by W E Johns
‘That’s true,’ agreed Ginger.
The proprietor bent still nearer, breathing a pungent mixture of garlic and onions into Ginger’s face. ‘They say Zabani is mixed up in this, and that he has been put on the spot by the Camorra9 for double-crossing one of them.’
‘Camorra? I thought Mussolini boasted that he had wiped out all the Italian secret societies?’
The proprietor winked. ‘Franco bragged that he had wiped out your Spanish society, the Black Hand,’ he countered. ‘Has he?’
‘For my part,’ said Ginger slowly, ‘I should doubt it.’
The Monégasque eyed him narrowly. ‘You’re not one of them, I hope?’
‘Me?’ Ginger laughed. ‘Not likely. I don’t want a knife in my back.’
‘Nor me. Once the Camorra sets its mark on a man he’s as good as dead. If Zabani has betrayed one of them, God help him – not that he deserves any help.’
‘He’s a bad one, eh?’
‘If half what they say of him is true, he is a match for Satan himself.’
‘Is he Italian?’
‘Yes.’
‘If he is an Italian why does he live here?’
‘Like others, to gamble in the casino. He is always in the gaming rooms. He is not Monégasque, you understand. The Monégasques do not go near the tables. I am a Monégasque.’ The man spoke proudly.
The statement reminded Ginger that he had meant to ask Henri just what was a Monégasque. He realized of course that the word described the real natives of Monaco, but from what race they originally sprang he did not know. It seemed to be an opportunity to find out.
‘What is a Monégasque that you are so proud of being one?’ he enquired.
‘Zut! The Question!’
‘I am a stranger here,’ reminded Ginger.
‘A Monégasque, my young friend, is – a Monégasque.’
‘Not French?’
‘Name of a name! No.’
‘Italian perhaps?’
‘No, although there are many Italians here, good Italians, who obey the laws of Monaco. Some came to avoid the conscription in Italy – and who shall blame them? There are few true Monégasques – three thousand perhaps. They rule themselves. Most of them live on the Rock.’
‘Where did they come from in the first place?’
‘Ah! That is another question. First of all, long long ago, lived here the Ligurians, wild people with stone clubs. Then came the Phœnicians – they built many of the old villages round about. Later came the Greeks. Then came the Romans who, to mark their conquest, built the great monument at La Turbie – look, you can see it from here. After that came all sorts of people – French, Italians, Lombards, adventurers from the sea, yes, even English, the Crusaders, and such people, as well as Christian prisoners brought by the Saracens. Between them all they leave a type which long ago became called the Monégasques. Do not, my young friend, confuse us with the French, or the Italians, although because we are so near to France and Italy most of us speak the languages of those countries.’
‘I see,’ said Ginger.
‘But I can’t sit here talking,’ went on the proprietor, rising. ‘It is too early in the morning. I have work to do. Call next time you are passing and I may buy some more onions – but next time bring the Spanish. Au revoir.’
‘Au revoir, monsieur.’
Perceiving that there was nothing more to be learned, and well satisfied with the smattering of news he had picked up, Ginger slung his lightened burden over his shoulder and departed. He still did not know what had happened to Biggles, but the bare fact that even in Monaco there was a doubt about his fate, was encouraging. It had evidently leaked out that the princess’s betrayer, Zabani, was concerned with the affair. The café proprietor’s reference to the Camorra, the dreaded Italian secret society, in connection with Zabani, was a new and interesting piece of information.
Thus pondered Ginger as he strode on towards the sea, which could be observed beyond the casino gardens. People were beginning to move about in the streets, ordinary people, as far as he could judge, mostly fellows in simple working clothes, or blue overalls. Their faces were brown, and while a few walked as if with a definite object in view, the majority slouched about, listless, without any set purpose, creating an atmosphere very different from the mental picture he had always held of the famous society playground. Police were conspicuous, although for the most part they seemed to be content to stand at street corners and gossip. They were easily identified by their uniforms. There were the local police, the Monégasques, in the service of the Prince of Monaco. They wore white drill suits with scarlet facings – the colours of the principality – and sun helmets. It was one of these who had invited Ginger to the Café de Lyons. There were a few French gendarmes, in dark blue tunics and khaki slacks; they were usually in pairs. There were also Italians who, officially or unofficially – Ginger was not sure which – were evidently in occupation. There were a few cars outside the big hotels which, like the gardens, and everything else, had a look of neglect. Outside the imposing Hotel de Paris there was a saloon car carrying a swastika pennant on the radiator cap, and another flaunting the Italian flag. He passed without stopping, and going over to the ornamental balustrade on the far side of the road, saw the little port of Monaco below him.
It was the neatest, tidiest port he had ever seen, largely artificial, having been formed by the construction of two moles, one springing from the Monaco village side, and the other from Monte Carlo. Between the ends of the moles, a gap gave access to the open sea. Within the small square harbour itself there were no ships of any size – a few yachts at moorings on one side, and a collection of small craft on the other.
As Ginger looked down, the broad walk on the near side was, he knew, the Quai de Plaisance, his immediate objective. On the opposite side of the harbour, known as the Quai de Commerce, some men were rolling barrels. A short walk took him to the offices of the water company, beside which a steep flight of steps, named the Escalier du Port, led down to the Quai de Plaisance.
Descending to the quay he found himself on a broad concrete pavement, bounded on one side by a high stone wall, and on the other, by deep water. He looked about him. The only people in sight were a few elderly men, and children, fishing with simple bamboo poles. A short distance to the right a man was mopping out a slim motor-boat that floated lightly on its own inverted image. After a cursory glance the people fishing paid no attention to him, so he began to stroll along the wall looking for writing in blue pencil. He did not really expect to find any, but the bare possibility, now that he was actually on the spot, gave him a curious thrill.
He walked along towards the outer mole, his hopes dwindling as he approached the end without seeing anything resembling what he sought. The only writing was the usual French warning notice against the sticking of bills. Returning, he was about the examine the wall beyond the foot of the steps by which he had descended to the quay, when an incident occurred which at first astonished, and then alarmed him.
Along the inner side of the harbour, which ran at right angles to, and connected the Quai de Plaisance with the Quai de Commerce, there was a broad stone pavement similar to the one on which he walked. This pavement was obviously the part given over to local fishermen. It was backed by a number of tiny houses, and boat sheds, from which shipways ran down into the water. There was quite a collection of small craft, both in and out of the water. A number of fishermen, dressed in the usual sun-bleached blue trousers and shirts, were gossiping as they worked on their boats or mended their nets.
From this direction now appeared Bertie, made conspicuous by his guitar. He was strolling along unconcernedly, apparently on his way to examine the wall of the Quai de Plaisance. Watching, Ginger saw him – for no apparent reason – stop suddenly, back a few paces, turn, and walk quickly away. A moment later, the boatman who had been mopping out the motor-boat, sprang up on to the quay and hurried after him. Ginger was not sure, but he thought he heard t
he boatman call out. Bertie glanced back over his shoulder, and seeing that he was pursued, quickened his pace. The boatman broke into a run.
In a disinterested way Ginger had already noticed this man, first on account of the innumerable patches on his overalls, and secondly, because of his outstanding ugliness. His face might have been that of a heathen idol, carved out of dark wood. To make matters worse his nose was bent, and his eyes, due to a pronounced cast in one of them, appeared to look in different directions. The effect of this was to make it impossible to tell in precisely what direction the man was looking, a state of affairs which Ginger, conscious of the secret nature of his task, found disconcerting.
Still followed by the boatman Bertie disappeared behind a colourful array of sails that were hanging up to dry.
Ginger watched all this with serious misgivings. It was obvious that the boatman was trying to overtake Bertie, and he wondered why. He watched for some time, and the fact that neither of them returned did nothing to allay his anxiety. When twenty minutes had passed, and still Bertie did not return, Ginger gave it up, and continued his uninterrupted survey of the wall.
1 French equivalent of an English county.
2 French: There!
3 French: See you again.
4 French: Short stick carried by the police similar to a truncheon.
5 French: policeman.
6 French: My God!
7 French: that’s it, OK.
8 Spanish exclamation similar to Blimey! Or, My God!
9 A secret criminal society, similar to the Mafia.
CHAPTER 4
THE WRITING ON THE WALL
A DOZEN PACES Ginger took and then stopped short, his heart palpitating, Bertie’s strange behaviour forgotten. For there, before his eyes – indeed, within a foot of his face after he had taken a swift step forward – was what he sought, what he prayed might be there, yet dare not truly hope to find. It was writing on the wall, bold blue lettering on the pale grey limestone; and the first thing that caught his excited attention was the final symbol of the message. It was a triangle, quite small, but clear and unmistakable. The actual message consisted of three words only. They were CHEZ ROSSI. PERNOD.
Ginger’s first reaction as his eyes drank in the cryptic communication was one of disappointment. Doubtless the message contained vital information, but at the moment it told him nothing. Worse still, there was no indication of when it had been written. That Biggles had written the words he had no doubt whatever, and that they were intended to convey important news was equally certain. But – here was the rub – had the message been written before the catastrophe at the Californie landing ground, or afterwards? Upon that factor everything depended. Whatever the words might mean, reflected Ginger, they did not tell him what he was most anxious to know. Was Biggles alive or dead?
He did not stand staring at the message. There was no need for that. The words were engraved on his memory. Nobody appeared to be watching him, so he strolled over and sat down on one of the many benches provided for visitors in less troublous times. It was easy enough to see why the message had been expressed as a meaningless phrase. Obviously, Biggles could not write in plain English. In fact, it seemed that English words had been deliberately avoided. He pondered on the puzzle.
Chez Rossi was almost certainly the name of an establishment, probably a café, bar or restaurant. The word chez, meaning ‘the house of,’ or ‘the home of,’ was a common prefix to public places of that sort. Rossi was probably the name of the owner. Chez Rossi, therefore, was most likely the name of a bar or restaurant in Monaco, run by a man named Rossi. At any rate, the original proprietor would have been thus named. Pernod was a word he did not know, although it sounded like another name. That was something which would perhaps be discovered at the café, bar, or whatever the establishment turned out to be. Clearly, the thing to do was to find out if there was such a place, and if there was, pay a visit.
Remembering Bertie and his peculiar behaviour he looked along the back of the harbour where he had last seen him, and even walked a short distance in that direction,’ but there was no sign of him, nor of the boatman with the mahogany face who had followed him. He waited for a little while, and then, loath to waste any more time, made his way up into Monte Carlo, his intention being to call on the friendly proprietor of the Café de Lyons to inquire about the Chez Rossi. He would know if there was such a place.
For the sake of appearance he called at several shops and houses en route1, and did, in fact, dispose of so much of his stock that he became afraid he might sell out, which did not suit him. So with the two strings that remained he strode on to the Café de Lyons.
It now presented a different appearance. Many of the chairs, which, in accordance with French custom had been put out on the pavement, were occupied by people reading newspapers, with a glass or a cup at their elbows. However, this made little difference to Ginger, who had no intention of staying. He managed to catch the eye of the proprietor who, recognizing him, and evidently noticing that his onions had diminished, congratulated him on his sales ability. With that he would have gone on with his work, but Ginger caught him by the arm.
‘One moment, monsieur,’ he appealed. ‘I am told that I might find a customer at Chez Rossi. Could you direct me?’
‘But certainly,’ was the willing response. ‘It is at the back of the town. Take the Boulevard St. Michel, here on the right, and the second turning again on the right. At the corner of the first escalier you will see the Rossi bar-restaurant.’
‘Merci, monsieur,’ thanked Ginger, and turned away to the boulevard which, before the war, had clearly been fashionable shops and hotels. But when he took the second turning on the right, the scene and atmosphere changed even more suddenly than a visitor to London finds when turning out of Oxford Street into Soho. This, obviously, was where the people lived, the working classes, the permanent residents, as opposed to the wealthy visitors. The street was narrow. Tall but shabby whitewashed houses rose high on either side. Laundry, strings of bright-hued garments, stretched from window to window. A drowsy hum hung on air that was heavy with sunshine. Caged birds twittered. Through narrow open doorways he saw families eating, lounging or sleeping. Music crept from tiny cafes. Occasionally he passed an unfenced garden overgrown with cacti, geraniums and trailing vines, or shops where objects for which no earthly use could be discovered mixed up with nails, dried fish, bundles of dried herbs, oil and vinegar. Sometimes an escalier, a crazy flight of steps without number, wound into mysterious distances.
Ten minutes walk brought him within sight of his objective, made conspicuous by a faded red awning bearing in white letters the name of the establishment – Chez Rossi. A smaller notice announced the place to be a bar-restaurant. So far so good, thought Ginger. Closer inspection revealed it to be one of the small restaurants, with a bar on one side, common in all French towns. Judging by the name, mused Ginger, the proprietor was, or the original proprietor had been, an Italian. If the latter, the name of the business would not be changed.
Ginger pushed aside the curtain that hung over the entrance and saw at a glance that the place was a typical Mediterranean eating house – small, with numerous tables set uncomfortably close together, but clean. The customary smell, an invasive aroma of garlic, fish and herbs, peculiar to British nostrils, hung in the air.
There were perhaps half a dozen people present, all men, small, dark Italians, southern French or Monégasques. At any rate, they were all typical mediterraneos. All were eating the same dish which by the pungent smell, was fish soup, highly flavoured. This was being served by a swarthy black-browned heavily-moustached, shirt-sleeved waiter, a middle-aged man with dark suspicious eyes, and a smooth deportment that enabled him to move among the tables without colliding with them.
Ginger crossed to an unoccupied table, dropped his onions on the floor, and sat down.
The waiter approached. ‘Soup, monsieur?’
‘What is there to eat?’ asked Ginger, t
hinking that as it was now noon he might as well take the opportunity of having a good meal.
‘Fish soup, monsieur, ten francs, with bread and wine included. We serve only one dish.’
Ginger nodded assent. As the waiter went through to the kitchen to fetch the food he wondered if by any chance he was the proprietor, Rossi, or the Pernod referred to in the writing on the wall. But this possibility was quickly dispelled when one of the other customers called him by name. The name was Mario.
Who, then, was Pernod? wondered Ginger. The curious thing about the word was, every now and then it touched a chord in his memory, as though he had heard it, or seen it, before, but he could not quite remember where; once or twice he nearly had it, but in the end it eluded him and he gave up the mental quest. Instead, having nothing else to do, he started to make a closer scrutiny of his surroundings. It ended abruptly, with a shock. He stared, doubting for once the evidence of his eyes. For there, confronting him across the room, was a single word in bold letters. The word was PERNOD. It was printed on a card, below a picture of a bottle. Evidently an advertisement for a beverage, the card hung on the wall, suspended from a nail.
The effect of this unexpected revelation was so startling that it took Ginger a minute to recover his composure. He remembered now where he had seen the word. He had, in fact, seen it scores of times, for Pernod was one of the most popular drinks in France, and the most widely advertised; and on that account there was nothing remarkable about its presence in the restaurant. Was it coincidence? wondered Ginger. No, he decided, the card, in some way, was linked up through the writing on the wall, with Biggles. A quick glance round the room satisfied him that the other customers were concerned only with their own affairs, so he crossed over, and with hands that trembled slightly unhooked the card from the wall. Holding it low, he returned to his place at the table. He examined the front of the card. There was nothing on it that had not been printed. He turned it over, and his heart gave a bound when his eyes fell on a line of blue writing, ending in a triangle. This is what he read:
