by John Pearson
‘Torelli, sir. Contessa Torelli. At any rate, that’s what she calls herself. Appears to have done a bunk. Her yacht has disappeared and nobody has seen her.’
‘I’m not entirely surprised,’ replied the Colonel drily. ‘Still, she’s Nisberg’s headache and not ours, thank God! She won’t get very far. How much longer are you and Lacey planning to stay?’
‘Another week, sir — if you’ll let us.’
Biggles heard Colonel Raymond chuckle to himself.
‘That’s a good one, Bigglesworth. Yes of course I’ll let you. Very grateful too for all you’ve done. Have a good holiday. See you when you’re back.’
Devoted though he was to Colonel Raymond, Biggles felt understandably relieved to have heard the last of him — for a few days at least — and could hardly wait to tell Algy that their holiday task was over, but there was still no sign of him. Nor was there any message at reception.
‘Rum,’ thought Biggles to himself. ‘Probably spotted something in a skirt, if I know Algy.’ He was not particularly concerned. Algy would be back in time for luncheon, that was for sure. In the meantime he would sit on the terrace, drink a crème de cassis, and study the crime pages of the Nice Matin. It was a treat to have a spot of relaxation in the sun at last.
By one o’clock, Biggles had finished his aper from cover to cover and consumed three crèmes de cassis, but there was still no sign of Algy. This was annoying. Biggles was hungry and could smell the aroma of delicious cooking wafting from the kitchens. So it was with some impatience that he approached Gaston, the head porter, to inquire if there was any news of his friend, Monsieur Lacey.
Gaston shook his head. No, he hadn’t seen him since he went out two hours earlier. Did he say where he was going, Biggles asked.
‘Not exactly, sir.’
‘What do you mean, not exactly, Gaston?’
‘Well, sir, he was with a lady. Very beautiful too, sir.’
Something about the way the porter spoke made Biggles suddenly anxious.
‘Did you recognise the lady, Gaston?’
‘Mais bien sur, monsieur,’ said Gaston cheerfully. ‘It was the friend of the English aviateur who died. They went off together in her white Rolls-Royce.’
Biggles no longer felt like eating but there was little he could do. He tried to tell himself that he was getting alarmed over nothing and that Algy was more than competent to take care of himself with a mere woman. Perhaps he was, but all the time he had a vision of the Countess as he had seen her, calmly watching her lover’s body dragged from the harbour. Algy would be so much human putty in the hands of such a creature.
Biggles had no alternative but to hang on at the hotel waiting for the telephone to ring. It did — but not for him, and by five o’clock he knew the time had come to make a move.
‘But no, Monsieur Bigglesworth. It is impossible, impossible!’ exclaimed the local Commissaire de police, when Biggles tried explaining what had happened. He was a barrel of a man with pink-rimmed eyes and an immense moustache. ‘There is no way in which your friend Monsieur Lacey can have been with the Countess Torelli. Her yacht left Monte Carlo yesterday, and, entre nous monsieur, it was not a moment too soon. The French police are after her. A most distressing matter.’
‘I know,’ said Biggles grimly. ‘Most distressing. But that’s neither here nor there. The fact is that my friend has disappeared. Gaston, the head-porter at the Hotel de Paris, believes that he was with this woman. If he is, his life could be in danger. Would you please start inquiries.’
The Frenchman was clearly not accustomed to dealing with characters as resolute as James Bigglesworth. He shrugged, he picked his teeth, he attempted to prevaricate, but Biggles was insistent and, as usual, got his way. ‘Very well, monsieur,’ the Commissaire said grudgingly. ‘I will alert my men. They will be on the lookout for your friend, Mr Lacey. If there is any news I will telephone you at the Hotel de Paris, instantly.
But there was no news — not until next morning when the Commissaire rang in person, sounding more polite than he had been the day before. The white Rolls-Royce had been discovered — abandoned at the Aeroport in Nice. A man and a woman fitting the descriptions of Algy and the Countess had been at the airport the previous evening. They had hired a small two-seater and flown off.
‘Did anyone know where they were going?’ Biggles asked.
‘They said Toulon, along the coast,’ the Commissaire replied, ‘but I’ve telephoned the airport there. They’ve not arrived.’
‘Where are you now?’ asked Biggles terselv.
‘Why, at the Aeroport of Nice.’
‘Would you please wait, Monsieur le Commissaire. I’ll be with you in twenty minutes.’
In any other circumstances, Biggles would have enjoyed the Aeroport of Nice. There were palm trees round the perimeter of the field, a pleasant bar, an orange-coloured wind-sock flapping lazily in the sea-borne early morning breeze, but he was not in the mood to appreciate such niceties. Algy was in danger. That was all that counted now.
The Commissaire was there to greet him.
‘My apologies, Monsieur Bigglesworth,’ he said. ‘How do you English say, the bird has flown.’ He laughed, but Biggles silenced him.
‘Monsieur le Commissaire, this is urgent. My friend, Captain Lacey, is in danger with that woman. As you must know by now, she is a criminal, at the head of a network of other criminals. I intend to find him before it is too late.’
The Commissaire sucked at his moustache before replying.
‘That will be difficult, monsieur.’
‘Not at all,’ said Biggles. ‘If that woman could hire an aircraft, so can I.’
‘Ah, so you are an aviateur as well? That is very good, Monsieur Bigglesworth, but how will you know where to search for him? The Mediterranean is a large pond to search for such a tiny fish.’
‘If I know my friend,’ said Biggles, ‘he would not have gone without leaving me some clue to his destination. I wish to talk to the mechanic who saw them off last night.’
‘I already have. He could tell us nothing.’
‘Just the same, monsieur, with your permission I would like to talk to him myself.’
The mechanic was a typical Frenchman from the Midi — small, wiry, with a slightly puzzled smile. Biggles knew the type, and got on with him at once, particularly when they started talking about aircraft. Yes, he had seen the couple off. The aeroplane? A small, two-seater Darravaux. Its range? Five hundred kilometres normally.
‘Normally?’ said Biggles. ‘Why do you say normally?’
‘Well, it was strange, particularly as they said that they were only going to Toulon, but the woman would insist on taking extra petrol. Several cans of it.’
‘How much exactly?’ Biggles asked.
The mechanic scratched his head.
‘About 100 litres. Quite a lot. She was particularly anxious about it.’
‘And how far could they fly with all that extra petrol?’ Biggles asked.
‘Oh quite a way. Eight hundred kilometres at least.’
‘That’s interesting,’ said Biggles. ‘Now cast your mind back. Did you hear anything they said?’
The mechanic smiled at this and raised his hands apologetically.
‘Mais non monsieur! They spoke in English and I have no English.’
‘But you don’t remember a single word? A name? Anything? Think hard.’
The little man sucked his teeth with concentration. Finally he spoke.
‘The Englishman, he did say something I remember. He said it several times, a woman’s name.’
‘What name was that?’ asked Biggles quickly.
‘Lily, monsieur. I think he was trying to tell me that he was going to see Lily.’
Biggles racked his brains to think of any woman he and Algy knew called Lily. There had been one in Maranique but she had been married to the local chemist and, well, that was another story. Lily? Lily? There was Lily Pons the opera singer — hardly Algy’
s cup of tea — and there was the Lily of Laguna. No, nothing there. His mind went blank, and yet he was positive that if only he could think straight that simple female name must hold the clue he needed. He discussed the problem with the Commissaire, but he had nothing to suggest except for a notorious nightclub called Chez Lily in Antibes.
‘Sounds just the sort of place he would enjoy, but he’d hardly need to fly there with a double load of fuel aboard.’ As Biggles spoke these words they gave him an idea.
‘Monsieur le Commissaire,’ he said, ‘have you a large-scale map of this whole area of the Mediterranean?’
‘Of course,’ replied the Commissaire. ‘There is a very good one in the office. Come and see for yourself.’
‘Now,’ said Biggles, as he looked down upon the map, ‘the mechanic tells me that with the extra fuel abroad, the aircraft can fly 800 kilometres.’
The Commissaire nodded, and Biggles continued thoughtfully, picking up a pair of compasses from the navigation desk.
‘Suppose I set these compasses to exactly 800 kilometres against the scale of the map, then draw a circle with its centre here in Nice — its perimeter will mark the furthest distance that the plane can reach.’
‘D’accord,’ said the Commissaire nodding sagely, as Biggles began to draw.
‘We can obviously ignore the French mainland as she wishes to escape from France, so where does that leave us?’ He traced his finger along the lower part of the circle he had drawn. ‘They could just about reach the Spanish border here south of Perpignan, or anywhere here in southern Corsica. That’s possible, but somehow I feel Italy’s more likely. She has an Italian title and must know the country. The only question is whereabouts along this line in Italy?’
The Commissaire shook his head as if all this was far too much for him, and Biggles spent several minutes studying the map in silence. The names of the main Italian cities were familiar to him — from Venice in the east, down through Gubbio and Perugia to the coast below Grosseto — but none of them suggested anything to him, and it would obviously take days to search so large an area. Then suddenly the Commissaire thought Biggles had gone mad, for he gave an enormous whoop of joy, seized him by the arm, and yelled excitedly in English.
‘I’ve got it! Algy dear old boy, I’ve got it! Here monsieur, for Pete’s sake, have a look at that!’
He jabbed a finger on the map, but the Commissaire shook his head in mute incomprehension.
‘What does it say?’ shouted Biggles.
‘Isola del Giglio,’ said the Commissaire wearily. ‘An island off the coast of Italy. What’s so special about it, monsieur?’
‘The name,’ said Biggles. ‘What does it mean, Giglio?’
The Commissaire shrugged his shoulders.
‘How should I know, monsieur? I’m a policeman, not a linguist.’
‘It means Lily!’ shouted Biggles. ‘The Island of the Lily. I’ll bet a brand-new Bentley to a pair of braces that that’s where dear old Algy is.’
Twenty minutes later, Biggles was in the air, at the controls of a long-range Breguet biplane, heading south-east towards the coast of Italy.
Only one thought obsessed him now — would he still be in time? Before leaving, he had taken the precaution of putting through a quick call to Colonel Raymond, who had promised to do everything he could from London, including calling his old friend, General Maltesa, head of the Italian Carabinieri in Rome.
‘He’s a good egg, Maltesa, but you know that the Italians aren’t renowned for speed. If you value Lacey’s life, I would suggest you get to Giglio in double-quick time yourself. I’ve been talking to Nisberg about this Countess friend of yours. A very dangerous lady. Several murders to her credit under an early alias, and cunning as a snake. The network that she ran in France is broken, but she has other interests and accomplices and will already be planning some fresh devilment or other. Once Lacey has served his purpose to fly her out of France, I’d not give much for his chances of survival with a woman like the Countess.’
‘Over my dead body,’ muttered Biggles.
‘Better make sure it isn’t,’ replied Raymond before ringing off.
It was a perfect day and suddenly Biggles was in his element again. The sea was amethyst, the plane was flying like a bird and, but for the knowledge that his friend was still in danger, Biggles would have been happier now than at any time since his holiday began. Even Algy’s plight seemed less desperate now with the engine roaring steadily ahead and the wind singing in the guywires of the sturdy biplane. Corsica was below, its mountains rising from the sea, and Biggles took the aircraft up to 15,000 feet. Then there was sea again, with nothing but the occasional small boat below to show that he was even moving. The hands of the dashboard clock ticked by. He checked his course against his compass bearing, and suddenly land appeared, a grey smudge low on the left horizon. Ten minutes later it had turned into an island, slap on course. Giglio — the island of the Lily.
He had no plans except to find a landing place and then to let events take whatever course they pleased. With this in mind he brought the aircraft down, and circled the tiny island at 500 feet. There was no obvious sign of life, apart from two fishing boats at anchor in the little harbour. He flew inland, following the line of a cart-track to the centre of the island. There were odd cottages and isolated farms but little else — and nowhere for an aeroplane to land. Then suddenly he saw what he was looking for — towards the northern tip of the island was a large white house, with a rough field behind it. To the ordinary mortal it would have appeared quite unremarkable but Biggles’ practised eye saw something that he recognised at once — tracks on the ground that could be made by one thing only, an aircraft taking off or landing. He banked and flew round behind the house. There were two parked cars and further on a path that led to a natural harbour by the rocks.
‘So that’s where the Evening Cloud goes when she’s not at Monte Carlo,’ he murmured. ‘O.K. Algy, here we come!’
With this he banked again, roared across the house, and then came in for a perfect three-point landing.
He had been expecting some reaction, and gripped his automatic as the plane rolled to a dusty halt, but there was not the faintest sign of life. He jumped down from the cockpit and began to walk towards the house — still nothing happened, and the place seemed silent as the grave. He shouted. No one answered. The house was shuttered, but when he tried the frontdoor it opened and he entered. It took a moment for his eyes to accustom themselves to the dint light in the room beyond.
‘Good God!’ he suddenly exclaimed with horror.
There were four people in the room sitting around a table. All had been tied firmly to their chairs. Three of them were men he had never seen before, but the fourth was wearing a black dress and had long blonde hair. All of them were very dead. Biggles was stunned at first and then his instinct was to get away from this house of death. But he had come here to find Algy, and was not leaving till he had.
It took him several minutes more to search the house, gun in hand, but there was not the faintest sign of life. In one room was a large laboratory, where presumably the drug ring had once had its factory. In another was a radio transmitter, but of Algy, and the unknown murderers of the quartet in the dining room, there was not the faintest sign.
Biggles started shouting, ‘Algy! Algy!’ Total silence followed. Then suddenly he did hear something — a tapping noise from somewhere underneath his feet.
He called again and once more the tapping seemed to answer, but when he looked around the room all he could see was the stone-flagged floor of the ancient kitchen. He called a third time and now managed to locate the sound. It seemed to issue from somewhere near the fireplace, and when he looked there closely, he could see a large stone slab that did duty for a hearth. He pulled at it. It moved. He pulled again, and underneath it he could see a narrow flight of steps descending into darkness. Using his pocket torch to show the way, he lowered himself through the cavity and found he was
in an old wine cellar underneath the house. There, bound hand and foot, and tightly gagged, lay a dishevelled figure — Algy.
‘My dear old chap!’ gasped Biggles with relief. ‘However long have you been lying there?’
A muffled groan issued in reply, and Biggles carefully removed the gag.
‘Biggles, old boy,’ said Algy weakly. ‘I thought you’d never come.’
‘Whatever happened?’ Biggles asked, when they were safely out of the house.
‘I’m not too sure myself,’ Algy answered. ‘That woman tricked me into going with her. She said you’d been delayed and had asked her to drive me down to meet you.’
‘A likely tale,’ growled Biggles. ‘Still, go on.’
‘When I realised she had tricked me, it was too late. She had a gun. She forced me to fly her here — and that was that. As soon as we arrived I was trussed up by her merry men and shoved into the cellar.’
‘But what about the killings? How did they occur?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest, old chap, and that’s a fact. All that I heard was a lot of scuffling and shouting around lunch-time. She started screaming something in Italian and there were shots. That was all. Next thing I heard was the sound of shutters being closed and doors slammed. I’d say there were half a dozen men, judging by the noise. Italians, and they all seemed pretty worked up, I can tell you. They must have cleared off straight away. Who d’you think they were, old boy?’
‘Members of some rival gang, I’d say. Either the Mafia or the Union Corse. I shouldn’t think we’ll ever know for sure. That lady friend of yours had obviously got herself a lot of enemies. If you ask me, you were lucky to be in the cellar. Had they known you were there, they’d certainly have done for you as well.’
‘Well, that’s something I have to thank her for,’ said Algy, managing a grin. ‘But Christopher Columbus, what a dreadful way to go!’
‘If ever anyone deserved it,’ answered Biggles, ‘it was your friend the Countess. She was a murderess, a gangster, and she had ruined countless lives through drugs. Take my advice and save your pity.’