by W E Johns
‘What’s funny about it?’
‘No one is there, except cats, and, it is said, the ghosts.’
‘Jeanette, please be serious,’ pleaded Ginger. ‘This is very important.’
‘Pardon, monsieur, but I speak the truth.’
‘Tell me about Castillon.’
‘It is a village deserted, monsieur, in the mountains behind Mentone, fifteen kilometres, perhaps, from Monaco. I walk there once, with my brother Henri, for a pique-nique3. It sits in a col – how you say? A gorge of the most steep, like a cut in the mountains. It is, to look at, like a heap of grey bones. You see, monsieur, one day long ago, when my father is a young man, there is an earthquake, and many of the houses fall down. The people are so afraid they run, they run all the time; they do not stop running until they come to Mentone. They do not go back – never. So the village it remains as it was left. Only the cats stay, many cats, which makes it the more desolate. That is why Monsieur Budette thinks it is a great joke for a man to go there.’
‘Thank you, Jeanette.’ Ginger looked at Bertie. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere. If the message is to be believed, someone is in need of help at this quaint village. It might be Biggles.’
‘But who is this girl in the blue shawl?’
‘How do I know? We’ll find out. Let’s get along. Algy is already on the way.’
‘But you’re in no case to go climbing about mountains.’
‘There must be a path. Is there a path, Jeanette?’
‘Yes, monsieur.’
Bertie broke in. ‘But you’re not fit enough—’
‘I’m feeling fine,’ declared Ginger. ‘A bit weak, that’s all. I can’t lie here with all this going on.
‘What about Henri?’
‘We shall have to do something about that, too.’
‘Your soup will be cold, messieurs,’ reminded Jeanette.
‘All right. We’ll eat it and talk things over. You’d better go back to your mother, Jeanette.’
‘If you say, monsieur.’ Jeanette went out.
‘Now let’s try to fix a definite plan,’ went on Ginger.
‘What do you suggest?’
‘We’ve got two angles to cover. First, someone ought to follow Algy to Castillon, to make contact with him and let him know what has happened here, and to find out what he knows. Two, someone will have to go to Peille to rescue Henri.’
‘That sounds a tall order.’
‘We can’t just abandon him.’
‘No, by Jove, that’s right enough,’ agreed Bertie.
‘I’ll tell you what,’ suggested Ginger. ‘You push off right away to Castillon and try to get hold of Algy – assuming he’s there. Tell him about Henri, and say I’ve gone to Peille in the hope of getting him out. When I’ve got him I’ll join you at Castillon. If for any reason you have to leave the place, come back to the Quai de Plaisance. We’d better keep that the permanent rendezvous.’
‘That’s all right, but do you think you can manage to get to Peille?’
‘I’m jolly well going to try it. After all, Henri is Jeanette’s brother.’
Bertie finished his soup and put his eyeglass in his pocket. ‘And you’re the bold Sir Galahad? Well, don’t let this damsel-in-distress stuff—’
‘What are you talking about?’ broke in Ginger angrily. ‘I should have gone after Henri, anyway.’
‘Of course – of course – absolutely, old boy.’ Bertie rose and picked up his guitar. ‘Well, if you’re satisfied with the arrangement I’ll toddle along and visit the cats of Castillon. I’ll give you one tip. You can trust François Budette. If things get really hot, go to him for advice. Tell him who you are, and all that sort of thing. If for any reason I don’t show up again, go to him. At a pinch I may be able to get a message through to him.’
‘Good enough,’ agreed Ginger.
Bertie put what was left of the bread in his pocket and went to the door. ‘Don’t let those dark eyes of young Jeanette take you too far off your course – if you get my meaning,’ he advised.
‘You go to – Castillon,’ snarled Ginger.
Bertie chuckled and departed on his mission.
As soon as he had gone Ginger got out of bed and started to dress. His leg was stiff, and he had a moment of giddiness that made him clutch the bedpost; but the spasm soon passed, and apart from a feeling of lassitude, which he put down to loss of blood, he felt fairly normal. When Jeanette came up a few minutes later to collect the dishes she found him fully dressed.
‘She uttered a cry of surprise. ‘Why this you do, monsieur?’ she scolded.
‘Because, mademoiselle, I have work to do,’ answered Ginger.
‘But where are you going?’
‘To Peille, to see Henri. We can’t leave him there. Once the police get him to Nice it will be more difficult to save him. I am going at once, hoping to be in Peille before he leaves.’
‘But where is Monsieur Bertie?’
‘He has other work to do, in Castillon.’
‘But you cannot do this, monsieur,’ protested Jeanette.
‘Why not?’
‘Because, in the first place, you are wounded, and it is many kilometres to Peille; and secondly because the police they look for you. You have no chance of getting out of the principality.’
Keen as he was to go, Ginger perceived the truth of these arguments. ‘Let us deal with these things one at a time,’ he said. ‘Is it possible to get a vehicle to take me – at least, up the hill as far as La Turbie?’
‘Vehicle? What is this?’
‘A taxi.’
‘There are no taxis now in Monaco.’
‘A horse and cart, then?’
‘What few horses there are are weak from want of food. They are rarely seen out. By taking one you would draw attention to yourself. It might be possible to get a donkey.’
Ginger blinked. ‘A donkey?’
‘But yes. Many people here use donkeys to fetch the wood, the coal, to carry the fish and vegetables in the basket. My aunt has such a one.’
‘Will she sell it, or hire it to me?’
‘I will ask Mama to speak to her about it.’
‘Would this donkey carry me, do you think?’
‘Surely. The donkey is a good little beast, better than a horse on these mountain roads, which is why we use him. He is used to carrying people. I will ask Mama of this.’
Jeanette called her mother, who came in looking as though she had been crying. The matter was explained to her. The expedition, she opined, was fantastique, but she would ask about the donkey.
Ginger pulled out a wad of notes that made her gasp. ‘Take as much money as you think will be necessary, madame, and say that if the expedition is successful I may be able to bring the donkey back, but this, of course, I cannot promise.’
At first Madame Ducoste refused to take any money, but Ginger pressed some on her and she departed on her errand.
‘Now what can I do about myself so that the police will not recognize me?’ asked Ginger.
‘We must make you into a Monégasque,’ declared Jeanette, smiling. ‘For clothes there is no trouble, for you may have those of Henri. They are old, but that is all the better. But your face is too white and your hair is too red. For your face I have the very thing – and perhaps for your hair. Wait.’
Jeanette went out and returned with a bottle and a small jar. ‘These were left here by our last English lady,’ she explained. ‘This oil in the bottle is for to make the skin brown, to prevent the burning when one bathes in the sun. The visitors here all use it to make them brown. Voila! Monsieur.’
‘What’s that in the jar?’
‘Mascara, monsieur. Some girls use it to make their eyebrows black. For me that is not necessary. Perhaps it will make your hair black. You may try while I fetch the clothes of Henri.’
With Henri’s clothes, the sun-bronze oil, and the mascara, Ginger so altered his appearance that when he looked in the mirror it gave him a shock. The
y were laughing about it when a clatter of hooves announced the arrival of madame with the donkey. They went down to the door to see it, and found it, already saddled, with panniers attached to the saddle on each side. Its name, Ginger learned, was Lucille.
‘If you are questioned, for what purpose are you going to Peille?’ asked madame shrewdly. ‘It would be a good thing to know.’
Ginger hadn’t thought of that. ‘What can I fetch?’ he asked.
‘You could be fetching olive oil or wine from Monsieur Bonafacio, who is a seller of such things in Peille,’ suggested madame.
‘I’ll remember it,’ promised Ginger, feeling in his pockets to make sure that he had transferred everything from his own clothes.
Madame went through to the kitchen and returned with a parcel which she thrust in one of the panniers. ‘You will need food,’ she explained.
Ginger took the bridle and held out his hands. ‘Au revoir, madame,’ he said with sincerity. ‘I shall always remember your kindness.’
‘Adieu, monsieur. Give my love to Henri if you see him.’
Ginger turned to Jeanette and took her hands. ‘Au revoir, Jeanette,’ he said softly.
‘You will come back, monsieur?’ she whispered.
‘Not all the Axis4 armies shall keep me from you!’ swore Ginger, and moved by an impulse he kissed her on the forehead.
Jeanette broke away and ran into the house.
Ginger turned to her mother. ‘Have I done wrong?’ he asked in a hurt voice.
Madame smiled a knowing smile. ‘I ran away from my husband just so,’ she answered. ‘Women are like that,’ she added vaguely. ‘I’ll take care of her. Go with God, monsieur. We shall pray for you.’
Ginger raised his faded beret. ‘Thank you, madame. Au revoir.
He turned to the donkey, who was watching these proceedings with big brown eyes. ‘Come on, Lucille,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Holding the reins, followed by Lucille, he set off down the narrow street.
1 French: immediately.
2 French: That’s all.
3 French: picnic.
4 The armies of Germany and Italy.
CHAPTER 11
THE CATS OF CASTILLON
STILL HOPING TO see the girl in the blue shawl, Algy hastened up the hill to Monte Carlo, looking along the seats of the famous terraces in front of the casino, and walked through the spacious gardens to the main road that runs behind them, the road that runs through Mentone to the Italian frontier, only a few miles distant. Observing an open market on the left he turned into it, still seeking the girl in blue. There were many coloured shawls, but none of the particular tint he hoped to see. Several loungers were leaning against some iron railings, watching the scene, and he addressed them.
‘Bon jour, messieurs. What would be my best way of getting to Castillon?’
‘To Castillon!’ cried two of the men together.
‘Yes.’
One of the men, looking at the sky as though invoking inspiration, exclaimed, ‘Now, why would a man go to Castillon?’
Algy moved uncomfortably. He had a feeling he was on dangerous ground. ‘It is just an excursion, to look round the place,’ he said casually, trying to pass the matter off as of no importance.
‘An excursion! Ah, well – that’s different,’ said another man, a swarthy Monégasque. ‘Nobody goes to Castillon, but if you take the autobus to Mentone, there is, I hear, a bus service once a day, some time in the afternoon, to Sospel, and the road passes at no great distance from Castillon. Doubtless the driver would put you off there if you asked him.’
‘Merci. And where do I catch the bus for Mentone?’
The man pointed to the steps of a church. ‘The bus leaves there at ten o’clock.’
Algy thanked the speaker, and glancing at the church clock, saw that he had more than an hour to wait, so he joined a noisy throng in a nearby café and made a breakfast of bread and imitation coffee. Just before ten, seeing people beginning to collect at the bus stop, he went over and took his place.
He found himself standing next to a dark, fierce-looking man, dressed in black, carrying a heavy shopping bag. To pass the time, and perhaps learn something of interest, he attempted to get into conversation with him, but received a rebuff so different from the usual courteous manner of the people that he was astonished. He said no more. The bus came in nearly an hour late, a circumstance that appeared to occasion no surprise among those who waited for it. There was a rush that packed it to suffocation, after which, with a crash of gears, the driver set off at a pace that made Algy close his eyes, although the other passengers continued to talk as though nothing unusual was happening.
Ten minutes later, in an avenue backed by tall white villas, evidently the outskirts of an important town, the bus was stopped by two Italian police. It was a bad moment for Algy, who thought they might be looking for him. But this proved not to be the case. The police merely made the driver pull into a private drive, and informed him, and the passengers, that the vehicle would be going no farther. They were advised to walk. No explanation was given. Algy got out with the others and walked the rest of the way to Mentone.
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 usually 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 all. Contemplating walking, he asked how far it was to Castillon, 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 uphill all the way. Algy came to the conclusion that they were all 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 Castillon; 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 filled with Italian troops roared through. Others followed. Then came tanks and armoured cars. Algy could not make out what was happening.
A radio loudspeaker 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 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 travelling had taken the edge off the man’s ill humour, he tried his luck again with a question.
‘Is it possible that this bus will 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.
&n
bsp; ‘I do not care whether it gets to Sospel or not,’ was the curt reply.
‘Ah! Perhaps you are only going as far as Castillon?’ suggested Algy hopefully, and was instantly appalled 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’ll have more room when I get out, for I’m only going as far as Castillon,’ went on Algy cheerfully. ‘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 tell 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 hill that seemed interminable. It panted and lurched round bends, some of them so sharp that the driver had to ‘tack’ round them, with a wall of rock on one side and a sheer drop on the other.
The driver stopped at a village. 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 filled with Italian soldiers had already come down the hill, 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 followed. ‘That,’ he said, ‘is Italy.’
Algy began to understand why the Italian troops were so thick. ‘How far is it up the road to Castillon?’ he asked.
The man started. ‘To Castillon? 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 village on your left, cross the col. If you keep to the road it will take you longer.’