said I was an Englishman looking for a friend who had got stuck down here. I didn’t say anything about Henri flying us down for reasons which you heard me explain. Anyway, if I had, one thing would have led to another, and I didn’t want to say too much. Natural y, I wanted to let you know what had happened, so I asked Jeanette to go down to the Quai de Plaisance to look for a bloke with a guitar. She found you and brought you along. What have you been doing?’
Ginger’s face was a picture while Bertie told his story, which, of course, explained the mystery of his being fol owed by the boatman, François. ‘There’s no doubt that it was Mario who stuck the stiletto into Zabani,’ continued Bertie. ‘As you say, somehow he is mixed up in this; the way he hid the Pernod card and bumped me on the boko when I tried to have a dekko at it proves that. He’s a nasty piece of work.
I’l resume the argument with him when I have time.
Meanwhile, this is a bad business about Henri. Even if we could get him away it looks as though we’re stuck on the Riviera for the duration.’
‘Looks like it,’ agreed Ginger moodily. ‘We don’t seem to have done much towards settling the mystery of Biggles either. We stil don’t know whether he’s dead or alive. I wonder what Algy’s up to? You say he went to Nice?’
‘That was the idea.’
‘Then al I can think is there must have been some writing on the wal at Jock’s Bar to keep him there, or he would have been back by now.’
While he was speaking Jeanette came back into the room with a tray. She glanced at Ginger. ‘Did I hear you speak about writing on a wal , monsieur?’
she inquired.
‘Why, yes, mademoiselle,’ replied Bertie, looking surprised. ‘Do you know anything about it?’
‘Only that I have seen writing on a wal .’
‘Where?’
‘By the Quai de Plaisance.’
Ginger flashed a glance at Bertie, then looked back at Jeanette. ‘When?’
‘This morning, when I wait for monsieur of the guitar.’
Bertie turned to Ginger. ‘Did you say anything to Jeanette about the writing on the wal ?’
‘Not a word,’ declared Ginger. ‘Tel me, Jeanette, what did you see?’
Jeanette shrugged a shoulder. ‘I saw writing.’
‘But how? I mean—did you know it was there?’
‘But no. What happens was this,’ explained Jeanette. ‘As I walk down the hil this morning at the early hour to seek monsieur of the guitar—’
‘Cal him Bertie—it’s shorter.’
‘ Oui, monsieur. As I go to find Bertie I see a girl with a shawl blue. She does something to the wal . I think, what can a girl do so early with a wal , so as I walk I watch. A man, he comes. He goes near.
Voila! Mademoisel e of the shawl blue runs up the Escalier du Port. Monsieur, he runs to the place where she does something to the wal . He is agitated. He runs up the escalier. He runs back, tout de suite*1. He speaks with Monsieur Budette, he of the one eye. Monsieur Budette, he goes home. What is this, I think. Everyone is going somewhere. While I wait for monsieur Bertie I go to the wal to see what happens that makes everyone run. I see writing.
C’est tout*2.’
‘In blue pencil?’
‘But yes. How did you know?’
‘And it said, “Chez Rossi. Pernod.”’
‘But no.’
Ginger stared. ‘But yes! I saw it myself.’
‘Then you do not see what I see,’ returned Jeanette definitely. ‘First, there is a place where someone has wrote. It is covered with much scribbling. Then there is writing. It says—’ Jeanette wrinkled her forehead in an effort to remember. ‘Oh, yes. It says: Castil on. Au bon cuisine. Then there is a word I do not know. The day of May. No, May Day.’
Ginger stared. ‘Wait a minute,’ he said slowly.
‘Are you sure of this?’
‘But certainly.’
Ginger turned an amazed face to Bertie. ‘Now, what do you make of that?’
‘Looks as though fresh writing has been put on the wal since we were there.’ Bertie turned to Jeanette.
‘This girl in the blue shawl—have you seen her before?’
‘I am so far away I do not know, but I think no.’
‘Was there a mark after the writing—a triangle?’
‘I see no triangles.’
‘And the man who ran up the steps—what did he look like?’
‘Ah, I see him closer.’ Jeanette gave a brief description.
‘Algy, by thunder!’ cried Ginger. ‘He must have been on the spot, probably waiting for us, and actual y saw the girl writing. I wonder where he went?’
Jeanette smiled. ‘He has gone, monsieur, to Castil on.’
‘You spoke to him?’
‘ Non—I do not speak with strange men.’
‘Then how do you know where he went?’
‘I told you he speaks to Monsieur Budette, he who watches always the little boat that belongs once to his English milord. I, too, speak with Monsieur Budette. He has a joke the most comical. A man, he says, has asked him the way to Castil on.’
‘That’s the name you said was written on the wal .’
‘Of course.’
‘What is this word, Castil on?’
‘Castil on is a vil age, monsieur. That is what is so drol .’ Jeanette smiled again.
‘What’s funny about it?’
‘No one is there, except cats, and, it is said, the ghosts.’
‘Jeanette, please be serious,’ pleaded Ginger.
‘This is very important.’
‘Pardon, monsieur, but I speak the truth.’
‘Tel me about Castil on.’
‘It is a vil age deserted, monsieur, in the mountains behind Mentone, fifteen kilometres, perhaps, from Monaco. I walk there once, with my brother Henri, for a pique-nique*3. It sits in a col—
how you say? A gorge of the most steep, like a cut in the mountains. It is, to look at, like a heap of grey bones. You see, monsieur, one day long ago, when my father is a young man, there is an earthquake, and many of the houses fal down. The people are so afraid they run, they run al the time; they do not stop running until they come to Mentone. They do not go back—never. So the vil age it remains as it was left.
Only the cats stay, many cats, which makes it the more desolate. That is why Monsieur Budette thinks it is a great joke for a man to go there.’
‘Thank you, Jeanette.’ Ginger looked at Bertie.
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. If the message is to be believed, someone is in need of help at this quaint vil age. It might be Biggles.’
‘But who is this girl in the blue shawl?’
‘How do I know? We’l find out. Let’s get along.
Algy is already on the way.’
‘But you’re in no case to go climbing about mountains.’
‘There must be a path. Is there a path, Jeanette?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
Bertie broke in. ‘But you’re not fit enough—’
‘I’m feeling fine,’ declared Ginger. ‘A bit weak, that’s al . I can’t lie here with al this going on.’
‘What about Henri?’
‘We shal have to do something about that, too.’
‘Your soup wil be cold, messieurs,’ reminded Jeanette.
‘Al right. We’l eat it and talk things over. You’d better go back to your mother, Jeanette.’
‘If you say, monsieur. ’ Jeanette went out.
‘Now let’s try to fix a definite plan,’ went on Ginger.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘We’ve got two angles to cover. First, someone ought to fol ow Algy to Castil on, to make contact with him and let him know what has happened here, and to find out what he knows. Two, someone wil have to go to Peil e to rescue Henri.’
‘That sounds a tal order.’
‘We can’t just abandon him.’
‘No, by Jove, that’s right enough,’ agreed Bertie.
assuming he’s there. Tel him about Henri, and say I’ve gone to Peil e in the hope of getting him out.
When I’ve got him I’l join you at Castil on. If for any reason you have to leave the place, come back to the Quai de Plaisance. We’d better keep that the permanent rendezvous.’
‘That’s al right, but do you think you can manage to get to Peil e?’
‘I’m jol y wel going to try it. After al , Henri is Jeanette’s brother.’
Bertie finished his soup and put his eyeglass in his pocket. ‘And you’re the bold Sir Galahad? Wel , don’t let this damsel-in-distress stuff—’
‘What are you talking about?’ broke in Ginger angrily. ‘I should have gone after Henri, anyway.’
‘Of course—of course—absolutely, old boy.’
Bertie rose and picked up his guitar. ‘Wel , if you’re satisfied with the arrangement I’l toddle along and visit the cats of Castil on. I’l give you one tip. You can trust François Budette. If things get real y hot, go to him for advice. Tel him who you are, and al that sort of thing. If for any reason I don’t show up again, go to him. At a pinch I may be able to get a message through to him.’
‘Good enough,’ agreed Ginger.
Bertie put what was left of the bread in his pocket and went to the door. ‘Don’t let those dark eyes of young Jeanette take you too far off your course—if you get my meaning,’ he advised.
‘You go to—Castil on,’ snarled Ginger.
Bertie chuckled and departed on his mission.
As soon as he had gone Ginger got out of bed and started to dress. His leg was stiff, and he had a moment of giddiness that made him clutch the bedpost; but the spasm soon passed, and apart from a feeling of lassitude, which he put down to loss of blood, he felt fairly normal. When Jeanette came up a few minutes later to col ect the dishes she found him ful y dressed.
She uttered a cry of surprise. ‘Why this you do, monsieur?’ she scolded.
‘Because mademoiselle, I have work to do,’
answered Ginger.
‘But where are you going?’
‘To Peil e, to see Henri. We can’t leave him there.
‘To Peil e, to see Henri. We can’t leave him there.
Once the police get him to Nice it wil be more difficult to save him. I am going at once, hoping to be in Peil e before he leaves.’
‘But where is Monsieur Bertie?’
‘He has other work to do, in Castil on.’
‘But you cannot do this, monsieur,’ protested Jeanette.
‘Why not?’
‘Because, in the first place, you are wounded, and it is many kilometres to Peil e; and secondly because the police they look for you. You have no chance of getting out of the principality.’
Keen as he was to go, Ginger perceived the truth of these arguments. ‘Let us deal with these things one at a time,’ he said. ‘Is it possible to get a vehicle to take me—at least, up the hil as far as La Turbie?’
‘Vehicle? What is this?’
‘A taxi.’
‘There are no taxis now in Monaco.’
‘A horse and cart, then?’
‘What few horses there are are weak from want of food. They are rarely seen out. By taking one you would draw attention to yourself. It might be possible to get a donkey.’
Ginger blinked. ‘A donkey?’
‘But yes. Many people here use donkeys to fetch the wood, the coal, to carry the fish and vegetables in the basket. My aunt has such a one.’
‘Wil she sel it, or hire it to me?’
‘I wil ask Mama to speak to her about it.’
‘Would this donkey carry me, do you think?’
‘Surely. The donkey is a good little beast, better than a horse on these mountain roads, which is why we use him. He is used to carrying people. I wil ask Mama of this.’
Jeanette cal ed her mother, who came in looking as though she had been crying. The matter was explained to her. The expedition, she opined, was fantastique, but she would ask about the donkey.
Ginger pul ed out a wad of notes that made her gasp. ‘Take as much money as you think wil be necessary, madame, and say that if the expedition is successful I may be able to bring the donkey back, but this, of course, I cannot promise.’
At first Madame Ducoste refused to take any money, but Ginger pressed some on her and she departed on her errand.
‘Now what can I do about myself so that the police wil not recognize me?’ asked Ginger.
‘We must make you into a Monégasque,’ declared Jeanette, smiling. ‘For clothes there is no trouble, for you may have those of Henri. They are old, but that is al the better. But your face is too white and your hair is too red. For your face I have the very thing—and perhaps for your hair. Wait.’
Jeanette went out and returned with a bottle and a smal jar. ‘These were left here by our last English lady,’ she explained. ‘This oil in the bottle is for to make the skin brown, to prevent the burning when one bathes in the sun. The visitors here al use it to make them brown. Voila! monsieur.’
‘What’s that in the jar?’
‘Mascara, monsieur. Some girls use it to make their eyebrows black. For me that is not necessary.
Perhaps it wil make your hair black. You may try while I fetch the clothes of Henri.’
With Henri’s clothes, the sun-bronze oil, and the mascara, Ginger so altered his appearance that when he looked in the mirror it gave him a shock.
They were laughing about it when a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of madame with the donkey.
They went down to the door to see it, and found it already saddled, with panniers, attached to the saddle, on each side. Its name, Ginger learned, was Lucil e.
‘If you are questioned, for what purpose are you going to Peil e?’ asked madame shrewdly. ‘It would be a good thing to know.’
Ginger hadn’t thought of that. ‘What can I fetch?’
he asked.
‘You could be fetching olive oil or wine from Monsieur Bonafacio, who is a sel er of such things in Peil e,’ suggested madame.
‘I’l remember it,’ promised Ginger, feeling in his pockets to make sure that he had transferred everything from his own clothes.
Madame went through to the kitchen and returned with a parcel which she thrust in one of the panniers.
‘You wil need food,’ she explained.
Ginger took the bridle and held out his hands. ‘ Au revoir, madame,’ he said with sincerity. ‘I shal always remember your kindness.’
‘ Adieu, monsieur. Give my love to Henri if you see him.’
Ginger turned to Jeanette and took her hands. ‘ Au Ginger turned to Jeanette and took her hands. ‘ Au revoir, Jeanette,’ he said softly.
‘You wil come back, monsieur?’ she whispered.
‘Not al the Axis*4 armies shal keep me from you,’
swore Ginger, and moved by an impulse he kissed her on the forehead.
Jeanette broke away and ran into the house.
Ginger turned to her mother. ‘Have I done wrong?’
he asked in a hurt voice.
Madame smiled a knowing smile. ‘I ran away from my husband just so,’ she answered. ‘Women are like that,’ she added vaguely. ‘I’l take care of her. Go with God, monsieur. We shal pray for you.’
Ginger raised his faded beret. ‘Thank you, madame. Au revoir.’
He turned to the donkey, who was watching these proceedings with big brown eyes. ‘Come on, Lucil e,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Holding the reins, fol owed by Lucil e, he set off down the narrow street.
Chapter 11
The Cats of Castillon
Stil hoping to see the girl in the blue shawl, Algy hastened up the hil to Monte Carlo, looked along the seats of the famous terraces in front of the casino, and walked through the spacious gardens to the main road that runs behin
d them, the road that runs through Mentone to the Italian frontier, only a few miles distant. Observing an open market on the left he turned into it, stil seeking the girl in blue. There were many coloured shawls, but none of the particular tint he hoped to see. Several loungers were leaning against some iron railings, watching the scene, and he addressed them.
‘Bon jour messieurs. What would be my best way of getting to Castil on?’
‘To Castil on!’ cried two of the men together.
‘Yes.’
One of the men, looking at the sky as though invoking inspiration, exclaimed, ‘Now, why would a man go to Castil on?’
Algy moved uncomfortably. He had a feeling he was on dangerous ground. ‘It is just an excursion, to look round the place,’ he said casual y, trying to pass the matter off as of no importance.
‘An excursion! Ah, wel —that’s different,’ said another man, a swarthy Monégasque. ‘Nobody goes to Castil on, but if you take the autobus to Mentone, there is, I hear, a bus service once a day, some time in the afternoon, to Sospel, and the road passes at no great distance from Castil on. Doubtless the driver would put you off there if you asked him.’
‘ Merci. And where do I catch the bus for Mentone?’
The man pointed to the steps of a church. ‘The bus leaves there at ten o’clock.’
Algy thanked the speaker, and glancing at the church clock, saw that he had more than an hour to wait, so he joined a noisy throng in a nearby café and made a breakfast of bread and imitation coffee.
Just before ten, seeing people beginning to col ect at the bus stop, he went over and took his place.
He found himself standing next to a dark, fierce-looking man, dressed in black, carrying a heavy shopping bag. To pass the time, and perhaps learn something of interest, he attempted to get into conversation with him, but received a rebuff so different from the usual courteous manner of the people that he was astonished. He said no more.
The bus came in nearly an hour late, a circumstance that appeared to occasion no surprise among those who waited for it. There was a rush that packed it to suffocation, after which, with a crash of gears, the driver set off at a pace that made Algy close his eyes, although the other passengers continued to talk as though nothing unusual was happening.
Ten minutes later, in an avenue backed by tal white vil as, evidently the outskirts of an important town, the bus was stopped by two Italian police. It was a bad moment for Algy, who thought they might be looking for him. But this proved not to be the case. The police merely made the driver pul into a private drive, and informed him, and the passengers, that the vehicle would be going no farther. They were advised to walk. No explanation was given. Algy got out with the others and walked the rest of the way into Mentone.
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