by W E Johns
He watched her curiously while she covered a distance of perhaps a hundred yards. His curiosity mounted when he saw her stop, take a swift pace forward, and start doing something on the wall. She appeared to be rubbing it. This struck him as an extraordinary thing for a girl to do at that hour of the morning. He could not imagine what she was doing. With his eyes still on her he sauntered on, not wishing to risk causing a scene by accosting her. But when he saw that she was actually writing his curiosity could no longer be contained, and he broke into a sharp walk. At that moment the girl glanced furtively up and down the quay. She saw him at once, as was inevitable. She stopped what she was doing, and walking quickly to the escalier, disappeared from view.
Algy walked briskly to the spot where she had been working, and then stopped in astonishment. There was writing on the wall, and it was blue. In fact, there was more than that. Something had been erased, or rather, scribbled over, as though a message had been made illegible. Just on the right of this scrawl had been written in blue pencil, CASTILLON, AU BON CUISINE3. MAYDAY.
For a full minute Algy stared at this extraordinary message which – there was no doubt of this in his mind – he had actually just seen written. Then he tore up the escalier. The girl in the blue shawl was not in sight. He raced to the top of the steps, looked left and right, but of the girl there was no sign. The only person in view was an old man cleaning the windows of the water company’s offices.
Now it is one thing to sit quietly at home and work out a complex puzzle, but it is an entirely different thing to be suddenly confronted with an unexplainable event, and know exactly what to do. Algy did not know what to do – or rather, he wanted to do two things at once. He wanted to find the girl, and he wanted to re-read the message to make sure that it was actually there. He could not do both, so for a moment or two he did neither. He stood like a man bemused, gazing up and down the road, hoping that the girl would reappear. But in this he was disappointed. So, when she did not show up, he made his way down to the quay and re-read the message. It was there all right. CASTILLON. AU BON CUISINE. MAYDAY.
In this cryptic message, only one word really meant anything. Castillon conveyed nothing at all. It might, thought Algy, be a man’s name, or a place – in fact, it might stand for almost anything. Au bon cuisine was a little more comprehensive, but not much. It might refer to some particular kitchen, or a place of good cooking. But MAYDAY, that was different. To a layman it might not mean much – perhaps merely the first day of May; but to Algy, as an airman, the word had a profound significance. For Mayday, derived from the French ‘m’aidez,’ meaning ‘help me’, is the international distress signal of aircraft in grave danger and in need of assistance. So, not only was the message a cry for help, but the use of the word implied that the person was accustomed to the technicalities of aviation. Written in blue, the colour chosen by Biggles, it would be a coincidence indeed if the message had not been sent, if not actually inscribed, by him. True, there was no triangle, but the girl had departed in such haste that she might well have overlooked it, even if it had been her intention to make such a mark. Where the girl in the blue shawl fitted into the puzzle was not apparent. But that did not matter. The great thing was, the message had only just been written, which meant – unless an incredible coincidence had occurred – that Biggles was still alive, and needed help. The girl, who would hardly be likely to understand the use of the word Mayday unless she had been told, must be in touch with him. The more Algy thought about it the more certain he became that this was the only reasonable answer.
He regretted bitterly that he had not followed her, but regrets being futile, he decided to walk the streets until he found her; but hearing a step behind him he turned to find himself being regarded by an extremely ugly man with a cast in one eye – a boatman, or a fisherman, judging by his clothes. His sudden appearance reminded Algy of something he had forgotten, the two people he had come to the quay to find – Bertie and Ginger. They had still not put in an appearance. Perhaps the boatman had seen something of them – or at any rate, Bertie, whose guitar made him conspicuous.
He addressed the man in French. ‘Excuse me for troubling you, but have you seen a man on this quay carrying a guitar?’
The man regarded him stonily. He spat, with thoughtful deliberation, into the sea. ‘No,’ he said distinctly.
‘Were you here yesterday?’
‘I am always here.’
‘And you did not see him – all day?’
The man’s eyes half closed. ‘I have said,’ he rasped, ‘I have not seen any man with a guitar.’
Algy did not press the question. ‘I am a stranger in these parts,’ he explained. ‘Tell me, does the word Castillon mean anything to you?’
The man considered the matter. ‘It may – and it may not,’ he replied.
Algy perceived that he was not likely to learn much from this churlish fellow. He had one last try.
‘Is it a place – a village, perhaps?’
‘It was,’ replied the man. ‘Are you thinking of going there?’
‘Yes.’
The man laughed. ‘The cats will be pleased to see you,’ he observed.
‘Cats?’ Algy began to think he was dealing with a madman. ‘Is this a village of cats?’ he queried.
The man nodded. He seemed to be enjoying a private joke. ‘That’s right – a village of cats. The cats eat the birds. You will be able to eat the cats.’ Roaring with laughter the man turned towards a motor-boat that was tied up to the quay.
Algy took a last look round. Then, deep in thought, he walked slowly up the steps of the Escalier du Port. Looking back from the top he could see no sign of Bertie or Ginger. Only a young girl in black was walking along the Quai de Plaisance.
1 French: police station.
2 French: Good evening.
3 French: Castillon. Where the cooking is good.
CHAPTER 10
SHATTERING NEWS
WHEN BERTIE AND Ginger, in the bedroom at Number 6, Rue Marinière, heard the police at the door, they assumed, naturally, that they had been traced. Had there been any way of escape it is likely that Bertie would have taken it, but hastening to the window he found himself gazing down for a hundred feet or more on to a pile of jagged rocks. Definitely, there was no escape that way. Indeed, it seemed that there was nothing they could do.
Ginger’s first thought was for Jeanette and her mother, who had taken him in and befriended him, for it seemed likely that if alleged spies were discovered on the premises they would find themselves facing a firing party as accessories.
‘I’m sorry about this, Jeanette,’ he said bitterly, taking her hand. ‘I should not have come here. Nor should I have asked you to find my friend and bring him here.’
‘You did quite right to come here, monsieur,’ said Jeanette softly.
During this brief interval voices could be heard at the door, but the actual words could not be distinguished. The voices ended abruptly. A door was closed. Footsteps could be heard slowly ascending the stairs. Jeanette ran to the corridor, looked out and came back.
‘It is Mama,’ she said. ‘The police have gone.’
Ginger could hardly believe his ears. He had quite made up his mind that the house was about to be searched.
Madame Ducoste came slowly into the room. Nobody spoke. All eyes were on her face, which was as pale as death.
‘Messieurs,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It is tragic news.’
‘You mean – they know I came here?’ said Ginger.
‘No. The visit had nothing to do with you. It concerned Henri.’
‘Henri?’ cried Bertie, incredulously.
‘Oui, monsieur. He has been caught. It seems that the night before last he flew to these parts, doubtless to look again on his home; but in returning his engine failed, and he crashed.’
Algy glanced at Bertie. ‘Where did this happen, madame?’
‘Just beyond Pielle. Between Pielle and Baudon.’
&nb
sp; ‘Was he hurt?’
‘Yes, but not badly. His head was cut, and for a time he was unconscious. They carried him to Pielle, where a doctor attended him, and where he will remain until he is well enough for the police to take him to Nice.’
‘And then, madame?’
‘He will be tried as a traitor.’
‘This is what the police told you.’
‘Oui, monsieur. They came to inform me officially of his arrest, and to ask me if he had been here.’
‘You told them no?’
‘I told them the truth. He has not been here.’
‘Yes, we know that, madame,’ said Ginger quietly. ‘Because we know the errand that brought him here. It was he who brought us to Monaco. His engine must have gone wrong soon after he started back for England. I’m sorry now that I did not tell you this before, but it seemed cruel to burden you with anxiety. I thought it was better that you should not know that it was he who brought us here in case by any chance you were questioned by the police. Then you could tell the truth, saying that you knew nothing of him.’ Ginger looked at Bertie. ‘I told madame that we knew Henri as a pilot of the Fighting French,’ he explained. ‘I did not tell her that he brought us here.’
‘Madame Ducoste sank into a chair, tragedy written on her face. ‘They will shoot Henri,’ she said in a dull voice.
‘Bertie spoke. ‘Do you know where he is, in Peille, madame?’
‘In the sanatorium.’
‘Is there a guard?’
‘A gendarme remains always with him.’
Bertie looked at Ginger. ‘I’ve been to this place, Peille. It’s about six miles from La Turbie, as the crow flies, at the far end of the valley in which we landed. It sits on a ledge, in the mountains. The sanatorium is just this side of the village.’ To madame he said, putting his hand on her shoulder, ‘Don’t give up hope. There is still time for us to do something.’ Ginger had never seen him so serious.
‘But what can you do?’ asked Madame Ducoste, helplessly.
‘Leave the matter in our hands,’ answered Bertie. ‘It is rash to make promises, but we do not desert our friends.’
‘I am sure of that,’ breathed Jeanette.
‘Confound this wound in my leg . . .’ began Ginger.
‘How long is it going to take to get right?’ asked Bertie.
‘I think I could get about,’ returned Ginger. ‘I’m a bit weak, that’s all. It was madame’s suggestion that I should rest for a day or two, and until this happened I was prepared to take her advice.’
‘I will make some soup,’ said madame, and went down to the kitchen.
‘You had better go down, too, mademoiselle,’ suggested Bertie. ‘We would like to talk things over.’
Jeanette’s eyes smiled at Ginger, and she followed her mother down the stairs.
‘Now that’s my idea of a girl,’ declared Ginger. ‘I’m absolutely crazy about her. She’s the most marvellous thing . . .’
‘Here, I say, just a minute, old boy,’ reproved Bernie. ‘Keep your hand on the jolly old throttle or you’ll be out of control before you know where you are. Things are complicated enough as it is; if you’re going to start ordering bouquets and writing poetry . . .’
‘Okay – okay,’ broke in Ginger. ‘She speaks English jolly well, too. Before the war madame used to let apartments to English visitors.’
Bertie took out his monocle and turned a cold eye on his companion. ‘I don’t care if she speaks Greek, Arabic, Hindustani and Urdu. Is this a romance or a rescue? What I’m waiting to hear is, how did you come to get in this mess?’
In a few words Ginger told him what had happened. ‘I don’t know where this waiter Mario comes in,’ he concluded, ‘but he’s in the party. Biggles must have gone to the Chez Rossi. Mario of the Chez Rossi kills the man who double-crossed the princess. That isn’t coincidence. I followed him to the Villa Valdora and got landed with the murder. I was all in when I got here, and passed out on the floor. Jeanette and her mother were marvellous . . .’
‘You’ve said that before.’
‘I shall probably say it again,’ declared Ginger. ‘They looked after me as if I was their own son. When I came round I told them as much as I dare – 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. Naturally, 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 followed 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 bonce when I tried to have a dekko at it proves that. He’s a nasty piece of work. I’ll 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 still 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 all I can think is there must have been some writing on the wall 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 wall, monsieur?’ she inquired.
‘Why, yes, mademoiselle,’ replied Bertie, looking surprised. ‘Do you know anything about it?’
‘Only that I have seen writing on a wall.’
‘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 wall?’
‘Not a word,’ declared Ginger. ‘Tell 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 hill this morning at the early hour to seek monsieur of the guitar—’
‘Call 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 wall. I think, what can a girl do so early with a wall, so as I walk I watch. A man, he comes. He goes near. Voila! Mademoiselle of the shawl blue runs up the Escalier du Port. Monsieur, he runs to the place where she does something to the wall. He is agitated. He runs up the escalier. He runs back, tout de suite1. 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 wall to see what happens that makes everyone run. I see writing. C’est tout2.’
‘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: Castillon. 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 wall 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 actually saw the girl writing. I wonder where he went?’
Jeanette smiled. ‘He has gone, monsieur, to Castillon.’
‘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 Castillon.’
‘That’s the name you said was written on the wall.’
‘Of course.’
‘What is this word, Castillon?’
‘Castillon is a village, monsieur. That is what is so droll.’ Jeanette smiled again.