Biggles WWII Collection

by W E Johns

  ‘By Jove!’ he said. ‘You’re the blighter who dotted me on the skull 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 followed the fruit, and dodging the waving stiletto, hit the waiter in the stomach. ‘I’ll teach you, you nasty feller,’ he said. The waiter went over backwards among the rocks, falling 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 still snarling, using teeth and nails, Bertie silent, trying to break away to use his fists. Mario kicked Bertie on the shin, and the pain moved him to wrath.

  ‘All 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 killed 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 village, 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 shall hand you over to the police for letting the daylight into Signor Zabani. Oh, yes, I know all 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 of 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 will 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.’

  ‘Tell 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 sallow 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 all, you are at Castillon, and I didn’t expect to find you here.’

  ‘What has that to do with the princess?’

  ‘You killed 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 bucna sera3?’

  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 tell 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?’

  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! Really?’ 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 tell me that you had killed Zabani,’ he said in a voice as brittle as ice.

  Mario looked disconsolate. ‘Your pardon, highness. But the order came from – higher up.’

  ‘The jolly 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 Castillon 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. ‘Follow me, sir,’ she said quietly.

  1 French: van.

  2 French: van driver.

  3 Italian: Good evening.

  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 Peille, 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 hill he mounted his animal, and setting its face to the gradient, allowed it to choose its own gait.

  His fears about being stopped were well-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 allowed him to pass without asking embarrassing questions. The ascent to the top of the hill occupied two hours.

  Once on the lonely road that winds from La Turbie to Peille 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 valley 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 Angel, 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 halfway 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 lolling 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 traveller from falling headlong into the void. The donkey, wise like all its race, kept well 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 hollow sound.

  Not a single traveller did Ginger meet. The sun rose high into the heavens, flamed across its zenith, and began to fall towards the west; and still the land lay grey and lifeless. Of Peille 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 village 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 village into which, from his dizzy height, Ginger could have dropped a stone.

  A small boy in rags, barefoot, came up the road to meet him, strolling carelessly along the edge of the chasm. ‘Bon jour, monsieur,’ he greeted.

  Ginger pointed to the village ahead. ‘Have I arrived at Peille?’

  ‘Oui, monsieur.’

  Ginger pointed down at the village far below. ‘And that one?’

  ‘La Grave de Peille.’

  ‘Thank you, my little one,’ answered Ginger. ‘Here’s a sou for you.’

  The lad caught the coin adroitly, and dashed back to the village with his prize.

  Ginger shouted after him, ‘Where is the sanatorium?’

  The boy pointed to a large oblong building on the right of the road, standing a little way back, at the entrance to the village. ‘There it is,’ he called.

  ‘Thank you,’ replied Ginger. He tightened his reins. ‘Whoa, Lucille. 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 sanatorium. 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 village, on the side nearest to him. The front door and all 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 overalls – hung limply in the sun. Behind, a grey limestone bank rose steeply for several hundred feet to end in a jagged ridge. ‘Into the massif1, 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 Lucille, and then, by direct inquiry, ascertain if Henri was still there. In this he was encouraged by the apparent absence of the police and soldiers.

  He led Lucille a little way into the ravine and tethered her in the restful shade of the olives, allowing her enough rope to browse on the rough herbiage. This done he walked diagonally across the road to the front entrance of the sanatorium. Reaching it, he saw beyond the open door a large cool hall. There was no one in it. The only furniture was a form and one or two chairs against the walls, and a coat and hat rack on which hung several white jackets and other garments, presumably the property of the staff. All this was quite usual for a French country hospital.

  Ginger rang the bell. After a brief delay an old grey-bearded man came slowly, yawning, out of a side room, where apparently he had been resting. His jacket was unfastened, as was the collar of his shirt. Spectacles were balanced on his nose. On slippered feet he shuffled to where Ginger was waiting.

  ‘Pardon, monsieur, but are you the janitor?’ asked Ginger.

  ‘Yes. What do you want at this time of day? Is a man to have no rest?’

  ‘Having business this way, I have called to make inquiries on behalf of Madame Ducoste,’ said Ginger. ‘She has been informed that her son Henri is here.’

  The janitor came nearer. ‘Yes, there is a patient here of that name,’ he admitted. ‘Who are you? You speak with a queer accent.’

  ‘I am a friend of the family, monsieur. I have been away for some years, in Spain.’ ‘Ah!’

  ‘How is Monsieur Ducoste today?’

  ‘Better. They are coming to fetch him away.’

  ‘So we heard. Can I see him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But why not? I may never have another opportunity.’

  ‘Because, my young friend, he is in the charge of the police.’

  ‘Yes, we heard that too,’ answered Ginger in a melancholy voice. ‘Is he in a public ward?’

  ‘No, in a private room.’

  Ginger nodded. This was useful information. ‘Perhaps the police will let me see him?’

  ‘I doubt it.

  ‘I can but ask. Where can I find them?’

  The janitor yawned. ‘The sergeant is not yet back from his siesta. Monsieur André, the gendarme of Peille, guards the prisoner in his absence. If you are going to do anything you had better be quick. Ducoste is being taken to Nice. I expect the van here at any moment.’

  Ginger caught his breath. ‘Where can I find the sergeant?’

  ‘I wouldn’t disturb him.’

  ‘Then, with your permission, I will see Monsieur André.’

  ‘No, I can’t let you do that, but I will tell him you are here. There is a chance that he may let you see the unfortunate Ducoste, but by order of the prefect all visitors are forbidden.’

  ‘You speak as though you are sorry for Ducoste, monsieur?’ Ginger spoke as meaningfully as he dared.

  The Frenchman threw him a curious glance. ‘He would be a brave man, or a foolish one, to say what he thinks, in this country, today.’

  ‘Well, will you go and ask Monsieur André if I can see Henri just for a minute?’

  ‘Wait.’ The janitor walked off along the main corridor.

  Ginger watched him, for he realised that here was an opportunity for discovering where Henri was confined. To his great satisfaction the janitor did not turn up the stairs, but went along to the end door on the right-hand side of the corridor. From this Ginger gathered Henri was on the ground floor.

  The janitor was absent for about a minute, and then came back. ‘No use,’ said he. ‘Ducoste is not allowed visitors. Police orders.’

  ‘Then I have wasted my time,’ muttered Ginger gloomily.

  The janitor did not answer at once. He was looking past Ginger’s shoulder along the winding road to La Turbie. ‘This looks like the police van coming now,’ he observed.

  Turning, Ginger saw a dark-coloured van creeping round the lip of the gorge. He had no doubt that the janitor was right, and his heart sank, for although his brain was racing he could not think of a plan that promised the slightest chance of success.


  ‘You’d better be getting along,’ advised the janitor.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ agreed Ginger disconsolately. But he did not move. He was not yet ready to abandon hope.

  As the van drew near the janitor walked forward to the top of the steps, and as it stopped on the road, about twenty paces distant, he went forward to meet the occupants who now emerged. There were three men, not counting the chauffeur. The first was a short, thick-set man in a dark suit. He carried a pair of handcuffs in his left hand. Of the two with him, one was a policeman; the other wore the uniform of the Italian medical service. Talking quietly they moved forward together towards the steps of the sanatorium. The chauffeur lit a cigarette and followed leisurely.

  Ginger saw that if he was going to attempt a rescue he had about one minute in which to accomplish it. Once Henri was handcuffed, and in the car, there would be no hope at all, and the realisation of it made him desperate.

  The janitor, who had evidently forgotten him, had gone on down the steps and was talking to the newcomers. The whole group halted to hear what he had to say.

  If Ginger actually thought he was unaware of it. He acted on impulse. Crossing swiftly to the hat rack he unhooked a white jacket and then sped on down the corridor, putting on the jacket as he went. At the end door he stopped and knocked sharply. A voice invited him to enter. He went in, to find himself in a small whitewashed cubicle. There was an iron bed, and on it a man, his head swathed in bandages. Ginger barely glanced at him. He was looking at a French gendarme who, with his tunic unbuttoned, lolled, somewhat uncomfortably, in a wooden chair. To this man Ginger addressed himself.

  ‘We have arrived to take the prisoner to Nice,’ he said crisply.

  ‘I thought I heard the car pull up,’ announced the gendarme, rising.

  ‘The doctor is in the hall – he wants to see you,’ went on Ginger, trying to keep his voice natural. ‘I’ll take charge of the prisoner while you have gone.’

  The gendarme obeyed the order without the slightest hesitation. To all appearance it did not occur to him to question it. Buttoning his tunic he went out.

  The moment the door was closed behind him Ginger locked it on the inside and then went straight to the open window. As he had supposed, the room was at the end of the building, and did not overlook the front, but the side. A short distance away the lines of washing still hung limply in the stagnant air. Just beyond was the ravine in which Lucille rested in the shade. Satisfied with his inspection Ginger turned to Henri and spoke to him tensely.