Biggles WWII Collection

by W E Johns

  Bertie tried to get the thing in line. ‘How did you hear of this?’

  ‘ ’Cre Dieu! Everyone knows. First there was the shooting.’

  ‘Yes, I heard that,’ admitted Bertie.

  ‘That was the police shooting at the assassin as he ran. Afterwards I stand in a doorway and listen to some police talking. They say that there was no reason for a Spaniard to kill Zabani, but plenty of reason why an Englishman should. Zabani, when he saw death coming, knocked over the telephone, and with his last breath called the police. They came at once, while the assassin was still there. He ran. They fired – bang – bang! They wounded him.’

  Bertie felt his muscles contract. ‘Wounded him?’ he echoed, aghast.

  ‘Yes. He fell, but ran on, leaving a trail of blood. Voila! The blood leads down an escalier, but stops suddenly in the Place d’Armes. There the police lost track of him, but they think he is still in La Condamine. There was much blood. He could not get far, they say.’

  ‘By Jove! This is awful,’ muttered Bertie. His brain was whirling.

  ‘Zabani was one of the richest men in the principality,’ offered François.

  Bertie did not answer. He wanted to think. He realized that it was quite on the boards that Ginger might have gone to the house of the man who had betrayed the princess. Could he have killed Zabani in self-defence?

  François’ next words swept the suspicion aside. ‘It was a crime of revenge,’ said he.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  François pulled Bertie’s head forward and breathed in his ear. ‘It was the knife of a Camorrista. The dagger carried the usual sign, a letter C, on a piece of paper.’

  ‘My God!’ whispered Bertie, suddenly seeing daylight. In the shock of François’ information he had forgotten Mario.

  ‘Was your friend of the Camorra?’ asked François nervously.

  ‘No,’ snapped Bertie.

  ‘Pardon, milord.’

  ‘François,’ said Bertie in a hard voice, ‘did you tell me that Mario Rossi was a Camorrista?’

  ‘But yes – so they say.’

  ‘He killed Zabani.’

  ‘How could you know this, milord, when you did not even know there had been a killing?’

  ‘Listen! A few minutes ago Mario came running back to the restaurant, to the side entrance. Watching through the window, I saw him wash blood from his hands. His handkerchief, also bloodstained, he threw in the fire.

  François whistled softly through his teeth. ‘Tiens! The affair becomes fantastique.’

  ‘No,’ denied Bertie. ‘I begin to see the way of it. Attendez1! My friend, the one whom you call the British spy, must have known something of this man Mario, which is why he wrote the name of the restaurant on the wall of the Quai de Plaisance. There is another link between my friend and this man Zabani. My other friend, the onion seller, is also concerned.’ Bertie broke off. The fact was, he felt that he held the pieces of a jigsaw which, could he but fit them together, would present a complete picture and so solve his problem. ‘I must find the onion seller,’ he decided.

  François threw up his hands. ‘Comment?2 If the police cannot find him, how can you hope to do so? He has gone into hiding, no doubt – but where?’

  Bertie saw the sense of François’ argument. It was not much use walking about the streets of Monaco without a clue of any sort, trying to find Ginger.

  ‘There is one thing I can do,’ he predicted.

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘See Mario Rossi.’

  ‘Name of a dog! Are you mad, milord? If he has done a murder he will do another. These Camorrista, they use a dagger like we use a toothpick.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I will go,’ asserted Bertie. ‘Time presses, and I am no use at guessing. Perhaps I can make Mario talk.’

  ‘It is more likely, I think, that he will cut your throat.’

  ‘Listen, mon ami3,’ went on Bertie. ‘For the time being you go your own way. Gather what news you can of this affair. If all goes well with me you will see me tomorrow on the Quai de Plaisance.’

  ‘Very well, milord. It was always said that you were mad. Now I believe it, too. Adieu4.’

  ‘Au revoir, and thanks for your help. One day, when the world becomes sane again, we will laugh over this affair.’

  With a wave Bertie turned away and walked back to the Chez Rossi. He went straight to the side of the building and peered through the window into the kitchen. Mario was there, in an apron and white chef’s cap, cooking something on the stove.

  Bertie opened the door and went in. The Italian heard the movement and whirled round. His eyebrows went up. ‘You have come to the wrong entrance,’ said he, speaking in French. ‘The bar is at the front of the house.’

  Bertie smiled, and answered in the same language. ‘No, I have come to the right entrance. I want to talk to you.’

  ‘I have no money for beggars.’

  ‘I am not looking for money.’

  ‘Then what are you looking for?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘You can help me,’ said Bertie distinctly, ‘by telling me why you killed Gaspard Zabani.’

  Mario, who had half turned back to his stove, spun round as though he had been stung. ‘Kill who?’ he demanded in a thin, hard voice. ‘I never killed a man in my life.’

  Bertie stroked the strings of his guitar. ‘Oh, yes, you have, my friend. You killed Zabani tonight. For that swine I don’t care a broken guitar string. All I want to know is why you did it, because that may help me find my friend.’

  For nearly a minute the Italian stared at Bertie, his face distorted with passion. ‘I tell you I know nothing of any murder,’ he grated. ‘Who are you – the secret police?’

  Bertie shook his head. ‘No. The police are looking for a young Spanish seller of onions. They think he killed Zabani, but I know better.’

  Mario drew a deep breath that might have meant relief. ‘I have seen this Spaniard,’ he asserted. ‘He came here for lunch.’

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘As far as I know.’

  ‘What did he drink with lunch – Pernod?’

  Bertie knew, from the nervous twitch of the man’s nostrils, that his shot had found its mark.

  ‘No, he did not drink Pernod,’ spat Mario spitefully. As he spoke his eyes flashed for an instant to the side of the room

  The unconscious movement had not been lost on Bertie, who was watching the man closely. His eyes went to the spot, and he saw, near the floor, half pushed behind a cupboard, what was evidently a show-card. One half only was visible, but it was enough to tell him what it was, for the standard advertisement for Pernod is on every hoarding in France.

  ‘You are not a good liar, Mario,’ he said coldly, and walked over to the card. He stooped to pick it up. As his fingers closed over it the world seemed to explode inside his head in a sheet of orange flame, and he knew that Mario had struck him. The flame faded slowly to purple, and then to black. He pitched forward on his face and lay still.

  1 French: Wait!

  2 French: How?

  3 French: My friend.

  4 French: Goodbye.

  CHAPTER 7

  GOOD SAMARITANS

  WHEN BERTIE OPENED his eyes the flickering fingers of another day were sweeping upward from the eastern horizon to shed a mysterious light on the ancient Principality of Monaco. Somewhere near at hand palm fronds began to stir, rustling among themselves.

  For a little while he lay still, trying to remember what had happened. With an effort he sat up, only to bury his face in his hands in a vain attempt to steady the throbbing in his head. Slowly, as full consciousness returned, and with it the memory of the blow that had struck him down, he looked about him, and saw that he was on a landing halfway down a steep flight of stone steps. On one side a cliff rose sheer. In it there was a little niche occupied by the statue of a saint, surrounded by tinsel and artificial flowers. On the other side a go
rge fell sheer for two hundred feet to a tiny church that had been built in the bottom. He recognised it instantly, and knew that he was on the Escalier Ste. Dévote. How had he got there he did not know, but he supposed that Mario, after striking him down, had either carried him or thrown him there, perhaps imagining that he was dead. His head ached, and he felt bruised in several places, but as far as he could discover he had suffered no serious injury. The guitar lay beside him.

  A woman came hurrying down the steps with a bowl of water and a towel.

  ‘Poor man,’ she said. ‘I saw you from my window above. They are dangerous, those steps; you were lucky you did not go right over into the gorge. Doubtless the good Sainte Dévote saved you – all praise to her.’

  ‘Doubtless,’ murmured Bertie.

  The woman bathed his head where the hair was wet and sticky. ‘The least you can do after this escape is to offer a candle or two in our little church of Ste. Dévote,’ she suggested.

  ‘Candles shall indeed be lighted,’ returned Bertie fervently, beginning to suspect that Mario had intended he should go into the gorge, in which case every bone in his body must have been broken.

  ‘There,’ said the woman. ‘I don’t think your skull is cracked, but if I were you I would rest for a little while.’

  ‘A thousand thanks, madame,’ answered Bertie, pulling himself to his feet. For a moment or two everything spun round him, but then steadied itself. ‘Yes, I think I am all right,’ he went on. ‘I will rest on a seat on the Quai de Plaisance. I shall remember you, madame, in my gratitude.’

  ‘A woman can do no less,’ was the pious response. ‘My little son fell in just the same way not long ago, and had it not been for Our Lady he must have been killed. Don’t forget to give thanks.’

  ‘You may be sure I shall not forget,’ answered Bertie earnestly. ‘My compliments to your husband, who is a lucky man to have a wife so sympathetic.’

  The woman smiled. ‘I must get back to my kitchen. Adieu, monsieur.’

  ‘Adieu, madame, and thank you.’

  The woman flung the bloodstained water in her bowl into the gorge and went off up the steps. Bertie, with his guitar under his arm, went down, and turned to where the little church faced across the harbour. A black-robed priest was just opening the doors.

  ‘Mon père1‘, said Bertie, taking a hundred-franc note from his pocket, ‘this morning I had a fall on the escalier above, and nearly lost my life. It is my desire to buy two large candles as a thank-you offering.’

  The priest smiled. ‘Come in, my son. You look pale. Are you hurt?’

  ‘Not much,’ answered Bertie.

  ‘Nevertheless, perhaps a small glass of cordial would help to restore the life which our Sainte Dévote undoubtedly saved.’

  ‘I think that would be a very good idea, Father,’ agreed Bertie, who was more shaken than he was prepared to admit.

  Ten minutes later, in broad daylight, feeling well enough to be angry with the man who had struck him down, he crossed the road and made his way along the Quai de Plaisance. It was deserted except for a young girl dressed in the sombre habit of the true Monégasque. When he first saw her she was strolling up and down as though waiting for someone, but when she noticed him, without altering her gait she began at once to move towards him – or so it seemed to Bertie, although he did not think this could really be the case.

  Reaching the seat for which he had been making, he sat down to wait for Algy, or possibly Ginger. It was time, he decided, to discuss things with them. He wasn’t even thinking about the girl, but he glanced up at her as she drew level. To his amazement – for the girls of Monaco are celebrated for their modesty – she made a movement with her head that said as plainly as words that she wanted him to follow her. Had it not been for the faint flush that rose to her olive cheeks as she did this he would have ignored the signal, thinking that he had been mistaken. As it was, he half rose, and then, embarrassed, sank down again.

  The girl strolled back, passed him, meeting his eyes squarely. She turned again, now walking back towards the Condamine. As she passed the bench she said quietly but distinctly, in English, ‘Please follow me, monsieur, but do not speak. Eyes may be watching.’

  She walked on, more quickly now, without once looking back.

  Bertie, not a little surprised, picked up his guitar and followed. Straight along the avenue of oleander trees that fringes the Boulevard Albert, where policemen stood at intervals, walked the girl in black, with Bertie at a reasonable distance behind. She crossed the Place d’Armes, where more police were standing near some ugly stains on the ground, and took the long ramp that leads from the harbour to the top of the rock on which the old village of Monaco has sat in the sun for two thousand years or more. Reaching the top, she crossed in front of the palace and turned into a narrow street where tall stone houses threw a welcome shade.

  When Bertie reached the entrance she was standing at the doorway of a private house. With a slight inclination of her head she disappeared. Reaching the spot, Bertie looked with suspicion into a hall so dark that for a moment he could see nothing. Was this, he wondered, a trap? Then he made out a pale oval face just inside.

  ‘Enter, monsieur,’ said a soft, sweet voice. ‘A friend awaits you.’

  Bertie went in and the girl closed the door.

  ‘This way, monsieur,’ she said, and ascended a flight of stairs. A door was opened, allowing bars of white sunlight to blaze across the corridor. Bertie stepped forward and looked into the room. In a high four-poster bed, his face nearly as pale as the counterpane, but smiling, lay Ginger.

  ‘Good lord!’ exclaimed Bertie.

  Ginger’s smile broadened. ‘Come in,’ he invited.

  A voice at Bertie’s elbow said quietly, ‘The patient is a little weak from loss of blood, that’s all. He wanted to get up, but we thought it better that he should rest for a while. You will be quite safe here, monsieur.’ The girl went out and closed the door.

  ‘Isn’t she a wizard?’ were Ginger’s first words, rich with enthusiasm.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Jeanette.’

  ‘Just a minute, old boy,’ protested Bertie. ‘What is this? Where are we? What’s going on?’

  Ginger raised his eyebrows. ‘Do you mean to say you don’t know whose house you’re in?’

  Bertie sat on the edge of the bed. ‘How should I know?’

  ‘I thought Jeanette would tell you. I asked her to go to the Quai de Plaisance to see if you were there – a thin bloke with a guitar.’

  ‘But who is this damsel?’ demanded Bertie.

  ‘Jeanette Ducoste – Henri’s sister. He called her his little sister, but I reckon she’s grown a bit since he went off to the war. This is number six, Rue Marinière,’

  Bertie exploded. ‘Well, I’m dashed! How did you get here?’

  ‘That,’ answered Ginger, ‘is a longish story. I did a spot of house-breaking and got plugged in the leg – I’m all right now, though; just a bit weak, that’s all. I thought it was about time we compared notes.’

  ‘I’ve got a few things to tell you, my lad,’ declared Bertie. ‘I’m not so bright myself. An Italian waiter walloped me on the book last night, and the old skull still rocks a bit.’

  Before Ginger could answer there came a sharp knock on the door below. Up the stairs came the sound of voices. A moment later the bedroom door was opened quietly and Jeanette answered. Her face was pale.

  ‘What is it, Jeanette?’ asked Ginger quickly.

  Jeanette moistened her lips. ‘It is the police,’ she whispered. ‘Mama is talking to them at the door.’

  1 French: My father.

  CHAPTER 8

  JOCK’S BAR

  WHEN ALGY HAD elected to go to Nice he knew that he had a long walk ahead of him; it seemed a good twelve miles. One thing in his favour was the gradient, which between La Turbie and Nice, drops nearly two thousand feet to sea level. Even so, it was a weary walk. Some of the views were magnificent even in the
moonlight, the sea on one hand and mountain peaks on the other, but with the fate of Biggles weighing heavily on his mind he was in no mood to appreciate them. He was relieved when, at last, at a bend of the road, after tramping for about three hours, he saw the wide panorama of Nice, the Brighton of the Riviera, before him.

  During the entire journey he saw only four persons, and all were police. His role was well tested. First he ran into a poste. Two men were on duty. They accepted his story of being a repatriated French soldier, bound for Nice, and allowed him to pass. Then he was stopped by a patrol of two more police. Much the same thing happened. He produced the papers provided by Air Commodore Raymond, and after a short examination was permitted to proceed. From these experiences he observed that the police were on the alert, more so than normal circumstances seemed to warrant. He suspected that the extra vigilance was the result of the Biggles affair.

  By the time he had descended the long hill leading down to the town, light were beginning to appear, and a few early risers were moving about the streets. From the clock on the casino in the Place Massena he learned that it was half-past four. There was nothing he could do in the dark, so, turning up his collar, he found a seat in the public gardens opposite the jetty, and managed to get in a nap. He was awakened by the calls of a boy selling newspapers.

  He turned down his collar, shook himself, and walked to the seawall, where began the famous Promenade des Anglais, a splendid esplanade stretching for several miles. He had no idea where Jock’s Bar was situated, or who Jock was, or whether the bar was open. He soon discovered that there were cafés and sun-bathing establishments at intervals all along the promenade. These premises, locally called bars, were not actually on the promenade, but under it, being approached by steps leading down to the beach. The name of each bar was advertised by a painted sign. Looking down over the railings at the first one, which carried the name Ruhl Plage, he saw that it was not so much a bar as a bathing beach; not that it mattered, because the shutters were up and the place was obviously closed, presumably for the duration of the war. The beach was deserted. It was the same with the second, and the third, which turned out to be his objective, the notice ‘Jock’s Bar’ being prominently displayed in sun-faded letters. Walking down the stone steps that led to the beach and the café, he saw that the place, like the rest, was shuttered. Not only was it closed, but high seas during the preceeding winter had flung tons of shingle over what had evidently been a concrete sun-bathing ‘apron’, and against the door. In fact, stones were piled along the whole front; some of them had been hurled so high and with such force by the waves, that the shutters were broken. It was obviously an ideal place for the purpose for which Biggles had proposed to use it, because, in the first instance, few people would be likely to pass along the front of it, and secondly, there were plenty of convenient places on which to write.