by W E Johns
‘Pretty good,’ agreed Algy. ‘But about the parachutes. We have things to carry; they are likely to get broken.’
‘We can heave them over on a special brolly3,’ suggested Ginger.
‘Yes, of course. But what shall we do with the parachutes, Henri? Is there any place where we can hide them?’
Again Henri stabbed the map with an enthusiastic finger. ‘Here on the Peille road there are no ’ouses. Only one. The stone walls have all fall down. Put your parachutes inside and cover them with stones, and no one sees them. But it is so simple.’
Algy looked at the others. ‘Henri has certainly got the right ideas. ‘We’ll take his advice.’
‘I throw you down in good place,’ promised Henri. ‘I am a Monégasque. I know this country all over.’ His eyes moistened, without shame, as only those of a Latin can. ‘One day I go back and see my mother, and my little sister, Jeanette. My father, he is dead five years now.’
‘And your mother still lives in Monaco?’ asked Algy.
‘But yes.’
‘Where? It might be possible that we could give her a message from you.’
‘La-la? That would be most marvellous!’ cried Henri. ‘They know I go to the war and for them that is the end. They do not know if I am alive or dead. I dare not try to send the message, because if it is known I fly for De Gaulle perhaps they are put in a concentration camp for hostages.’
‘Where do they live?’
‘At Monaco, on the Rock – the old village. Number six, Rue Marinière. It is the first little street opposite the palace. If you see them, say that Pepé’ – Henri blushed slightly – ‘they call me Pepé,’ he explained. ‘Say that Pepé sends his love and is of the best health, fighting for France.’
‘We ought to be able to manage that,’ asserted Ginger.
‘Let’s have a good look at the map,’ suggested Algy. ‘It would be as well to make ourselves absolutely au fait4 with the country.’
‘I say, chaps, there’s one thing we seem to have left out of the calculations,’ put in Bertie. ‘What about the jolly old princess?’
‘What about her?’ snorted Ginger. ‘She was the cause of all the trouble. As far as I am concerned she can stay where she is, wherever that may be, or she can splash her own way out of the kettle of fish she put on to boil at Monte Carlo. Let’s forget her.’
1 Soldiers, who were captured by the enemy, were entitled to be humanely treated and held prisoner, but spies on both sides were shot, if captured. If a soldier wore disguise or discarded his uniform he was considered a spy and liable to be shot.
2 French: Look.
3 Slang: parachute
4 French: acquainted.
CHAPTER 3
THE ROAD TO MONTE CARLO
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, a little before twelve, Henri’s Berline Breguet glided quietly at twenty thousand feet, on a southward course, over the grey limestone mass of the departement1 of France known as the Alpes Maritimes. The air was still, clear and warm, as it is at this pampered spot on three hundred days of the year. Far to the east the silver disc of the moon hung low over Italy, just clearing the peaks of the Ligurian Alps, which, like the edge of a saw, cut a jagged line across the sky. Into the west ran the deeply indented coastline of the French Riviera. To the south, glistening faintly to the moon, lay the age-old Mediterranean Sea, silent, deserted, centre of the bitterest wars of conquest since history began.
Henry nudged Algy, who sat beside him, and pointed ahead. ‘Voila!’2 he breathed. ‘Monaco.’
Algy could just make out a town of considerable size, standing, it seemed, knee-deep in the sea between two capes, one large, the other small and blunt, like a clenched fist.
Henri named them. ‘On the left, Cap Martin. On the right, the little one, the Rock of Monaco, where I live when I am home. Between, on the hill, Monte Carlo. The big white building, she is the casino. At the bottom of the hill on the right, the harbour, which we call La Condamine. Now we go down.’
Henri circled, losing height, for several minutes, paying close attention to the ground. At last he levelled out and held the machine steady.
‘Now you go,’ he said sharply. ‘We glide straight up the valley. Au revoir3.’
‘Au revoir, and many thanks,’ answered Algy, and went aft to the cabin in which the others were waiting. ‘This is it,’ he announced crisply, and picked up a bulky bundle from the floor. Opening the door, he tossed it into space. ‘See you on the carpet,’ he said, and followed the bundle into the void.
As soon as the parachute opened he looked down, but it was still a little while before he could make out the details of the ground below. The terrain all looked much the same, the mountains dwarfed by his own altitude. But presently he saw that he was dropping into a long shallow valley, bounded on the eastward side by a slim road cut in the side of a mountain of considerable size, capped by an embattled citadel which he knew, from his study of the map, must be the fort on Mont Agel, overlooking the Principality of Monaco.
A minute later the ground rose sharply to meet him, and he braced himself for the shock of landing. He fell, but was soon on his feet, slipping out of his harness and rolling the parachute into a ball. He sat on it for a little while, listening, then whistled softly. The only other sound was the drone of the departing aircraft. An answering whistle came out of the moonlight; footsteps followed, and a minute or two later Bertie and Ginger appeared together.
Algy rose. ‘Let’s find the equipment,’ he said quietly. ‘Spread out and we shall cover more ground.’
It did not take them long to find the other parachute, which carried for its main load two strangely assorted articles – a guitar, and a sack of onions tied up in strings. Bertie picked up his guitar and Ginger sorted out the onions that were to lend colour to his role of a Spanish pedlar.
‘Now we’ve got to find the broken-down house,’ said Algy. ‘I think I marked it on the road. Bring the stuff along.’
It was a steepish climb to the road, the road which Henri had told them, and confirmed on the map, ran from La Turbie, the mountain village behind Monaco, to Peille. They followed it for about half a mile, and then came upon the ruin they sought. It turned out to be a mere skeleton surrounded by loose stones that had once been a wall of a little garden. From near the gaping doorway sprang the customary twin cypress trees, one of which – so Bertie told them – is planted in the South of France to ensure Peace, and the other Prosperity.
The parachutes were thrown in a heap inside the building, and rocks from the broken walls piled over them until they were hidden from sight – a task that occupied them for the best part of an hour. No traffic of any sort passed along the road. Once a dog barked in the far distance, otherwise they might have been a thousand miles from civilisation.
Algy straightened his back. ‘That’s that,’ he remarked. ‘From now we go our own ways, working on our own lines. The first most important thing to remember is that Henri will be at the Californie landing ground this day week, at twelve midnight, waiting for our signal that it is okay for him to land. It means that those who want to go home will have to be there on the dot. In the meantime, our temporary meeting-place, where we can compare notes, is on the Quai de Plaisance, in the Condamine, at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the water company’s offices. Apparently there are steps all over the place in Monte Carlo. They call them escaliers. This particular lot goes by the name of the Escalier du Port. Is that all clear?’
‘Yes,’ answered Ginger.
‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Bertie.
‘Right, then off we go. You can go first, Ginger. Bertie will give you ten minutes and then follow. I’ll go last. Keep straight on down the road for a mile and a narrow cutting on the right will take you down to La Turbie, which sits astride the Grande Corniche Road. Cross the road and you’ll see the old rack-and-pinion railway line that drops down into Monaco. Actually it comes out in Monte Carlo, on a bit of an elevation overlooking the casino gardens. Everyone ha
s got plenty of money, so there should be no difficulty about food.’
Ginger pulled down over his right ear the rather greasy black beret that he wore, and shouldered his onions. ‘So long,’ he said, and set off down the road.
He knew just where he was, for he had studied the map of Monaco and its environs until he had a clear mental picture of the district in his mind. He had also read a recommended guide-book, which he had found more interesting than he had expected. He knew just what he was going to do, for the choice of possibilities was narrow and he had had ample time to formulate a plan of action. Obviously, the first thing was to ascertain if Biggles had left any written messages at either of the places he had named, the Quai de Plaisance at Monte Carlo, and Jock’s Bar below the promenade at Nice. The others would probably do the same, but that didn’t matter. He would go to Monte Carlo first, because that was the nearer. He plodded on, whistling softly, feeling curiously like the part he had decided to play. The road was deserted, as he expected it would be at such an hour. Not a light showed anywhere.
Twenty minutes’ sharp walk and a cutting dipped suddenly to the right, past some cottages. An incline of perhaps a quarter of a mile brought him to a main road, which he had learned from his guidebook was the Grande Corniche, the famous Aurelian Way of the Roman conquerors of Britain. The old Roman posting village of La Turbie lay before him. If confirmation were needed, it was supplied by the towering marble monument erected nearly two thousand years before to the Emperor Augustus. He was amazed at its size. With a strange sensation of living in the past he walked a little way along the road until he came to another time-worn landmark, the Roman milestone number 604 – the 604th mile from Rome. And there, almost at his feet, began the overgrown rails of the disused railway, dropping almost sheer into Monte Carlo. Moving his position slightly, he could see the famous international holiday resort snuggling in its little bay, nearly two thousand feet below. On the left of it, Cap Martin thrust a black claw into the sea. On the right, the castle making it unmistakable, was the blunt headland of Monaco itself. Silhouetted against the sky, a short distance from where he stood, rose a single stone column, which he again knew from his book was all that remained of the formidable gallows on which innumerable corsairs, in the distant past, had ended their careers of pillage. Beyond, rolling away, it seemed, to infinity, was the Mediterranean, as devoid of movement as a sheet of black glass. That same sea, he reflected, from the very viewpoint on which he now stood, must have been the last earthly scene on which the condemned pirates had looked.
He was about to start the descent when footsteps approaching from the village sent him creeping into the ink-black shadow of a broad-leafed fig tree. He lay flat and remained motionless. The footsteps came nearer.
‘A voice said, ‘But I tell you I did hear something.’
Another voice answered, ‘It must have been a dog or a cat.’
The first voice replied, ‘It sounded to me more like someone walking.’
Raising his eyes, Ginger saw two peaked uniform caps outlined against the sky.
‘Anybody there?’ called one of the men, sharply, speaking, of course, in French.
Ginger held his breath.
There was a short interval of silence; then the two men, talking in low tones, strolled away in the direction from which they had come.
As far as Ginger was concerned it was a disconcerting incident, for it warned him that, dead though the country seemed, police or soldiers – he knew not which – were on patrol. Was this just routine, he wondered, or were they on the watch for somebody, and if so, who? This was a question which no amount of surmise could answer, so after waiting for a little while he began a cautious descent of the railway, stopping from time to time to listen, for the unexpected appearance of the two men had tightened his nerves.
He had no intention of going straight down into the town, for the fact of his being abroad at such an hour could hardly fail to arouse the suspicions of the Italian secret police who, the Air Commodore had said, were numerous in Monaco. If that were so, they would certainly take notice of strangers, probably more so by night than by day. So when he was within easy distance of the abandoned railway station he left the track, and finding a comfortable cranny in the herb-covered hillside, he lay down to wait for daylight. In any case there was nothing he could do in the dark. The air was soft and warm, so with the perfume of wild lavender in his nostrils he settled down to sleep.
When he awoke, with a start, the sun was a ball of fire balanced on the horizon beyond Cap Martin, its rays pouring gold across the tiny dancing waves. Sounds of life arose from the town, so after a cautious survey of his immediate surroundings, he picked up the onions and continued his descent.
There was no one in the ramshackle station buildings, but on leaving them he nearly collided with a man in a white, red-braided uniform, who was standing at the top of the steps outside, swinging a white batôn4 from a leather loop. Ginger knew that he was a policeman of some sort, probably a Monégasque.
‘Hello! Where have you come from?’ asked the man.
Ginger answered in his best French. ‘A fellow must sleep. Why pay for a room when the weather is fine?’
The policeman smiled and looked at the onions. ‘Spanish?’
‘Si.’
‘I could do with an onion to take home,’ suggested the gendarme5. ‘I’m just going off duty.’
‘If I had given an onion to every gendarme who has asked for one since I left Barcelona, I should have none to sell,’ answered Ginger, not a little relieved that his companion was such an amiable fellow.
‘Just one?’
‘You find the bread and I’ll supply the onions,’ suggested Ginger, smiling.
‘Bread? Oh la la. It isn’t bread any longer. Still, I suppose it’s better than nothing. Let’s see what we can do. Descend, my friend.’
They walked together down the steps to a café where, under a faded awning bearing the name, Café de Lyons, a man in shirt sleeves was wiping down small round tables. A conversation ensued, following which the café proprietor, grinning, went inside and returned with half a loaf of dark-coloured bread and a carafe of thin red wine.
The gendarme unbuttoned his tunic. ‘We can still eat and drink,’ he said. ‘Untie your onions, my young friend.’
Ginger set an onion in front of each of them, and the meal began.
‘How are things in Spain?’ asked the gendarme.
‘In Barcelona, where I come from, bad,’ returned Ginger.
‘Not worse than here, I should say,’ observed the proprietor sadly, as he sliced his onion. ‘You know,’ he went on, ‘I have often bought Spanish onions, but I never saw any like these.’
Ginger hadn’t thought of that, but he kept his head. ‘We are trying new sorts,’ he said airily. ‘They say the government is importing seeds from America.’
‘I can’t say I think much of these; they are too strong,’ asserted the gendarme, with tears running down his cheeks. ‘Mon Dieu6! They are as bad as English onions. I ate one once, when I went to visit my sister in London.’
Ginger grinned. ‘What do you expect? How can they grow onions in England, where the rain never stops?’
‘No, that’s true, poor devils,’ agreed the proprietor. He glanced around. ‘Talking about the English, they say there was an Englishman here the other day – a spy.’
‘Who says?’ asked Ginger, grimacing as he sipped the rough wine.
‘Everyone knows about it,’ answered the proprietor, and would have gone on, but the gendarme stopped him with a frown.
‘It is better not to talk of these things,’ said he.
The proprietor sighed, which gave Ginger an idea of what he thought of the state of things.
Ginger passed off an awkward situation by offering to sell him some onions.
‘They’re too strong,’ said the proprietor, shaking his head.
‘They go all the farther for that in the pot,’ declared Ginger.
&nbs
p; ‘That’s the truth, by God,’ said the gendarme, wiping his eyes. ‘I should say this onion I am eating would stop a tank.’
‘Now food is scarce, the idea is to make things go a long way,’ argued Ginger.
‘How much?’ asked the proprietor.
‘Ten francs the kilo.
‘Too much. I’ll give you five.’
‘Nine.’
‘Six.’
‘I’ll take eight, and not a sou less,’ swore Ginger.
‘Six.’
‘Seven if you take two kilos and throw in a sardine to eat with the bread.’
‘C’est-ca7.’ The proprietor fetched the scales, and the sardines. Between them they weighed off the two kilogrammes.
‘One for luck,’ said the proprietor, helping himself to two onions and throwing them in the scales.
‘Carramba8!’ growled Ginger. ‘And you call us Spaniards thieves.’
Shouting with laughter the cheerful gendarme got up. ‘I have a wife who expects me to come home,’ he said, putting an onion in his pocket. ‘Au revoir.’
Ginger was in no hurry. His introduction to the café proprietor offered possibilities of obtaining information, and he prepared to explore them.
‘What’s all this talk about a spy?’ he asked casually.
The proprietor shrugged his shoulders. ‘What a question! There are more spies in this place than there were sharpers before the war.’
‘You said something about an Englishman?’ prompted Ginger, without looking up.
The Monégasque leant forward. ‘Nobody knows the truth about that,’ he asserted. ‘But they say there was a woman in the affair, and between them they killed five Italian police.’
‘Phew! Were they caught?’
‘Some say they were, others say they were not. Some say they were both shot. Others say they are still hiding in Monaco, which accounts for the Italian police everywhere. But there, nobody knows what to believe in times like these.’
