by W E Johns
Algy made his way slowly along the frontage. As he walked he scrutinised the wall and the boarding for writing; at the same time he kept one eye, so to speak, on the railings above, in case any person looking down from the promenade should see him and wonder what he was doing.
Almost at once he came upon what he hoped to find – writing in blue pencil. There was good reason to suppose that it would be there, yet the sight of it made his nerves tingle with shock, perhaps because it was a definite link with Biggles. But as his eyes fastened on the writing he experienced a pang of disappointment. The message was brief – too brief to be of much use. It merely said VILLA V. This was followed by a swastika and this, in turn, by a blue triangle. There was nothing to indicate when the message had been written, although its purport was clear. Villa V obviously referred to the Villa Valdora. The swastika meant that it was occupied by the enemy. The triangle was, of course, Biggles’ signature. With sinking hopes Algy realized that the message must have been written before the attempted escape from the Californie landing ground.
Satisfied that there was nothing more to be learned, he was about to retrace his steps when he saw something that at once held his attention. It was an ugly, dark-coloured smear, roughly the shape of a man’s hand, on the sea-wall. It seemed to attract innumerable flies. A little farther along, just below a fracture in the shutter, there was a similar mark. Between them there were dark spots on the ground.
Algy stood still, everything else forgotten. He did not stop to reason out how he knew, but he was sure that the marks were bloodstains. He could think of nothing else that would cause the same marks – unless they had been made deliberately by a practical joker. He walked nearer to the shutter, and saw another stain on the edge of the woodwork.
With his heart thumping with excitement he went right up to the shutter and pushed the broken slats aside, making a gap wide enough for a man to enter. He looked in. It was like looking into a vault. All he could see was a dark-grey concrete chamber backed by a row of doors bearing numbers, evidently bathing cabins. In the dim light it all looked grim, cold and damp. Just inside lay what looked like a bloodstained piece of rag.
Algy climbed through. He did not know precisely what he was going to do; he had not thought as far ahead as that; but every instinct urged him on, and he knew that he could not go away without exploring the place. One thing was certain. A wounded man had been there. There was no proof that it was Biggles, but since he had named the place as a rendezvous, there was a chance that it might be. Such were Algy’s thoughts – a trifle chaotic – as he climbed through the gap and stood on the concrete floor. Instantly he was seized by both arms.
For a moment he struggled, and then, seeing the men who seized him, he desisted. One was a short, dark, stockily-built man in civilian clothes. The other was a French gendarme.
‘What’s the matter?’ demanded Algy indignantly in French, aware that he had blundered into a trap.
‘What are you doing here?’ demanded the civilian.
‘I was going to undress and have a bathe,’ declared Algy. ‘Is there anything wrong with that?’
‘Let me see your papers.’
‘Who are you?’
‘My name is Signor Gordino. You may have heard of me. I am head of the special police.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ answered Algy, affecting humility. He produced his identity papers and passed them over.
The civilian examined them closely – in fact, so minutely that Algy realized that he was in a tight corner. He remembered what Air Commodore Raymond had said about Gordino.
‘I am not satisfied with these,’ said the Italian.
‘Why not? What sort of treatment is this? I am a French citizen,’ asserted Algy hotly.
‘And I am Gordino,’ was the curt response. ‘Turn out your pockets.’
Now this was something Algy dare not do, for in one pocket he carried a torch, and in the other a British service automatic. The situation, he perceived, was so desperate that only desperate measures could meet it.
‘Very well,’ he said quietly, and put his hand in the pocket that carried the pistol. He took it by the squat muzzle, and drawing it swiftly, slammed it against the Italian’s head. Almost with the same movement he kicked the gendarme’s legs from under him. The man fell, dropping his bâton. Algy snatched it up and, as the man started to scramble to his feet, struck him on the head with it. No second blow was needed. The man collapsed and lay still. The Italian was on his knees, one hand to his head.
Algy pocketed his pistol, dropped the bâton, snatched up his papers, which the Italian had dropped, and scrambled through the window into the bright sunlight. Panting with suppressed excitement, he ran on to the stone steps and so up to the promenade. This he crossed, and dived into a narrow street. He dare not run, for there were now a good many people about and he did not want to call attention to himself. He was well up the street when he heard a whistle blowing behind him.
His objective now was to get out of what was, or soon would be, a red-hot danger zone, as quickly as possible. He was no longer concerned with Jock’s bar because quite obviously, Biggles was not there. The only reason for remaining in Nice was to ascertain if the Californie landing ground was still serviceable. He would have preferred to postpone this investigation, but he saw clearly that after what had happened his only chance of doing it was immediately, before the hue and cry for him became general. Henri had said that Californie was about three miles to the west of Nice, on the way to Cap d’Antibes, so, turning to the left, he struck off along a wide boulevard that ran parallel with the sea front.
A workman came out of a yard wheeling a bicycle, and was about to mount when Algy, in whose head an idea had been born, strode up to him.
‘My friend,’ he said, ‘I have most urgent reasons for getting to Californie. It is a matter of life or death. Walking is slow work. Will you sell me your bicycle?’
The man looked surprised. ‘Why not take the Cannes autobus? It passes Californie.’
‘How often does it run?’
‘Every hour.’
‘When is the next bus?’
The man looked at his watch. ‘In half an hour.’
‘That will be too late. Is it possible to buy a bicycle in the town?’
‘There is a shop in the Avenue de la Victoire where they still have a few, but they are expensive.’
‘That would mean going a long way back. How much will you take for yours?’
The man considered his machine. It is a good bicycle,’ he observed.
This was a lie, for the bicycle was an old type, and badly worn, but Algy was in no mood to argue. ‘How much?’ he asked.
‘I will sell you this very good bicycle for . . . a thousand francs.’
‘In a matter of life or death money is of small importance,’ answered Algy tritely, as he counted out the money. In another moment he was astride the saddle, pedalling down the road, leaving the late owner standing in the road, the notes in his hand, a look of wonder on his face.
Well-satisfied with his bargain, Algy pedalled hard. He was anxious to get the business over, so that he could turn his back on Nice. As he sped down the road he tried to get into clearer focus the curious affair at Jock’s bar. One thing was certain. He had stepped into a trap. The police were there, waiting. For whom? Were they waiting for Biggles? If they were, then it meant that he was still alive. But why should they be waiting at Jock’s bar? Why should they suppose that he would go there? Certainly, something had happened there, for the bloodstains were there to prove it. Whose blood was it? Algy felt that if he knew the answer to that question it would provide the answer to a lot of things, but there seemed to be no way of finding out. Of course, he reasoned, he might be on the wrong track altogether. The stains, and the trap, might have no connection with Biggles. The whole thing might be coincidence. Doubtless there were other people wanted by the police in Nice besides Biggles.
With such thoughts as these surgi
ng through his brain, Algy came to Californie. A signpost told him that he had arrived, and a frayed wind stocking on a crazy pole, on the left-hand side of the road, indicated the aerodrome. One glance told him all he needed to know. Men were at work with shovels throwing up heaps of stones. Two long rows of such obstruction had already been completed. They straggled right across the landing ground, making it useless for that purpose.
Algy was not unduly dismayed. He was half prepared for something of the sort. After all, it was an obvious precaution. He decided to make for Monaco forthwith to let the others know about it, and this decision was hastened by the appearance of two policemen at the door of a house not far away. Turning, he pedalled back to Nice. He would have avoided the town had it been possible, but it was not – unless he was prepared to make a detour of fifty or sixty miles through the mountains. He knew from the maps he had studied that three roads ran from Nice to Monaco, all close to each other, and more or less parallel with the coast. There was the Grande Corniche, over which he had walked during the night, the middle corniche and the lower corniche, which was used chiefly by heavy commercial traffic. This latter road was the most attractive because, as it followed the beach, there were no hills, but this advantage was offset by the fact that in the event of trouble there could be no escape. On one side the cliffs rose sheer; on the other side was the sea. For this reason he decided on the middle road, from which in emergency, he could get up to the top corniche or down to the lower one.
He was some time getting through Nice, for keeping well away from the sea front he lost himself in the extensive suburbs. In the end he had to dismount to ask the way. This was in the poorer quarter of the town, where an open-air market was being held. All sorts of articles were offered for sale on stalls, and the sight of a second-hand clothes shop gave him another idea. For a hundred francs he acquired some faded blue workmen’s overalls, and these he put on over his suit in case a description of him had already been circulated. For the same reason he bought one of the local wide-brimmed straw sun-hats. Well satisfied with the change, directed by the man from whom he had bought the clothes, he continued his journey, and was soon climbing the long hill that overlooks the fishing village of Villefranche.
From there his journey was uneventful until he came to Eze, an ancient village perched precariously on a pinnacle of rock. There, to his disgust, his front tyre burst. It was now noon. The sun was hot and he was tired and hungry; so, leaning his bicycle against a tree, he went into a little café and made a miserable meal of vegetable soup and dry bread – there was nothing else. Having finished, he was waiting for the waitress to come back to ask her if there was anywhere in the village where he could get his burst tyre repaired, when the sound of motor-cycles pulling up outside, followed by voices, took him to the window. He saw four gendarmes. They had dismounted and were looking at his bicycle. One called to a labourer, who was working in a garden, ‘Where is the man who owns this bicycle?’
The man straightened his back and pointed. ‘Voila! Monsieur. He went into the café.’
CHAPTER 9
THE GIRL IN THE BLUE SHAWL
ALGY WAITED FOR no more. Whether the gendarmes were merely making casual enquiries, or whether they had learned of his bicycle transaction, he did not know. Nor did he intend to find out if it could be avoided. He could not leave by the front entrance without being seen, so he went through the back. He found himself in a kitchen where a man and a woman were seated at a table, eating.
‘Excuse me,’ said Algy, and passed on to the back door. Reaching it, he turned, and said over his shoulder. ‘If you forget that you have seen me you will be helping France. Merci, monsieur et m’dame.’ He felt he had something to gain and nothing to lose by saying this, for if he had said nothing the people would certainly tell the gendarmes which way he had gone, whereas now they might hesitate to do so.
Closing the door behind him he was confronted by a spectacle that has been the admiration of many tourists. It took his breath away. Immediately in front of him a steep slope fell away for nearly two thousand feet into the sea. On this slope hundreds of olive trees turned their grey leaves to the sun. Here and there shone the darker green of figs, and trailing vines. Between them, wild lavender, thyme and juniper, covered the ground among the grey rocks. It was not a path he would have chosen, but he had no choice. He dropped over the garden wall and scrambled to the nearest olives, which he hoped would prevent him from being seen from above. It seemed likely that the police would spend some minutes in the village, which would give him a fair start.
The heat on the sun-baked slope, which faced due south, was terrific, and hundreds of flies drank freely from the beads of perspiration that trickled down his face, but he kept on, glad that his journey lay downward, not upward. For twenty minutes he continued the mad scramble, jumping from rock to rock, swinging from olive branch to vine; then, hearing no sound of pursuit, he paused to get his breath and take stock of his surroundings. Reaching for a bunch of wild grapes he thrust the whole thing into his mouth to quench his thirst, heedless of the juice that dripped down the front of his overalls.
If he was followed he knew nothing of it, which was not remarkable, for the jungle of semi-tropical trees and shrubs stretched for miles on either side of him. Having rested for a while he began a more cautious descent, now making for the bottom corniche road, which appeared from time to time below like a short length of yellow ribbon as it rounded a shoulder of rock. He kept on for another hour, by which time he was about a hundred yards above the road, along which occasionally passed heavy lorries, and not a few gendarmes on cycles or motor cycles.
He was now in a quandary. It seemed certain that he could not hope to use any of the roads without being stopped and questioned; on the other hand, it was manifestly impossible for him to make his way through the tangle of shrubs, and masses of rock, to Monaco, a distance of about four miles by road, but considerably more if the swelling contours of the mountain slopes were followed. He decided that he would have to use the road, but to wait for darkness, when the chances of discovery would be reduced. So, finding a comfortable spot to relax, he lit a cigarette and settled down to wait for night, and at the same time give serious thought to the affair at Jock’s Bar; not so much the writing on the wall, which told him little, as the existence of the police trap which, without any real evidence, he felt sure was in some way concerned with Biggles. But although he cogitated on the problem for hours, he could arrive at no definite conclusion. He hoped the others had learned something which would throw light on the mystery.
As darkness closed in he descended to the road and made his way towards Monaco, travelling slowly because he was taking no chances that could be avoided. He reconnoitred each bend before showing himself. Just before the point where the road swings round into the Place d’Armes he had a piece of luck. A lorry had broken down, and the driver was working – not very cleverly – on the engine. Algy gave him a hand, and finding a fault in the ignition, put it right. He did this in no spirit of human kindness, but in order to get a lift, which the man gave him willingly. A minute later, at the frontiers of France and the Principality of Monaco, he had the anxious experience of sitting talking to the driver while two gendarmes, one Monégasque and one French, searched the back of the vehicle before allowing it to pass.
‘They seem pretty strict all of a sudden,’ suggested Algy to his companion, fishing for information.
‘It’s all these spies about,’ answered the man vaguely.
‘For my part I think it’s just rumour,’ replied Algy carelessly.
‘I’m not so sure of that,’ answered the driver. ‘It wasn’t rumour that got the woman out of jail.’
‘What woman?’
‘An Italian, they say. I have a brother-in-law in the gendarmerie1, and he told me on the quiet that it was an Englishman who got her out – and got shot for his pains.’
‘He was killed, eh?’
‘My brother-in-law didn’t say that. He prete
nds to know a lot, but it’s my opinion that he doesn’t know as much as he makes out. Where do you want me to drop you?’
‘At the end of the Boulevard Albert. I’m going to meet a friend on the Quai de Plaisance.’
‘Here we are then.’ The driver pulled up.
‘What hour is it?’
‘It must be eight o’clock.’
Algy got out. ‘Many thanks.’
‘Don’t mention it. Bon soir2.’
Algy walked across the quay which, in the light of the stars, he saw was deserted. This was disappointing, for he had hoped to find Bertie or Ginger there – perhaps both of them. It was too dark to examine the wall for writing without using his torch, which was almost certain to attract attention, so there was nothing he could do but find a seat and wait. Time passed – one hour, two hours . . . he lost count. Nobody came. Not a soul. The moon rose over the mountains, and still nobody came. He began to get worried. He could not imagine what Bertie and Ginger were doing. Surely one of them would show up. He wanted desperately to see them, for he felt that he had come to the end of his own particular trail, and did not know where to start on a new one. In the end he waited all night, and saw not a soul.
Just before dawn, feeling tired and dispirited, he walked along the sea wall, and throwing off his clothes, had a swim in lieu of a wash. He dried himself on his overalls. By the time he had finished dressing it was beginning to get light, and he was strolling back to the wall in order to examine it for writing, when a girl appeared. She emerged from the bottom of the Escalier du Port, and began to walk slowly along the wall. Beyond the fact that she wore a blue shawl Algy barely noticed her – at least, not for a minute or two; and then it suddenly struck him that she was doing exactly what he himself was doing. At all events, she was walking slowly along the wall, staring at it as if in search of something. This struck him as odd, but even then it did not occur to him that she might be on precisely the same errand as himself.
