He became aware that a curious sort of excitement was in the air. Italian and French police were everywhere. People stood on their doorsteps, or looked down through their windows. Those in the streets formed in little groups, but when a group grew to more than half a dozen people it was broken up by police. Algy spoke to several people, but nobody seemed to know what was happening – or else they were disinclined to comment. With some difficulty he made his way to the market in the centre of the town, from where, he was informed, the Sospel bus usual y departed. He noticed, without any real interest, that the swarthy bad-tempered man whom he had seen in Monaco, and later in the bus, had dropped his shopping bag against the kerb, and was also waiting, presumably, for the same bus. It was now nearly noon.
Algy made further inquiries about the Sospel bus, but the answers he received confused rather than helped him. Some people said it would go at two o’clock. Others said three. Others said it would not go at al . Contemplating walking, he asked how far it was to Castil on, but the inquiry was met with such curious expressions that he gave it up. One man said it was eight kilometres; another said it was twenty, and uphil al the way. Algy came to the conclusion that they were al mad, in which he did them an injustice; for the fact is, in a straight line, as an aeroplane might fly, it is but five miles from Mentone to Castil on; but as the road zig-zags through the mountains the distance is ten miles.
To pass the time he sat at one of the outside tables of a café from which he would be able to watch the bus stop, and made a fair meal of vegetable soup and fish. While he was sitting there a lorry fil ed with Italian troops roared through. Others fol owed. Then came tanks and armoured cars. Algy could not make out what was happening.
A radio loud-speaker presently solved the problem for him. In an official announcement the speaker informed the people that British and American troops had invaded Algeria and Morocco, and as a result the whole of France was being occupied by German and Italian troops.
This news shook Algy not a little, but as far as he could see it made little difference to his own private expedition, except that there would now be more enemy troops about, and the Italian police would no doubt tighten their grip on the civilian population.
It was after four when the Sospel bus, its radiator It was after four when the Sospel bus, its radiator spurting steam, drew in. Algy got a seat, but gave it up to an old woman with a basket of vegetables. He found himself standing next to the swarthy man whom he had seen in Monaco, and concluded that fate had decided to throw them together. Thinking perhaps the hardships of travel ing had taken the edge off the man’s il humour, he tried his luck again with a question.
‘Is it possible that this bus wil ever reach Sospel?’
he asked, smiling.
The man’s eyes stared into his own from a distance of about a foot, so closely were they pressed in the overloaded vehicle.
‘I do not care whether it gets to Sospel or not,’ was the curt reply.
‘Ah! Perhaps you are only going as far as Castil on?’ suggested Algy hopeful y, and was instantly appal ed by the expression of hate and fear that leapt into the dark eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’ he went on. ‘Is somebody treading on your foot?’
There was no answer.
‘You’l have more room when I get out, for I’m only going as far as Castil on,’ went on Algy cheerful y.
‘How far is it?’ he added.
The man almost hissed in his face. ‘I’ve never heard of the place.’
‘Oh,’ said Algy. ‘I was hoping that you would be able to tel me where to get off.’
After that he gave it up, and for nearly an hour he clung to a metal bar as the bus puffed and snorted, with innumerable stops, up a hil that seemed interminable. It panted and lurched round bends, some of them so sharp that the driver had to ‘tack’
round them, with a wal of rock on one side and a sheer drop on the other.
The driver stopped at a vil age. Several people got out, making a little more room, for which Algy was thankful. The swarthy man found a seat. The bus went on again. But it did not get far. One or two lorries fil ed with Italian soldiers had already come down the hil , and now the bus was stopped by a squad of troops. Everyone was ordered to dismount.
The road was closed, it was announced. It was wanted by the military.
Algy spoke to a tired-looking workman. ‘Are we near the Italian frontier?’ he asked.
The man pointed to the mountains on the other side of the chasm which the bus had fol owed. ‘That,’
he said, ‘is Italy.’
Algy began to understand why the Italian troops were so thick. ‘How far is it up the road to Castil on?’
he asked.
The man started. ‘To Castil on? Why would you want to go there?’
Algy smiled sheepishly, wondering what was the matter with the place that the name should have such a curious effect on people. ‘I just wanted to have a look round,’ he explained.
‘Oh, that,’ was the answer. ‘It is, perhaps, an hour’s walk—that is, if you care to face the rocks when you see the vil age on your left, across the col.
If you keep to the road it wil take you longer.’
After thanking the man for what sounded like reliable information, Algy walked on up the hil , away from the stationary bus and the gesticulating crowd around it. Some of the women were furious, demanding bitterly to be told how they were to get their heavy baskets to Sospel. Some sat on their baskets, accepting the situation philosophical y. A few had started walking.
It was now about five o’clock, as near as Algy could judge, and the sun was already sinking, far away to the left, towards the gaunt peaks of the maritime alps. Anxious to reach his objective before darkness fel he strode on, and soon outdistanced the other travel ers—that is, al except one. Wel ahead on the long dusty road he made out a man walking quickly, and recognized his churlish travel ing companion. He was not sorry to see the back of him, and when, presently, the man disappeared from sight, he thought no more about him.
It was about three-quarters of an hour later, with dusk closing in, that he caught his first glimpse of what he knew must be his destination—a cluster of grey dwel ings, with their feet, it seemed, welded into the rock on which they were built. But between him and the vil age lay a gorge, and a wilderness of jagged rock which, in the half light, he did not feel like crossing; and when soon afterwards, he came to a footpath branching off the road in the desired direction, he was glad he had not attempted it.
He now found himself in a world of grey rocks, so harsh, so desolate, that he found it hard to believe that he was only a few miles from a fashionable that he was only a few miles from a fashionable town, with al its modern conveniences. From a distance of perhaps two hundred yards he paused to survey a scene as dreary as nature could devise. On al sides stretched the rock, sometimes fal ing into chasms, and sometimes rising in gaunt peaks against the sky. Not a soul was in sight, not even near the vil age, which lay like a pile of grey ashes among limestone. Over everything hung an indefinable atmosphere of desolation and decay, of brooding melancholy, of things long dead.
Suddenly he saw a movement. A man, a man in black, carrying a heavy bag, was just entering the vil age. He saw him only for a moment, but before he disappeared among the houses he had recognized him. It was his bad-tempered travel ing companion.
He was, too, it seemed, a liar, thought Algy, for the man had said that he had never heard of Castil on.
Yet here he was, just going into the place.
Wondering at this strange behaviour Algy walked on.
Keeping to the track he soon came to the first houses, and the vil age street; and for the first time he began to understand why his references to the place had met with such a strange reception. It was dead. Deserted. Many of the houses were in ruins.
Others were crumbling. Doors stood open to the sunset. From one house a shutter hung pathetical y on a single hinge. The vil age, a curious mixture of houses and
stables, seemed to have been piled up rather than built. The houses conformed with no pattern. They were al sizes, heights, and widths. Al were of the stone on which they were built.
Mysterious turnings twisted between them. Sinister steps led down into mouldering vaults and cel ars.
One door had a slit for letters, as if awaiting the arrival of the postman. Over everything hung the silence of death.
Algy started as something moved near his left shoulder. But it was only a cat, a black, mangy creature, with baleful eyes that watched his every movement. Another cat walked slowly across the track in front of him; once it paused to regard him with a long, penetrating stare. Then it went on and disappeared into one of the cel ars.
Algy walked forward a few paces. Everywhere he looked he saw cats, black cats, long, thin, emaciated cats, with red-rimmed eyes. Most of them seemed to be afflicted with a dreadful mange. He understood now what the boatman on the Quai de Plaisance meant about cats. He had never seen so many cats.
Everywhere he looked, eyes were turned on him with such suspicion and hate that he felt an uncomfortable chil creep down his spine. Looking about him he walked on, determined to make the most of the few minutes of twilight that remained.
There should, he thought, be at least one occupied house, for to his certain knowledge a man had just arrived. Where had he gone? Why had he been so secretive, so furtive in his movements—or had he caught the habit from the cats? Even then the last thing in his mind was that he had incurred the man’s enmity.
He stopped to look into a house, moving a shutter in order to do so. Unexpectedly, the shutter came away in his hand, so that he stumbled, and this may have saved his life; for at that precise moment there was a vicious thud, and looking up to see what had caused it, he saw, stil quivering in the windowsil , a knife. Whirling round to discover who had thrown it he was just in time to see the black-coated man disappearing into a narrow side turning.
Algy was after him in a flash. He did not know who the man was, and he bore him no il wil , but he was not prepared to have knives thrown at him—at least, not without knowing what it was al about.
Had the man not stumbled and fal en among the loose rocks it is unlikely that he would have caught him. The fel ow was up again in a moment, but the brief delay had been his undoing. Before he could get into his stride Algy was covering him with his automatic. Even so, he was prepared to be reasonable.
‘Not so fast, my friend,’ he said coldly, speaking in French. ‘Why did you throw a knife at me? What have I done to you?’
The man glared. ‘Spy!’ He fairly spat the word.
‘I am not spying on you, anyway,’ declared Algy.
‘You fol owed me here.’
‘I did not,’ denied Algy.
‘Then why do you come to Castil on?’
‘Why do you come here?’
‘I have business here.’
‘So have I.’ An idea suddenly struck Algy. ‘Our business may concern the same thing.’
‘Doubtless,’ was the curt reply.
‘Tel me why you came here,’ invited Algy.
‘Tel me why you came here,’ invited Algy.
‘I shal tel you nothing.’
Algy tried a shot in the dark. ‘Where is the person you came here to see?’
The man started. Then he smiled sardonical y, and an instant later, Algy knew the reason. A voice behind him, a woman’s voice, spoke.
‘Don’t move, or I shal shoot you. Drop that pistol.’
As if to carry conviction something smal and hard was pressed between Algy’s shoulders. He dropped his pistol. It fel with a harsh clatter on the stones. The man leapt forward and snatched it up.
Turning slowly Algy found himself staring at the girl he had last seen on the Quai de Plaisance—the girl in the blue shawl. But for the first time he could see her clearly. Her face, moulded on classic lines, and very beautiful, was pale. Her head was proudly poised, and dark flashing eyes met his own without a trace of nervousness. A faint smile played about the corners of perfectly formed lips. Her clothes were those of a girl of the country, but her general bearing, which they could not hide, was not. Algy did not know what to make of her.
‘Wel ,’ he began, and would have gone on, but she stopped him with a gesture.
‘Talking wil lead to nothing,’ she said coldly.
The man suddenly broke in with a request that the prisoner be shot forthwith, but the girl in blue stopped him with a glance of her flashing eyes. It was obvious to Algy that the man was subordinate to the girl, in whatever business they were engaged.
‘He fol owed me al the way from Monaco,’ said the man.
Algy ignored him. To the girl he said, ‘I should like to talk to you, mademoiselle.’
‘It wil do no good,’ she returned curtly. ‘We have been into al the arguments before. Now it is war.’ To the man she said, ‘Mario, put him in the cel ar until it is decided what shal be done with him. You know the one I mean?’ And with that she turned on her heel and walked away.
Algy cal ed after her. He wanted to know what she was doing on the Quai de Plaisance, but she walked on without looking back, and the man she cal ed Mario told him to make less noise.
‘Walk,’ he ordered, ‘and do not talk.’
Algy shrugged his shoulders. For the moment, at any rate, there was no alternative than to obey. With his own pistol uncomfortably close to his back he was marched to one of the several cel ars, one that had a stout door. He was thrust inside. The door crashed shut behind him, and he was left in darkness.
Chapter 12
Bertie Picks a Lemon
Bertie left Ginger with the fixed plan of getting to Castil on as quickly as possible. He recal ed, now, having heard of the place, although he had never had occasion to make a visit. In any case, he had always understood that the place was a ruin.
He felt that he ought to let François know where he was going, and with that object in view he proceeded first to the Condamine. François appeared with an alacrity that suggested he had been on the watch. They held a brief but enlightening conversation. Bertie told François that he was going to Castil on, and that the man who had asked about the place, on the quay, shortly after dawn, was a friend on the same errand as himself. He also told him about Ginger, and said that he proposed, if circumstances made it necessary, to use François’
house as a letter-box, an arrangement to which the boatman readily agreed.
‘But, milord,’ said he, ‘you wil find it difficult now to get to Castil on.’
‘Why?’ asked Bertie. ‘Speaking from memory, the vil age lies near the Sospel road.’
To this François assented.
‘Does not the autobus stil run to Sospel?’ inquired Bertie.
‘That I do not know,’ confessed François, ‘but I should doubt it. I comprehend, milord, that you have not heard the news?’
‘What news?’
‘Al the roads near the frontier are to be closed—if they are not already closed.’
‘In heavens name, why?’
‘During the night the British and the Americans landed in Morocco and Algeria. Now Hitler and Mussolini occupy between them al France.
Regardez!’ François pointed to the main road down which military traffic was streaming.
Bertie was dumbfounded. This development came to him as a complete surprise—as it did to most people.
‘This is not going to make things easier, mon vieux,’ he observed. ‘Is the road to Mentone closed?’
‘So it is said. And if that road is now closed, surely, too, wil be the road to Sospel, which skirts the frontier. They say the roads may be opened later.’ François spat, thoughtful y. ‘I should say, milord, that for you, this morning, the Sospel road is a thing to avoid.’
‘But I must get to Castil on,’ declared Bertie. ‘How else can I get there? There is no other road.’
‘There is no other road, but there are the chemins muletiers.’
‘Ah
! The mule tracks that were used in the old days, before the roads.’
‘ Oui.’ François snapped his fingers. ‘ Bon-ca!’ he ejaculated. ‘I have an inspiration. I know a man who every day brings vegetables down from his terraces behind St. Agnes. He takes the back way. Since he deals in food he has been al owed petrol for his camionette.*1 St. Agnes is more than half way to Castil on. There is no road between the two, but there is an old mule path, as there is between al the vil ages. If my friend wil take you in his camionette to St. Agnes, by marching quickly you would be in Castil on by the setting of the sun.’
‘How far is it from St. Agnes to Castil on?’
François shrugged. ‘Four hours, perhaps,’ he replied, resorting to the usual way of counting distances in mountain country, by time, and not miles.
‘Good,’ declared Bertie. ‘Where is this friend of yours?’
‘He should be at the market, in Monte Carlo, if he has not already left for home. Let us go and find out.’
It took them some time to get to the market on account of the traffic, and the crowds that thronged the pavements to watch. And having reached the market they found everything in a state of chaos, customers and stal -holders alike having gone to the steps of the church to watch the procession passing by. People who wanted to leave had also been held up by the invasion of the Italian troops. François found his friend’s camionette—a battered light lorry, filthy and delapidated beyond description—but it was twelve o’clock before the man himself appeared.
He greeted François warmly and slapped him on the back. ‘By God! These are times,’ he cried.
François broached his subject, but did not mention Castil on. He merely said that his friend was anxious to get to St. Agnes.
29 Biggles Fails to Return Page 11