by W E Johns
‘Villa V – Heil Hitler. Mario is a waiter, par excellence2.
Ginger stared at the words. Then, with a start he looked up to see Mario, evidently the waiter par excellence referred to in the message, regarding him with attentive, suspicious eyes. In his hand he held a plate of soup, which, seeing that he had been observed, he put on the table with a show of professional pride. Ginger said nothing. He could think of nothing to say, or do, except, when the waiter retired, rehang the show-card in its position on the wall.
Mario returned to put bread and wine on the table. At brief intervals his dark eyes met those of his customer. They gleamed with suspicion, and once Ginger thought he detected a queer expression of questioning alarm, as though the waiter expected him to say something, yet was afraid. He felt, too, that he ought to say something, give an explanation of his strange behaviour, but he still did not know what he could say without leading up to the real object of his visit, and that, he decided, as premature.
The waiter retired and he settled down to his soup, which he found was of excellent flavour and satisfying. While he ate he pondered on the curious development of his problem. As in the case of the Quai de Plaisance, there was no indication of when the message had been written. Where did Mario fit into the scheme? He was, the message asserted, an excellent waiter. What did it matter what sort of waiter he was, good or bad? The word waiter had been underlined. Did that imply the second meaning of the word – that Mario was waiting for something, or somebody; if so, for whom or what was he waiting? There were two ways of finding out. One was to ask him, a procedure which, Ginger felt, was hardly likely to be successful. The other way was to watch him.
The first part of the message was easier to understand. Villa V was obviously the Villa Valdora to which the princess had flown for sanctuary, the house of the Italian who had betrayed her. Its name, coupled with the words Heil Hitler, was a clear indication that Zabani was an enemy. But what concern was that of Mario?
Ginger lingered for a little while, thinking the matter over, and not quite sure what to do next. In the end he decided first to try watching Mario, and if that led to nothing – well, he would take the bull by the horns and try the more direct method of questioning him. He paid his bill and went out. But he did not go far. He turned, and strolling back along the pavement, glanced in passing through the open door. Quick though he had been to return, Mario – or someone – had been faster. The Pernod show-card had gone. That proved, if proof were needed, that Mario was in some way mixed up with the affair; but just where he fitted in was not easy to see.
Deep in thought, Ginger strolled back down the narrow street. He noticed that most people were taking the usual after-lunch siesta, and he thought he might as well do the same, so he descended to the Condamine and sat on the same seat he had used earlier in the day. This would enable him to rest and at the same time keep watch for Algy or Bertie. He was anxious to talk over with them the result of his investigations; perhaps they would be able to unravel the mystery.
Neither put in an appearance. All the afternoon he waited, and still they did not come, which struck him as odd. He could not imagine what they were doing. He gave them another hour, and when they still did not appear he walked back up to Monte Carlo, offering his onions for sale whenever policemen were near at hand. For a little while he toyed with the idea of going to Nice to see if there was any writing on the wall of Jock’s bar. But he saw that he could not do that and at the same time keep watch on Mario. Nice was a fair distance away. Jock’s bar would have to wait. He could go there when he had finished with the Chez Rossi.
Slowly he made his way to the street in which the restaurant was situated, and taking up a position from which he could watch both the front and the side door, prepared to wait. It was now six o’clock, and the sun was sinking behind the towering headland called the Tête de Chien. The sky turned pink then mauve. Presently night took possession. Ginger drew nearer. From time to time a customer entered or left the restaurant. Once he looked in through a window and saw an elderly slattern of a woman serving. It was a slow, weary vigil, and he was again considering the idea of approaching Mario direct when he saw him come out of the side door.
Ginger shrank back into deep shadow and watched. The waiter was now dressed in quite a smart suit of some dark material. He looked up and down the street. His manner was brisk, alert, like that of a cat which, after drowsing all day, comes to life when darkness falls. Another glance up and down the street, and then, as though bound on a definite errand, the waiter set off at a sharp walk in the direction opposite to the one from which Ginger had approached.
This was better, thought Ginger, as he followed.
Mario walked so fast that he found it no easy matter to keep him in sight – at any rate, until he dropped down a narrow escalier which emerged in a more fashionable part of the town. The street being wider, visibility improved.
From this street Mario turned into an avenue, the name of which Ginger did not know, but which was more in accord with his mental picture of Monte Carlo. Signs of wealth and luxury were everywhere. On both sides of the road, behind marble balustrades and wrought-iron gates, stood splendid villas, tall, white, stately, built in the Italian style, each standing in its own garden of exotic shrubs and palms. Oleander trees, pink-flowered, with oranges and lemons heavy with fruit, lined the drives. The climbing magenta bougainvillea hung in great masses from balconies and pergolas.
Near the end of this avenue Ginger discovered, to his dismay, that he had lost his man. He seemed to disappear into the night. Walking quickly to the place where he had last seen him, he found a pillared entrance drive at the end of which stood a villa more like a small palace than a house. A name on each pillar stood out in black letters on a white background. And as Ginger read the name he understood. It was the Villa Valdora.
A quick glance up and down the deserted avenue and Ginger was in the drive, nerves tingling, advancing warily towards the house. Not a light showed anywhere, but that, he saw, was because every window was heavily curtained. Between tall windows, at the near end of the house, was the main entrance, a noble portal approached by a broad flight of marble steps.
Ginger was at a loss to know what to do. He did not forget that Zabani was an enemy. Obviously, he could not go boldly to the front door – nor any other door, for that matter. He was in no doubt at all that it was into this house that Mario had vanished, so, with ears and eyes alert, he backed into some dark-leaved shrubs to watch events, or for some sign that might indicate in what part of the house Mario had gone. By watching the drive he would at least see him emerge.
He had not long to wait, and then the waiter’s exit was made in a manner entirely unexpected. A window at the side of the villa, on the ground floor, was quietly opened. A rustle, and a figure showed black against the white wall. Without a sound it dropped to the ground and began moving with feline stealth towards the drive. It passed within a yard of where Ginger was crouching, and for a moment he distinctly saw the face. It was Mario – but not the suave waiter of the Chez Rossi. His eyes were staring; his lips were parted, and he was panting like a man who has just run a gruelling race. Suddenly he darted down the drive and disappeared in the direction from which he had come. Ginger could tell by the footsteps that he was running, and by the time he had recovered his surprise he knew that it was too late to follow.
For a few seconds he was the prey of hesitation. Should he return to the restaurant – or what? What had happened in the villa? Perhaps this would presently be divulged. But when a minute or two had passed and nothing happened, he dumped his onions under a shrub and went over to the open window. He thought he might hear something, or see something. But the place was in darkness. The whole house was as quiet as a tomb. Who had Mario come to see? Was the princess somewhere in this sinister building, after all? And Biggles?
Encouraged by the silence, Ginger took the window-sill in his hands and vaulted up. Another movement and he was inside. A flash of his
torch revealed a wide corridor. At one end a door stood ajar. A dozen paces took him to it. Not a sound came from inside. With his heart thumping against his ribs, he pushed the door wide open. Darkness. Nothing happened. He entered.
Advancing slowly, the light of his torch played on such rare and costly furnishings that he held his breath in sheer amazement. Magnificent paintings hung on the walls. In cabinets, and on pieces of furniture, glass and china gleamed. It might have been the interior of an oriental palace. Having explored the walls, the beam of light dropped lower. It fell on a cabinet of exquisite workmanship, and passed on to a massive carved desk. And there it stopped, stopped while Ginger’s heart missed a beat, and then tore on at a gallop. He knew now why Mario had been to the Villa Valdora.
Across the desk was slumped, face downwards, the body of a man, a plump man in a black suit. That, for a moment, was all that Ginger could see. And it was enough. For several seconds he stood rooted to the ground by sheer horror. Something was dripping, dripping horribly. Bracing himself, he took a nervous pace nearer, and saw something else. From between the man’s shoulder blades projected the haft of a knife. Surrounding the haft was a disc of white paper.
Trembling, breathless from shock, Ginger went still nearer, his eyes on the paper. On it had been scrawled, large, so that it almost encircled the handle of the knife, the single letter C. That was all. There was nothing more, except that he noted that the dead man had evidently tried to use the telephone, for he had lifted the receiver and still clutched it in his hand.
With the passing of the first shock recollection came to Ginger of where he was and what he was doing. He had seen enough – indeed, he had seen a good deal more than he had bargained for. It was time to get out. War was once thing, but he had no desire to be mixed up with murder.
He was on his way to the door when he heard a car skid to a standstill. It was followed by a babble of excited voices. A bell pealed with an incredible amount of noise. Fists thumped on the front door.
These sounds nearly threw Ginger into a panic. Running to the nearest window, he half drew the curtain and looked out. He saw what he expected. Outside clustered a group of gendarmes.
Ginger made for the window through which he had entered. There was no one outside it, but as he jumped to the ground a man came round the end of the house. There was a shout. Ginger bolted. He fled down the drive, past the people who were at the front door, and reached the avenue. Shouts, quickly followed by pistol shots, followed him. A whistle shrilled. He tore on. He had no idea where he was going, nor did he much care, his entire faculties were concentrated on getting as far as possible from the Villa Valdora in the shortest possible time. As he ran he looked desperately for a side turning, but for some time there was none. Shots were still being fired and he could hear bullets whistling unpleasantly close. At last, to his infinite relief, he came to an escalier leading downwards. He turned into it, and at that very moment a bullet hit him in the thigh. It was as though someone had struck him with a mallet.
The blow brought him down, but he was up again in an instant. There was no pain, but as he sped on down the steps he could feel blood squelching in his shoe. A deadly weakness seized him at the knees, but he kept going. The steps seemed interminable, and when he reached the bottom his faintness was such that he had to cling to some railings to steady himself. A moment’s pause and then, like a hunted fox, he ran on. All the time there had been sound of pursuit behind him, but he knew that the car in which the police had arrived would be unable to follow him down the escalier.
He ran blindly, fighting nausea. He felt no pain, only a ghastly sickness. He crossed a road and found himself in what appeared to be a sort of market-place. Happening to glance behind, he saw with horror that he was leaving a trail of blood, a trail that a child could have followed. Gasping, he looked wildly about him for a place to hide. In a garden close by, a line of washing hung like flags at a fête. He entered and tore down a linen shirt. Sitting on a seat, with the rag he made a pad and bandage for his wound, anything to stop the flow of blood that was sapping his strength and marking his course. While he was doing it several men passed at a run. Occasionally a whistle was blown.
Still feeling sick, but relieved that he had stopped the bleeding, he took the only way that seemed to lead from the hue and cry. This was a ramp, a long incline that led up to the rock on which the ancient village of Monaco was built. Sometimes the path broke into steps. He thought it would never end. Below him to the left, in the light of the stars, he could see the harbour and the Quai de Plaisance. He knew that he was getting near the end of his endurance, and was afraid that he might faint. His head began to swim, and he found it necessary to pull himself up by the railings. Struggling on with the desperation of sheer determination to get to the top, he passed under a stone arch and found himself on a wide gravel space. On the far side the palace loomed enormous against the dark blue sky. About him were statues, old cannon, and neatly piled heaps of cannon-balls. On the left, occasional paved alleys, too narrow to be called streets, wound into the heart of the old town.
Like a wounded rabbit making for its burrow, he went to the nearest, and happening to glance up, saw a name that struck sharply on his memory. It was Rue Marinière. In such a turmoil was his brain that for a moment he could not recall where he had heard the name before. Then he remembered. It was the street in which lived the mother of their Monégasque pilot, Henri Ducoste. Number six, Henri had said. They had offered, if it were possible, to deliver a message, but when the offer had been made Ginger little imagined how it would be delivered.
Seeking number six, he staggered along the narrow street with his torch, looking at the numbers on the doors. It was darker than it had been – or was it? Ginger wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of anything except that the walls seemed to recede and then rush in upon him in a frightening manner. Doors danced before his eyes. He saw number six, as through a mist. In his attempt to knock he fell against the door. He clutched the handle. The door flew open with a crash. There was a startled cry inside and a girl appeared, lamp in hand, peering forward in an attitude of alarm.
The picture was engraved indelibly on Ginger’s brain. All he could see was the girl, a girl of about eighteen years of age, who from the sombre manner of her dress was a Monégasque. Her complexion was pale, the indefinable tint of sun-warmed ivory, and her skin was without blemish. Her features, untouched by cosmetics, were perfect. Her lips were slightly parted, revealing small teeth of startling whiteness. The carriage of her head, on shapely shoulders, was proud, although her dark eyes were wide with fear. Her hair was jet black, parted flat in the middle, half concealing two tiny gold rings that depended from her ears.
For a moment Ginger stared at her, his brain reeling. Then, as the picture began to fade, he staggered forward.
‘Pepé,’ he gasped. Then again, ‘Pepé.’ He tried to say more, but the words would not come. Only his lips moved, noiselessly, while the light of the lamp seemed to fail. Darkness rushed in upon him. He felt himself falling – falling – falling . . .
1 French: on the way.
2 French: of the highest standard.
CHAPTER 5
BERTIE MEETS A FRIEND
GINGER HAD NOT been mistaken when he saw Bertie at the harbour. After he had left Algy and Bertie on the Peille road they had tossed up to decide who should go to Jock’s bar, at Nice, and who to Monte Carlo. Algy had won, and for reasons which he did not divulge had chosen Nice. Bertie, therefore, had walked along to La Turbie, where he had decided to start his investigations. Knowing the district intimately he perceived that if, as had been stated, Biggles had fled from Monaco to Nice by way of the ‘top’ Corniche road, he must have passed through La Turbie. The people there might know something about it, and what they knew would certainly be known at the hotel. There was nothing he could do at two o’clock in the morning, and then, singing to himself, made his way to the hotel which stands almost opposite the disused railway. An old man and a yo
ung girl were already astir, and they wished him a cheerful bon jour1.
Over breakfast of a roll and some poor coffee he proceeded cautiously with his enquiries, but without success. Either the people knew nothing or they were not prepared to talk. Conversation ended abruptly when four gendarmes who had evidently been on night duty came in and ordered coffee. Under the pretence of tuning his guitar Bertie listened to their conversation for a little while, but they seemed more concerned with the battle of Egypt, which was then proceeding, than local affairs; so, deciding that he had wasted enough time, he slung the instrument across his back and took the road to Monte Carlo. He was quite prepared to be stopped and questioned; and he was, twice, in each case by an Italian policeman and a French gendarme, who appeared to work in couples. His answers satisfied them and he was allowed to pass.
Arriving in Monte Carlo he walked down the hill to the Condamine, and from there turned into the Quai de Plaisance. He saw that Ginger was already there, so he decided to join him and ask him how he was progressing. But before he could do so he was startled to hear himself hailed by name. Looking in the direction from which the voice had come he saw a man in well-patched overalls standing in a motor-boat, an incredibly ugly man with a cast in one eye. He recognised him at once, for he had known him for years. The man was, in fact, a mechanic named François Budette, a Monégasque who before the war he had employed to service his motor-boat during the races. The boat in which the man was standing, named Bluebird, was his own. He had abandoned it when war broke out, and never expected to see it again.
Turning, he began to walk away, blaming himself for not anticipating such an encounter – an encounter which, at that moment, was the last thing he wanted. After three years of war he had almost forgotten the man’s existence; but it was apparent that the mechanic had not forgotten him. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed Budette on the quay, in pursuit.
