by W E Johns
Bertie quickened his pace, hoping to lose his pursuer among the miscellaneous boats and fishing gear that lay strewn about in front of the tiny houses that backed the wharf – a wharf that had been reserved for the local people. He dare not run for fear of attracting the attention of people, men and women, who were standing about, some loitering, others working on their fishing tackle. But this reluctance did not apply to the mechanic, who broke into a trot, with the result that as Bertie was turning out of the wharf into the Place d’Armes he felt himself caught by the arm. Turning, he looked into the grinning face of François Budette, and knew that it was useless to pretend he did not know him.
‘Bon jour, milord!’ cried François. ‘C’est bon! Je suis content . . .2’
Bertie stopped him with a word, and glancing along the wharf was relieved to see that the meeting appeared not to have been noticed by anyone.
‘Have you been here all the time, milord?’ asked François wonderingly.
‘No,’ Bertie told him. ‘I have just returned. But let us not talk here. If I am caught by the police I shall be shot as a spy.’
François’s face expressed concern. ‘That is no use,’ he muttered.
‘No use at all,’ agreed Bertie. ‘Where can we talk?’
‘There is still wine to be had in the Café de la Côte d’Azur – you remember the old place?’
‘No, there are too many people,’ broke in Bertie. ‘I know it’s no use trying to deceive you, so I shall have to tell you the truth. Let us find a place where it is quiet.’
‘Come home with me. My wife will be so glad to see again the English milord.’
Bertie thought swiftly. ‘Yes, that’s the best thing,’ he assented.
‘I still live in the same house,’ remarked François, leading the way to one of the cottages behind the wharf.
‘I see you’ve still got the old boat?’
‘But of course. I take care of her. There is no petrol any more, but all the same I keep her good in case one day you come back.’
‘I shall remember that, François,’ returned Bertie. ‘Do you still use the boat?’
‘Oui. The Italians gave me a fishing licence, so I fix a sail to catch the lobsters by Cap Martin. But without the petrol, the boat is not so fast as when we won the Grand Prix, milord. My God! That was a race to remember. Those were the days.’ The mechanic glanced around. ‘How goes the war, do you think?’ he asked in a low voice. ‘Shall we win?’
‘Who do you mean by we?’
‘The British and the Americanos. Every day we pray for them, milord.’
‘You prefer the good old days, eh?’
François indicated the town with a sweep of his brown arm. ‘Look at the place. It falls to pieces. No money, no food, except fish and potatoes – and not many potatoes. There is not coffee any more, and the bread she is black. Everyone goes broke. Even the casino goes broke. These Nazis stay at the hotels but they do not pay. The Italians take everything. They do not, like the English, understand what it is to be sporting – no. Tiens! These are bad times.’
François turned through a tangle of fishing gear into a neat little house with bright green doors and shutters.
An elderly woman, fat, swarthy as an Indian, glanced up from the stove over which she was bending. Her back straightened. She uttered a cry of glad surprise. ‘The milord!’
Bertie held out his hand. ‘Bonjour, Madame Budette.’
Madame shook his hand warmly, looking from one man to the other. ‘But this is something I do not understand!’ she cried.
‘Shut the door, mon vieux3, and I will tell you why I am here,’ answered Bertie.
François closed the door, pulled forward a chair, and took a bottle from the cupboard. ‘A glass of cognac, milord?’ he offered.
‘Not just now, thanks,’ declined Bertie. ‘I have things to do. Where are the children, madame?’
‘At school.’
‘Good. I must go before they return or perhaps they will chatter with their friends and so bring the police here. In any case I will not stay long because you are risking your lives by having me in your house. I tried to run away from François, but he caught me, and here I am.’
‘Where have you come from, milord?’ asked François.
‘I have come,’ replied Bertie, ‘from England.’
François gasped. ‘Nom de Dieu! But how?’
‘By aeroplane.’
‘But why?’
‘I am looking for a friend. But if the Italians catch me they will shoot me for a spy.’
‘A friend!’ François’ eyes narrowed. ‘Tiens!’ he breathed. ‘Then you are perhaps a friend of the Englishman who all the police are looking for?’
Bertie’s face flushed with excitement. ‘Then he is still alive?’
Madame shrugged. ‘Who knows? All we know is, an Englishman was here. He came, it is said, to fetch a girl who was locked up at the poste de police4, on the Rock. There was shooting here, and on La Grande Corniche. That is all we know. After that we are told not to mention the affair, but so many police came we think he got away. Nobody knows anything for certain. Where do you stay while you are in Monaco, milord?’
‘Nowhere in particular.’
‘Then you will stay with us,’ invited François.
Bertie smiled. ‘No, my friends, thank you all the same. This is no affair of yours. All I ask is, forget that you saw me here, or you may find yourselves in serious trouble.’
‘But you must eat, milord,’ muttered madame, with a worried frown.
‘I shall manage.’
‘Have some of my soup now? It is good.’
‘That is an invitation I will not refuse,’ declared Bertie.
Madame bustled about laying the meal.
‘What I do not understand is, how do you expect to find your friend?’ said François. ‘Where will you look for him? In the casino? In the museum? Will he walk along the Boulevard des Moulins, or sit on the terraces? But no! This is not possible with the place so full of police.’
‘First, I am going to look for some writing on a wall.’
‘On what wall, milord?’
‘The wall behind the Quai de Plaisance.’
François slapped his thigh and clicked his tongue ‘Zut alors! Now, here is a thing the most curious,’ he exclaimed. ‘One day I saw a girl writing on that very wall. She wore a blue shawl, I remember.’
Bertie stared. ‘What day was this?’
François twisted his face in an effort to think. ‘Oh la la. I forget. It was many days ago – seven – eight – perhaps ten – I do not know. All days are the same here.’
‘What did she write?’
‘Fool that I am, I did not look. When I saw her writing I was working in the boat. I think when I go home I will look what she writes, but the sun is hot and I forget.’
Bertie looked from one to the other. ‘I know nothing of such a girl,’ he said. ‘If she was writing, then it is no concern of mine. Just where did it happen?’
‘This side of the Escalier du Port. There was a young man standing there this morning, a seller of onions, on the very spot. Perhaps you noticed him?’
‘Er – yes – er – a man selling onions.’
‘Is there anything remarkable in that?’
Bertie hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘He, too, is my friend. He is helping me find the one who is lost.’
François started for the door. ‘I go to see if there is writing on the wall.’
‘No,’ protested Bertie. ‘I’ll go.’
‘It is better that I should go. Everyone knows me. You eat your soup, milord. Au revoir.’
Bertie turned to madame. ‘It is nearly time for the children to come home?’
Madame nodded. ‘I will go to the convent and tell them that today they must eat with their aunt who lives in the Avenue Bellvue. They shall remain until I fetch them, this evening. It is better so.’
‘Merci, madame. It is good of you to go to so much
trouble.’
‘Do not speak of it, milord.’ Madame hurried off on her errand.
About ten minutes later François returned. His face was flushed with excitement. ‘There is writing, in the colour blue,’ he said in a tense voice.
‘What does it say?’
‘It just says, Chez Rossi. Pernod. There is also a little mark.’
‘A triangle.’
‘Exactement!5’
Bertie looked puzzled. ‘Chez Rossi? What is this place – a restaurant?’
‘Yes. It is at the back of the town, next to the Escalier des Revoires. But it is not a good place, I’ve heard tell.’
‘What’s wrong with it?’
‘Mario Rossi, the owner. He is Italian, and that is not all. It is said . . .’ François dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘It is said he is a Camorrista6. They are too handy with their knives. The Chez Rossi is no place for a gentleman like you.’
‘All the same,’ declared Bertie. ‘I must go.’
‘What will you do there?’
‘I shall look for something with the mark Pernod – a bottle perhaps.’
‘Let me go,’ offered François. ‘It will be safer. Me, I am known to everyone in the town, but you, milord, if the police see you too much they may ask questions. Stay here and rest. I will find out what I can. The people here will not talk to strangers, but they will talk to me. I shall hear the latest rumours of this affair of the Englishman and the girl.’
Bertie perceived the wisdom of his advice. As a native, François would be able to ask questions more or less with impunity. At any rate, he stood a much better chance of gathering information than a stranger.
‘I accept your offer, François,’ he decided. ‘But be careful how you ask questions.’
‘Leave that to me,’ said François confidently. ‘You rest here. Au revoir, milord.’
Left alone, Bertie settled down to make up for the rest he had lost during the night. He did not hear madame return, but it was getting dark by the time François came back.
‘Well, old lobster, what did you discover?’ asked Bertie.
‘Not much,’ replied François, looking crestfallen. ‘I could see nothing of Pernod. I spoke to Mario and asked him if he knew of any blue writing, or of anything to do with Pernod. He said no, he knew of no such thing, but I do not trust the fellow. He gave me a queer look when I mentioned blue writing. It is my opinion that he knows more than he says. I asked him if any strangers had been there, and he said no; but his woman told me that a stranger, a young Spanish seller of onions had been in. That makes Mario a liar straight away. After that I went round the cafés trying to hear news of the English spy the people are talking about, but no one knows anything, except that the police have had orders to keep their mouths shut. That’s all.’
‘Thank you, mon vieux. Only one thing is clear. My friend the onion-seller has read the writing on the wall, and he followed the clue to Chez Rossi. I wonder where he went after that?’
François shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I saw nothing of him.’
Glancing through the little window Bertie saw that night had fallen. ‘I think I’ll go and have a look round myself,’ he said. ‘It should be safe enough now it is dark.’
‘And will you come back, milord?’
Bertie picked up his guitar. ‘Perhaps – if I need a friend. Here, take this, and get some food, in case I come back hungry.’ As he spoke Bertie took out some money and passed it to the mechanic. François would have refused it, but Bertie insisted. ‘It is in the interest of everyone,’ he said. ‘Au revoir, François. Au revoir, madame.’
‘Au revoir, monsieur.’
Bertie went out into the night.
He walked along to the Quai de Plaisance, and in the light of his torch examined the writing to confirm that François had not overlooked anything. He was puzzled about the reference to the girl, but not seeing how she could fit into the scheme of things he dismissed her from his mind, and made his way, slowly, for he had sometimes to stop and ask the direction, to the bar-restaurant at the corner of the Escalier des Revoires. He went in, sat at a table and glanced around. There was perhaps a dozen customers, mostly at the bar, talking in low tones. A woman was serving. She came over to him.
‘Monsieur?’
‘The soup,’ ordered Bertie.
‘Oui, monsieur.’
As the woman was turning away Bertie asked casually, ‘Where is Mario tonight?’
‘He has had to go out for a little while on business,’ replied the woman, and went on to the kitchen, to return presently with the soup.’
Bertie ate it slowly, watching the people around him, but he could detect nothing suspicious in their actions. He had nearly finished, and was thinking of leaving, when he was startled by hearing shots in the distance. The other customers stopped talking to listen, and then, as there were more occasional shots, went to the door, guessing in quick excited voices what it might be.
‘I should say,’ said one, ‘they have at last tracked down the Englishman.’
Nobody disputed this, and as the subject was not pursued, Bertie went out. But instead of leaving the district he turned in the bottom of the escalier from where he could see the front and side entrances of the restaurant – practically the same spot on which Ginger had stood only a short time before.
There was no more shooting, and soon afterwards the men went back into the bar. Bertie moved deep into shadow and leant against a wall. He was not expecting anything unusual to happen, and his chief reason for remaining was, he thought he might as well, for he had nowhere else to go unless he returned to François.
Five minutes passed. Then he heard swift footsteps approaching, and a second later a man turned the corner. He went straight to the side entrance of the Chez Rossi. For a moment or two while he stood there, one foot on the step, listening, the light from the kitchen window illuminated a dark, swarthy face. He was breathing heavily, and his nostrils were quivering, dilated, as though with excitement. Then he went in, closing the door behind him.
Bertie guessed that the new arrival was Mario Rossi, and the man’s obvious agitation so aroused his curiosity that he went over to the kitchen window in the hope of learning the explanation. There was a muslin blind drawn over the lower part of the window, but this did not prevent him from getting a fairly clear view of the interior of the lighted room. The man whom he assumed to be Mario was there, and his actions were now even more sinister than they had been outside.
First, he took from his pocket a red-stained handkerchief and threw it into the stove. Then, going quickly to the sink he rinsed his hands, and Bertie noticed that the water which fell from them was also red. This done, he wiped his hands on a towel, examined his clothes for some reason that was not apparent, put on an apron, and lit a cigarette with hands that trembled so violently that he had difficulty in making match and cigarette meet. For a few seconds he drew at the cigarette in short, nervous whiffs, but this evidently did little to steady his nerves, for, crossing to a cupboard, he took down a bottle and helped himself to a generous drink.
He had just replaced the bottle when the woman who had been serving in the bar came in. Bertie could not hear what was said, but the woman’s face expressed surprise. The man said something, and turned on his heel, opened a door and disappeared up a narrow flight of stairs. The woman filled some plates with soup and went back into the restaurant.
Bertie stood back, trying to work out what all this meant. From what he had seen, there was good reason to suppose that something unpleasant had happened. He felt certain that the stains on Mario’s handkerchief and hands were blood. The question was, whose blood? He remembered what François had said about the man being a member of the notorious Italian secret society, the Camorra, and he knew that the methods of the Camorra were deadly, that the usual weapon was the stiletto7; but even so, he found it hard to believe that the man could just have committed a murder. Such things rarely happen. Yet, reflected Bertie, Mario�
�s manner certainly suggested that something of the sort had happened.
He hung about for a bit, and then, as there was no development, without any definite object in view he strolled down towards the town. Somewhat to his surprise he met François coming up, and his surprise turned to alarm when François grabbed him by the arm and he saw the expression on his face. It was clear that the old mechanic was the bearer of hot news, and his first words conveyed the extent of its importance.
‘Mon Dieu! Praise the saints that I have found you.’
‘What has happened?’ asked Bertie tersely.
‘Haven’t you heard?’
‘No.’
‘There has been a murder, a stabbing.’
‘What of it? I didn’t do it.’
‘No, but your friend did.’
‘What!’ Bertie’s voice was brittle with incredulity. ‘Ridiculous!’
François shrugged. ‘Perhaps. But this is certain. All the police in the town – and there are many – are hunting for the young Spanish seller of onions. He was in the room with the body – they saw him leave.’
‘Whose body?’
François looked furtively to the left and right. ‘The body of Gaspard Zabani, of the Villa Valdora.’
1 French: Good day.
2 French: Good day, my lord. This is good. I am pleased . . .
3 French: my old friend.
4 French: the police station.
5 French: exactly.
6 A member of the Camorra.
7 A narrow, razor-sharp knife.
CHAPTER 6
STRANGE ENCOUNTERS
THERE WAS A short silence during which Bertie stood and stared blankly at his informant.
‘I still say it’s nonsense,’ he declared. ‘We don’t carry daggers.’
François threw out his hands appealingly. ‘But, milord, the police find onions under the window by which the assassin entered. I tell you, the police are turning the principality inside out in their search for him. And, what is more, there is a rumour going round that these onions are not Spanish, but English onions.’