

  When Algy had elected to go to Nice he knew that he had a long walk ahead of him; it seemed a good twelve miles. One thing in his favour was the gradient, which, between La Turbie and Nice, drops nearly two thousand feet to sea level. Even so, it was a weary walk. Some of the views were magnificent even in the moonlight, the sea on one hand and mountain peaks on the other, but with the fate of Biggles weighing heavily on his mind he was in no mood to appreciate them. He was relieved when, at last, at a bend of the road, after tramping for about three hours, he saw the wide panorama of Nice, the Brighton of the Riviera, before him.

  During the entire journey he saw only four persons, and al were police. His role was wel tested. First he ran into a poste. Two men were on duty. They accepted his story of being a repatriated French soldier, bound for Nice, and al owed him to pass.

  Then he was stopped by a patrol of two more police.

  Much the same thing happened. He produced the papers provided by Air Commodore Raymond, and after a short examination was permitted to proceed.

  From these experiences he observed that the police were on the alert, more so than normal circumstances seemed to warrant. He suspected that the extra vigilance was the result of the Biggles affair.

  By the time he had descended the long hil leading down to the town, lights were beginning to appear, and a few early risers were moving about the streets.

  From the clock on the casino in the Place Massena he learned that it was half-past four. There was nothing he could do in the dark, so, turning up his col ar, he found a seat in the public gardens opposite the jetty, and managed to get in a nap. He was awakened by the cal s of a boy sel ing newspapers.

  He turned down his col ar, shook himself, and walked to the sea-wal , where began the famous Promenade des Anglais, a splendid esplanade stretching for several miles. He had no idea where Jock’s Bar was situated, or who Jock was, or whether the bar was open. He soon discovered that there were cafés and sun-bathing establishments at intervals al along the promenade. These premises, local y cal ed bars, were not actual y on the promenade, but under it, being approached by steps leading down to the beach. The name of each bar was advertised by a painted sign. Looking down over the railings at the first one, which carried the name Ruhl Plage, he saw that it was not so much a bar as a bathing beach; not that it mattered, because the shutters were up and the place was obviously closed, presumably for the duration of the war. The beach was deserted. It was the same with the second, and the third, which turned out to be his objective, the notice ‘Jock’s Bar’ being prominently displayed in sun-faded letters. Walking down the stone steps that led to the beach and the café, he saw that the place, like the rest, was shuttered. Not only was it closed, but high seas during the preceeding winter had flung tons of shingle over what had evidently been a concrete sun-bathing

  ‘apron’, and against the door. In fact, stones were piled along the whole front; some of them had been hurled so high and with such force by the waves, that the shutters were broken. It was obviously an ideal place for the purpose for which Biggles had proposed to use it, because, in the first instance, few people would be likely to pass along the front of it, and secondly, there were plenty of convenient places on which to write.

  Algy made his way slowly along the frontage. As he walked he scrutinized the wal and the boarding for writing; at the same time he kept one eye, so to speak, on the railings above, in case any person looking down from the promenade should see him and wonder what he was doing.

  Almost at once he came upon what he hoped to find—writing in blue pencil. There was good reason to suppose that it would be there, yet the sight of it made his nerves tingle with shock, perhaps because it was a definite link with Biggles. But as his eyes fastened on the writing he experienced a pang of disappointment. The message was brief—too brief to be of much use. It merely said VILLA V. This was fol owed by a swastika and this, in turn, by a blue triangle. There was nothing to indicate when the message had been written, although its purport was clear. Vil a V obviously referred to the Vil a Valdora.

  The swastika meant that it was occupied by the enemy. The triangle was, of course, Biggles’

  signature. With sinking hopes Algy realized that the message must have been written before the attempted escape from the Californie landing ground.

  Satisfied that there was nothing more to be learned, he was about to retrace his steps when he saw something that at once held his attention. It was an ugly, dark-coloured smear, roughly the shape of a man’s hand, on the sea-wal . It seemed to attract innumerable flies. A little farther along, just below a fracture in the shutter, there was a similar mark.

  Between them there were dark spots on the ground.

  Algy stood stil , everything else forgotten. He did not stop to reason out how he knew, but he was sure that the marks were bloodstains. He could think of nothing else that would cause the same marks—

  unless they had been made deliberately by a practical joker. He walked nearer to the shutter, and saw another stain on the edge of the woodwork.

  With his heart thumping with excitement he went right up to the shutter and pushed the broken slats aside, making a gap wide enough for a man to enter. He looked in. It was like looking into a vault. Al enter. He looked in. It was like looking into a vault. Al he could see was a dark-grey concrete chamber backed by a row of doors bearing numbers, evidently bathing cabins. In the dim light it al looked grim, cold and damp. Just inside lay what looked like a bloodstained piece of rag.

  Algy climbed through. He did not know precisely what he was going to do; he had not thought as far ahead as that; but every instinct urged him on, and he knew that he could not go away without exploring the place. One thing was certain. A wounded man had been there. There was no proof that it was Biggles, but since he had named the place as a rendezvous, there was a chance that it might be.

  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.

  ‘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 identity papers and passed 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,’ asserted 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’s legs from under him. The man fel , dropping his bâton. Algy snatched 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 bâton, snatched 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 passes 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 Corniche, 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 fishing 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 café 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. 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. He went into the café.’

  Chapter 9

  The Girl in the Blue Shawl

  Algy waited for no more. Whether the 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.

  He found himself in a kitchen where a man and a woman were seated at a table, eating.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Algy, and passed 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.’ 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 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.