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 passed heavy lorries, and not a few gendarmes 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 masses 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 Principality of Monaco, he had the anxious experience of sitting talking to the driver while two gendarmes, one Monégasque and one French, searched the back of the vehicle before al owing it to pass.
‘They seem pretty strict al of a sudden,’
suggested Algy to his companion, fishing 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*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*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 passed—one hour, two hours . . . he lost count. Nobody came. Not a soul. The moon rose over the mountains, and stil nobody 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 wishing 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. 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 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 cuisine was a little more comprehensive, but not much. It might refer to some particular kitchen, or a place of good cooking. But 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’ aidez,’
meaning ‘help me,’ is the international distress signal of aircraft in grave danger and in need of assistance. 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 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.’
Algy did not press the question. ‘I am a stranger in these parts,’ he explained. ‘Tel me, does the word Castil on mean anything to you?’
The man considered the matter. ‘It may—and it may not,’ he replied.
Algy perceived that he was not likely to learn much from this churlish fel ow. He had one last try.
‘Is it a place—a vil age, perhaps?’
‘It was,’ replied the man. ‘Are you thinking of going there?’
‘Yes.’
The man laughed. ‘The cats wil be pleased to see you,’ he observed.
‘Cats?’ Algy began to think he was dealing with a madman. ‘Is this a vil age of cats?’ he queried.
The man nodded. He seemed to be enjoying a private joke. ‘That’s right—a vil age of cats. The cats eat the birds. You wil be able to eat the cats.’
Roaring with laughter the man turned towards a motor boat that was tied up to the quay.
Algy took a last look round. Then, deep in thought, he walked slowly up the steps of the Escalier du Port. Looking back from the top he could see no sign of Bertie or Ginger. Only a young girl in black was walking along the Quai de Plaisance.
Chapter 10
Shattering News
When Bertie and Ginger, in the bedroom at Number 6, Rue Marinière, heard the police at the door, they assumed, natural y, that they had been traced. Had there been any way of escape it is likely that Bertie would have taken it, but hastening to the window he found himself gazing down for a hundred feet or more on to a pile of jagged rocks. Definitely, there was no escape that way. Indeed, it seemed that there was nothing they could do.
Ginger’s first thought was for Jeanette and her mother, who had taken him in and befriended him, for it seemed likely that if al eged spies were discovered on the premises they would find themselves facing a firing party as accessories.
‘I’m sorry about this, Jeanette,’ he said bitterly, taking her hand. ‘I should not have come here. Nor should I have asked you to find my friend and bring him here.’
‘You did quite right to come here, monsieur,’ said Jeanette softly.
During this brief interval voices could be heard at the door, but the actual words could not be distinguished. The voices ended abruptly. A door was closed. Footsteps could be heard slowly ascending the stairs. Jeanette ran to the corridor, looked out and came back.
‘It is Mama,’ she said. ‘The police have gone.’
Ginger could hardly believe his ears. He had quite made up his mind that the house was about to be searched.
Madame Ducoste came slowly into the room.
Nobody spoke. Al eyes were on her face, which was as pale as death.
‘ Messieurs,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It is tragic news.’
‘You mean—they know I came here?’ said Ginger.
‘No. The visit had nothing to do with you. It concerned Henri.’
‘Henri?’ cried Bertie, incredulously.
‘ Oui, monsieur. He has been caught. It seems that the night before last he flew to these parts, doubtless to look again on his home; but in returning his engine failed, and he crashed.’
Algy glanced at Bertie. ‘Where did this happen, madame?’
‘Just beyond Peil e. Between Peil e and Baudon.’
‘Was he hurt?’
‘Yes, but not badly. His head was cut, and for a time he was unconscious. They carried him to Peil e, where a doctor attended him, and where he wil remain until he is wel enough for the police to take him to Nice.’
‘And then, madame?’
‘He wil be tried as a traitor.’
‘This is what the police told you?’
‘ Oui, monsieur. They came to inform me official y of his arrest, and to ask me if he had been here.’
‘You told them no?’
‘I told them the truth. He has not been here.’
‘Yes, we know that, madame,’ said Ginger quietly.
‘You know? How do you know this?’
‘Because we know the errand that brought him here. It was he who brought us to Monaco. His engine must have gone wrong soon after he started back for England. I’m sorry now that I did not tel you this before, but it seemed cruel to burden you with anxiety. I thought it was better that you should not know that it was he who brought us here in case by any chance you were questioned by the police. Then you could tel the truth, saying that you knew nothing of him.’ Ginger looked at Bertie. ‘I told madame that we knew Henri as a pilot of the Fighting French,’ he explained. ‘I did not tel her that he brought us here.’
Madame Ducoste sank into a chair, tragedy written on her face. ‘They wil shoot Henri,’ she said in a dul voice.
Bertie spoke. ‘Do you know where he is, in Peil e, madame?’
‘In the sanitorium.’
‘Is there a guard?’
‘A gendarme remains always with him.’
Bertie looked at Ginger. ‘I’ve been to this place, Peil e. It’s about six miles from La Turbie, as the crow flies, at the far end of the val ey in which we landed. It sits on a ledge, in the mountains. The sanitorium is just this side of the vil age.’ To madame he said, putting his hand on her shoulder,
‘Don’t give up hope. There is stil time for us to do something.’ Ginger had never seen him so serious.
‘But what can you do?’ asked Madame Ducoste, helplessly.
‘Leave the matter in our hands,’ answered Bertie.
‘It is rash to make promises, but we do
not desert our friends.’
‘I am sure of that,’ breathed Jeanette.
‘Confound this wound in my leg . . .’ began Ginger.
‘How long is it going to take to get right?’ asked Bertie.
‘I think I could get about,’ returned Ginger. ‘I’m a bit weak, that’s al . It was madame’s suggestion that I should rest for a day or two, and until this happened I was prepared to take her advice.’
‘I wil make some soup,’ said madame, and went down to the kitchen.
‘You had better go down, too, mademoiselle,’
suggested Bertie. ‘We would like to talk things over.’
Jeanette’s eyes smiled at Ginger, and she fol owed her mother down the stairs.
‘Now that’s my idea of a girl,’ declared Ginger. ‘I’m absolutely crazy about her. She’s the most marvel ous thing. . . .’
‘Here, I say, just a minute, old boy,’ reproved Bertie. ‘Keep your hand on the jol y old throttle or you’l be out of control before you know where you are. Things are complicated enough as it is; if you’re are. Things are complicated enough as it is; if you’re going to start ordering bouquets and writing poetry. . . .’
‘Okay—okay,’ broke in Ginger. ‘She speaks English jol y wel , too. Before the war madame used to let apartments to English visitors.’
Bertie took out his monocle and turned a cold eye on his companion. ‘I don’t care if she speaks Greek, Arabic, Hindustani and Urdu. Is this a romance or a rescue? What I’m waiting to hear is, how did you come to get in this mess?’
In a few words Ginger told him what had happened. ‘I don’t know where this waiter Mario comes in,’ he concluded, ‘but he’s in the party.
Biggles must have gone to the Chez Rossi. Mario, of the Chez Rossi, kil s the man who double-crossed the princess. That isn’t coincidence. I fol owed him to the Vil a Valdora and got landed with the murder. I was al in when I got here, and passed out on the floor. Jeanette and her mother were marvel ous. . . .’
‘You’ve said that before.’
‘I shal probably say it again,’ declared Ginger.
‘They looked after me as if I was their own son.
When I came round I told them as much as I dare—
29 Biggles Fails to Return Page 9