‘I shal be lucky to get there myself,’ declared the vendor of vegetables. ‘The roads are ful of these Italians. Doubtless we shal get to St. Agnes sooner or later, and if your friend cares to come with me he wil be welcome, but it would be better, I think, to wait until the road is clearer.’
With this the others were bound to agree, so they adjourned to a café for lunch.
It was two o’clock before the camioneur*2
suddenly declared his intention of going home, which suited Bertie, who was finding the delay irritating. He said good-bye to François and promised to look him up when he returned.
The first part of the journey was slow, for there was stil a lot of traffic about, but once off the main road the driver whirled his vehicle up the formidable corniche road that led to St. Agnes with a confidence born of familiarity. Accustomed though he was to the mountain roads, Bertie covered his face at many of the hairpin bends where the road hangs like a ledge over a drop of a thousand feet or more; and he was weak at the knees when the vehicle final y skidded to a standstil in the vil age, which is not real y a vil age so much as a cluster of old houses clinging precariously to a spire of rock, as bare as a boulder, over two thousand feet high. Why anyone should choose to live in such a place is one of the great mysteries that have never been solved—unless it is to sit in wonder at the marvel ous panorama of sea and coast spread out below.
‘By the way,’ said Bertie to his driver as they dismounted, ‘where is Castil on?’
‘ Voila!’ answered the man, pointing. ‘There it is.’
Fol owing the direction with his eyes Bertie saw a vil age similar to the one in which he was standing about three miles distant. It looked so near that it seemed incredible that it would take four hours to cover the space between them—until he looked at the chaos of ridges and ravines that intervened. He saw that he would be lucky to reach his objective before nightfal .
He pointed to a track which dived down the mountain on the landward side. ‘That, I suppose, is the track to Castil on?’ he observed.
‘It is,’ answered the driver. ‘Only no one uses it.’
Bertie thanked him for the lift, waited for him to go, and then, glancing round to make sure that he was unobserved, set off on his long hike. An hour later, from the crest of a ridge, Castil on looked just as far away, so he increased his pace. Al around the country lay silent and deserted, which was not to be wondered at, for except for a few artificial terraces to which clung olives and sad-looking cypress trees, there was nothing but grey, sun-bleached limestone.
The sun was fast dropping into the mountains when he came within striking distance of his objective. He sat down to rest for a few minutes. Fit as he was, the muscles of his calves ached unmerciful y, as is usual y the case when a man accustomed to walking on pavements finds himself in mountain country. He lit one of the few cigarettes that remained in his case; and as he smoked he looked at the sad grey ruins before him, slightly below, and perhaps two hundred and fifty yards away.
Suddenly he stiffened. Jeanette had distinctly said that the vil age was abandoned, yet he was sure that he had seen somebody move, somebody in blue. He continued to watch. The speck of blue appeared again from behind some houses, and he saw it was a girl, with a blue shawl draped round her shoulders.
She halted by a rock, as if waiting. It looked as if Jeanette had been right about a girl in blue writing on the wal . A girl in a blue shawl had written the word Castil on on the wal of the Quai de Plaisance, and now, here was a girl, thus dressed, in the vil age.
That could hardly be coincidence, thought Bertie. His weariness forgotten, he was about to hurry forward when he saw another movement. This time it was a man in black. He was walking quickly towards the spot where the girl was waiting, as if keeping an appointment.
Bertie continued to watch. Could it be possible, he wondered, that in some way these people, these strange events, were associated with Biggles? It seemed impossible, and yet . . . there was the blue writing on the wal . Surely there must be some connection?
The man reached the point where the girl was standing. They met. For a minute they stood together as if talking; then they disappeared into a narrow lane, behind houses which hid them from view.
Hardly had they disappeared when, to Bertie’s Hardly had they disappeared when, to Bertie’s astonishment, a third figure appeared. He recognized Algy. He was approaching the vil age from the opposite direction, having arrived, it seemed, from the Sospel road. He was walking in the tracks of the man in black.
In his excitement Bertie nearly shouted a greeting, but remembering that there were other people about, he thought better of it. Instead, he hurried forward.
Half-way to the vil age there was a dip in the ground that hid it from view, and when he reached the far side Algy was nowhere in sight. He watched for a minute or two, hoping to see him among the houses, but when he did not appear he continued on his way. Once he thought he heard voices, raised as if in anger, but he was not sure. He went nearer, and at last, having reached the outskirts, he paused to survey it from the cover of a gnarled lemon tree, on which hung some half-ripe fruit. Nothing happened.
Thinking it might assuage his thirst, he casual y picked a lemon and went on.
Turning a corner, he came suddenly face to face with the black-coated man. It was not the actual meeting, nor was it the black coat that brought an exclamation of incredulity to his lips. It was the face of the man who wore it. For he was the very last person he expected to see there. It was Mario, the waiter of the Chez Rossi, the man who, the previous night, had struck him on the head and then thrown him down the Escalier Ste. Dévote.
Fortunately for Bertie the waiter appeared to be equal y astonished, with the result that for five breathless seconds they simply stood and stared at each other. Bertie spoke first.
‘By Jove!’ he said, ‘you’re the blighter who dotted me on the skul last night!’
Mario did not answer. His hand flashed to his belt, and came up holding a slim-bladed stiletto. With a snort of anger Bertie used the weapon that came readiest to his hand. In fact, it was already in his hand. He flung the lemon—and he flung it hard. It hit the Italian in the eye and brought from him a cry of pain. Bertie fol owed the fruit, and dodging the waving stiletto, hit the waiter in the stomach. ‘I’l teach you, you nasty fel er,’ he said. The waiter went over backwards among the rocks, fal ing with some force. Apparently he knocked his knuckles, for the stiletto flew out of his hand. Bertie picked it up and tossed it away.
Feeling that he had done enough he took a pace backward, prepared to open negotiations. But this did not suit the waiter, who, with a snarl of fury, charged, head down, like a horned animal. Impeded by his guitar, Bertie could not avoid the rush, so they grappled in a clinch, the man stil snarling, using teeth and nails, Bertie silent, trying to break away to use his fists. Mario kicked Bertie on the skin, and the pain moved him to wrath.
‘Al right, my garlic-eating dish-wiper; two can play at that game,’ he rasped, and stamped on the man’s foot. With a howl of agony Mario released his hold, whereupon Bertie got in a hook to the jaw that stretched him on his back for the count.
Slightly winded, Bertie sat down to recover his breath and his composure. He took out his monocle, polished it, and putting it in his eye, regarded his antagonist with disfavour. He lit a cigarette and waited for him to recover, for there were several questions he was anxious to ask—among other things, why he had kil ed Zabani, why he had hidden the Pernod show-card and why he had tried to murder him. Then he remembered that Algy was somewhere in the vil age, so he struck a few chords on his guitar to let him know that he was there. Algy did not come. Instead, Mario sat up, holding his jaw, eyeing his victor malevolently.
‘Now, before you play any more tricks, my merry dart-thrower, just you listen to me,’ said Bertie severely. ‘I’m going to ask you some questions, and if you don’t answer them I shal hand you over to the police for letting the daylight into Signor
Zabani. Oh, yes, I know al about that.’
Mario started, half closing his eyes. ‘You are not of the police?’
‘Me? Ha, ha! That’s a good one. No, I am not of the police—not the French, the Italian or the Monégasque. Why did you knife Zabani?’
‘If you must know, it was by order of the Camorra. I am a Camorrista. Take care, or you wil have a knife in, you, too.’
‘And Zabani? He upset the chief Camorrista—is that it?’
‘Yes. Take care you do not upset him. Why have you come here?’
Bertie smiled faintly. ‘If I told you, my little soup-ladler, you would not believe me.’
ladler, you would not believe me.’
‘Tel me why you come here and perhaps I can help you,’ suggested Mario slyly—and, Bertie thought, unexpectedly.
He drew his fingers across the strings of his guitar. ‘I am a troubadour—a troubadour who would sing to a princess.’
Mario’s sal ow face turned ashen. His eyes seemed to start out from his face. ‘You seek—a—
princess?’ he gasped.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Do you expect to find one in a place like this?’
Bertie shrugged. ‘Who knows? After al , you are at Castil on, and I didn’t expect to find you here.’
‘What has that to do with the princess?’
‘You kil ed a man who betrayed a princess, amico, so would it be so strange if you knew her?’
‘So,’ breathed Mario, ‘that is why you came? To find a princess.’
‘That is one reason. Can you help me?’
‘Yes,’ snapped Mario viciously. ‘I can show you one.’
‘Now you’re talking,’ declared Bertie. ‘Where is she?’
‘Look behind you.’
Half expecting a trick, Bertie glanced behind him and then sprang to his feet in comical surprise. For there, standing within a few paces of him, silhouetted against the sunset, covering him with an automatic, was the girl in the blue shawl. Feeling rather foolish, he raised his hat.
‘ Bon soir,’ he stammered. Then he added, taking her to be Italian, ‘Or should I say buona sera*3?’
The girl answered in French, with a slight Italian accent. ‘Did I hear you say you came here to find a princess?’
‘That is correct,’ Bertie assured her.
‘Why?’
‘Because only a princess can tel me what has become of my best friend.’
‘You are English, I think?’
‘Very, very English,’ answered Bertie.
‘Ah.’ The girl drew a deep breath that might have been relief. ‘Do you know the name of this princess?’
‘No.’
‘Was it the Principessa Marietta Loretto de Palma?’
Palma?’
Bertie stared. He was finding it hard to keep pace with the conversation. ‘It might have been,’ he acknowledged. ‘Do you know this lady?’
The girl in blue smiled faintly. ‘ Monsieur, she stands before you.’
‘By Jove! Real y?’ Remembering himself, Bertie bowed. He indicated the waiter. ‘And this man?’
‘Mario is my faithful servant,’ answered the princess quietly. ‘His father and his father before him served my family.’
‘I see,’ murmured Bertie. ‘I think I begin to understand.’
The princess turned to Mario. ‘You did not tel me that you had kil ed Zabani?’ she said in a voice as brittle as ice.
Mario
looked
disconsolate.
‘Your
pardon,
highness. But the order came from—higher up.’
‘The jol y old chief Camorrista—what?’ put in Bertie.
The princess turned on him in a flash. ‘Silence!’
she said curtly. To Mario she said, ‘You can explain this to me later. Turning back to Bertie, she went on,
‘Have you by any chance a friend who might have come to Castil on this afternoon?’
‘Why—er—yes, by jingo!’ replied Bertie. ‘In fact, I know he’s here. I saw him arrive a few minutes ago.’
‘Was he also looking for a princess?’
‘Absolutely—yes, absolutely.’
The princess turned to Mario. ‘Release him,’ she ordered. Then, to Bertie, ‘and now you have found the princess—what then?’
‘I should like to see her kitchen—I believe it is a bon cuisine,’ answered Bertie meaningly. And as he spoke, with his toe, he carelessly traced a triangle in a patch of dust.
The princess smiled. ‘Fol ow me, sir,’ she said quietly.
Chapter 13
Pilgrimage to Peille
After one glance at the steep slopes behind Monte Carlo, Ginger decided that the only way to get to La Turbie, as the first stage in his journey to Peil e, was by road. This involved a risk of being stopped and questioned, but it could not be avoided. He was in no condition for rock climbing. At the bottom of the hil he mounted his animal, and setting its face to the gradient, al owed it to choose its own gait.
His fears about being stopped were wel founded, for he was stopped twice, once at the frontier of Monaco and France by two Monégasque soldiers, and later by two Italians, but evidently he looked the part he was playing, for they treated him as a joke and al owed him to pass without asking embarrassing questions. The ascent to the top of the hil occupied two hours.
Once on the lonely road that winds from La Turbie to Peil e the way lay clear before him, and he began to enjoy the trip. The sun shone down from a sky of deepest azure. Behind lay the blue Mediterranean, sparkling in the clear air, fringing the distant capes with foam. On the left was the broad fertile val ey into which they had jumped on the night of their arrival, its far slopes shining grey with olive groves. Here and there a cypress thrust its spire-like point into the air.
On the right the ground rose steeply to the dominant peak of Mont Agel, capped by the fort which its engineers had intended should protect the country against Italian invaders. Ahead, the road twisted like a grey ribbon through the mountains, not over them, but in the side of the rock, so that it maintained the same level throughout, sometimes curling back upon itself in a sweeping curve to avoid a chasm. From every cranny sprang wild lavender, rosemary and thyme, or sometimes a clump of vicious-looking cactus.
Just beyond half-way the scene began to change.
It became more harsh. A solitary eagle appeared, gliding high on rigid pinions. On the right the rocks rose pinnacle on pinnacle to towering peaks. To the left the land was a chaos of beetling crags and sheer precipices, along the edge of which the road now ran a precarious course. At one point, marked significantly with a shrine, a track wound dizzily into the mountains; a lol ing signpost announced that it was a route strategical to St. Agnes.
Ginger went on, overawed by the immensity of the landscape. The chasm on the left became a yawning gorge so deep that the bottom was lost in purple shadows. The road crumbled along the edge of it without any kind of protection to prevent a careless travel er from fal ing headlong into the void. The donkey, wise like al its race, kept wel away from the brink. At one place the beetling crags on the right overhung the road, so that it looked like a tunnel with one side torn away. The donkey’s little hooves rang with a hol ow sound.
Not a single travel er did Ginger meet. The sun rose high into the heavens, flamed across its zenith, and began to fal towards the west; and stil the land lay grey and lifeless. Of Peil e there was no sign, and as the day wore on he began to wonder if he was on the right road. Soon afterwards, rounding a formidable buttress, he saw the vil age before him, a huddle of houses crouching on a lip of rock that hung like a shelf over the edge of the world. Far below a blue thread marked the course of a river. On its bank was another vil age into which, from his dizzy height, Ginger could have dropped a stone.
A smal boy, in rags, barefoot, came up the road to meet him, strol ing carelessly along the edge of the chasm. ‘Bon jour, monsieur,’ he greeted.
Ginger pointed to the vil age ahead. ‘Have I arrived at Peil e?’
‘Oui, monsieur.’
Ginger pointed down at the vil age far below. ‘And that one?’
‘La Grave de Peil e.’
‘Thank you, my little one,’ answered Ginger.
‘Here’s a sou for you.’
The lad caught the coin adroitly, and dashed back to the vil age with his prize.
Ginger shouted after him, ‘Where is the sanitorium?’
The boy pointed to a large oblong building on the right of the road, standing a little way back, at the entrance to the vil age. ‘There it is,’ he cal ed.
‘Thank you,’ replied Ginger. He tightened his reins. ‘Whoa, Lucil e. This is where we must stop to think.’
He had no clear idea of what he was going to do, having purposely deferred thinking about it until he had made a reconnaissance of the sanitorium. And now he was in sight of it there was little to see. The hospital was a large, perfectly plain white building, standing alone on a slight eminence on the right of the road. It was about a hundred yards from the vil age, on the side nearest to him. The front door and al the windows stood wide open, although some were shaded by blinds. There was a long line of outbuildings slightly to the rear. Between these buildings and the main structure two rows of laundry
—pyjamas, nightshirts, towels and blue linen overal s
—hung limply in the sun. Behind, a grey limestone bank rose steeply for several hundred feet to end in a jagged ridge. Into the massif *1, not far from where Ginger stood surveying the scene, a ravine wound a curving course upwards, providing foothold for a number of olive trees. Not a soul was in sight.
Nothing moved—not even the washing on the line.
There appeared to be little point in watching this uninspiring spectacle, so Ginger decided first to tether the patient Lucil e, and then, by direct inquiry, ascertain if Henri was stil there. In this he was encouraged by the apparent absence of police and soldiers.
He led Lucil e a little way into the ravine and tethered her in the restful shade of the olives, al owing her enough rope to browse on the rough herbiage. This done he walked diagonal y across the road to the front entrance of the sanitorium.
29 Biggles Fails to Return Page 12