by W E Johns
‘We’ve got about thirty seconds,’ he said. ‘Are you able to walk?’
Henri, who had been staring hard at Ginger, gave a gasp as he recognized his voice. ‘Mon Dieu! What have you done to yourself? Yes, I’m not as bad as they think.’
‘Good. Listen. Get cracking. Get out of the window. Go to the ravine. You’ll find a donkey there. Make for Castillon. Wait there.’
‘But I have no clothes – they have taken them!’ cried Henri.
‘Then go in your pyjamas – no, there is washing on the line, grab a suit of overalls as you go past. Take your slippers, you will need them. Hurry.’
Henri hastened to the window. Over his shoulder he said, ‘What about you?’
‘Never mind me. I’ll join you at Castillon. I’m going to take the police off your trail to give you a start.’
By this time the handle of the door was being rattled with violence. Henri climbed through the window and disappeared from sight.
To those in the corridor Ginger shouted, ‘Just a minute, the door won’t open.’ Which was perfectly true. It would not open because it was locked. Then he climbed out of the window and ran round to the front of the building.
As he reckoned, the police van was still there, standing where it had been stopped. No one was with it. He sprinted across the front of the hospital and jumped into the driving seat. From the time he had gone down the corridor to Henri’s room not more than two minutes had elapsed, and so far everything had worked with the precision of a well-oiled sewing machine. Would the luck hold? It would not, thought Ginger. Nor did it. As he started the engine a shout warned him that he had been seen. The chauffeur came leaping down the steps. But the car was moving now. There was no time to turn, so treading on the accelerator Ginger went straight on. Direction was of no consequence.
There was a fusillade of shots. Two or three bullets hit the van, but without effect. It raced on into the village. The village street, like most streets in the South of France, built narrow to give shade during the heat of the day, was only just wide enough to take it. Cats, dogs and chickens, looking up to see death bearing down on them, leapt for their lives as the vehicle shot through, honking to clear the way.
At the far end the road forked. The right fork went up; the left, down. Concerned only with speed Ginger took the one that went down. There was a signpost. As he flashed past it he read, La Grave de Peille, but even then he did not fully comprehend what this meant. It was only when he rounded a bend and saw the road plunging down the face of the precipice in a series of incredible zig-zags that he remembered the village at the bottom of the gorge. He took his foot off the accelerator and stood on the brakes until they screamed, and filled the car with the stench of burning rubber. But it did not stop. Ginger held his breath. A hairpin bend rushed to meet him. With his eyes starting from his head he spun the wheel. The car dry-skidded round the edge of the gorge with perhaps two inches to spare. Before he could straighten out he was on another bend. This time there was no hope of getting round, for only those who are born to such roads know how to take them at speed.
Ginger spun the wheel desperately. The car skidded, tearing up a cloud of dust, towards the brink, and the frightful void beyond. Ginger knew that it was going over, that nothing could save it; so he did the only thing left to do. He flung himself clear out of the opposite side. His hands closed over the gnarled root of an olive and he hung on for dear life. The van, after hanging at a ghastly angle for a moment, toppled over the edge and disappeared from sight. For a few seconds there was silence; then came such a crashing and banging that seemed as if the whole cliff had collapsed.
Gasping, brushing sweat out of his eyes, Ginger walked to the spot where the car had disappeared, and looking down saw the remains of it, in a cloud of boulders, dust and broken branches, well on its way to the village at the bottom of the chasm.
He staggered back to the olive tree, and for a moment stood there, panting, weak at the knees, completely unnerved by the narrowness of his escape. He looked at his hands curiously, as though they did not belong to him, and saw that they were trembling violently. One had been cut, and was bleeding, but it didn’t hurt.
He was still standing there, trying to bring his heart and jarred nerves back to normal, when a shout above reminded him that he was only a short distance from the village, although overhanging trees prevented him from being seen. Obviously, it was no use going back up the road, for he would be certain to meet the police coming down. If he went down, he would be equally certain to find a crowd waiting at the bottom, brought out from the village by the crashing car. Yet if only he could get back to the top road, beyond the sanatorium, he might be able to overtake Henri. He could see parts of the road far above him – or rather, the scar it made round the cliff. The bank between was steep, but not sheer. Stunted olives and fig trees, with their roots well down in the rocks, offered secure handholds.
One thing, he saw, was in his favour. His pursuers would not look up for him; they would look down, assuming that he had gone over with the car. Even if his body were not found it might be supposed that he lay buried under the debris that the car had taken down with it. The police would also suppose that Henri’s body lay somewhere down the valley – at least, he hoped so. They would make a search, and this should give them both a fair start. Drawing a deep breath he began to climb.
The distance to the road, as a bird might fly, was not more than two hundred yards, but as Ginger was compelled to travel it was nearer half a mile. In the van he had come down in perhaps ten seconds, but it was clear that the return journey would take longer – an hour of tortuous, heart-bursting effort. It was dark long before he got to the top, and this did not make his task any easier. Once, from a dizzy perch, he could see the police far below him, running down the dreadful road to La Grave.
When he reached his immediate objective, the village, which lay a short distance to the left, had settled down. He could hear nothing except the distant murmur of voices. With Indian-like stealth he crossed the road, and soon gained the ravine with its group of olives where he had left Lucille. The animal had gone, from which it was reasonably certain Henri had succeeded in getting clear. The thing was to overtake him, to compare notes, and find out how he was standing the journey – a stiff one for an invalid – to Castillon.
Ginger went on through a lonely world of rocks and stunted trees. During his mad escapade he had completely forgotten his wounded leg, but now that the excitement had died down it was beginning to throb. After stopping to loosen the bandages, which gave him some relief, he went on. He went on for perhaps half an hour, by which time he was on top of an enormous saddle-back that commanded a view of the mountains around him. It was like being astride the ridge of the world.
A low whistle made him pull up abruptly, staring among the boulders from which the sound had come.
‘Ginger! Is zat you?’ said a voice – Henri’s voice.
‘Yes, it’s me,’ answered Ginger. ‘Have you only got as far as this?’
‘Far enough, for the time,’ replied Henri, coming forward, leading the donkey.’
‘Why didn’t you go on?’
‘I wait for you.’
‘But how did you know that I should come this way?’
‘From the bank I see what happens,’ explained Henri. ‘I see you take the car. Name of a dog! It was superbe. Then, zut-alors! I see you take the road to La Grave. It is suicide. I say to myself it is goodbye. But no. I pray hard. I see you make the quick jump, and in the trees hang like a monkey. The car, she goes zonk! You do not go down the road. You do not come up the road. How do I know? Because I am high up and see down on all the bends. I say to myself he must come back to the top road through the trees, to go to Castillon. So I wait. That is all. Tout simplement2. My friend, you have nerves the most audacious. I am a prisoner. In one minute you make me escape. Du courage! Magnifique3! A thousand thanks, mon ami. I shall not forget this, no.’
‘Neither shall I,’ retur
ned Ginger grimly. ‘Now, what about pushing on to Castillon?’
‘Why, by all the saints, do we go to Castillon, this place of cats?’
‘Because Algy and Bertie should be there.’
‘But why?’
‘We have found a clue and it led us to Castillon. I’ll tell you about it as we go along. If we can get to the place we shall all be together again.’
‘Entendu4. We stay in France a long time now, I think,’ said Henri. ‘My engine, she goes conk. The old cow.’
‘Never mind about that. The question is, can you make the journey to Castillon?’
‘But surely. I have the cuts and the bruises, yes, and the head she opens and shuts, but not so bad as I pretend. I think perhaps if I pretend sick I get chance to escape. But no. What I do not understand is how you know I am at Peille?’
Ginger explained, briefly, the circumstances that had led to his visit to the Rue Marinière, and what had happened there.
Of course, Henri wanted to know all about his mother and sister, and this occupied some minutes while they rested. ‘And now we had better get on,’ concluded Ginger. ‘We must get under cover by dawn, or we may be seen, so get aboard Lucille and lead the way. I should like to know what goes on at Castillon.’
They set off up the narrow path.
1 Group of high mountains.
2 French: So simple!
3 French: Such courage! Magnificent!
4 French: Understood.
CHAPTER 14
AU BON CUISINE
COULD GINGER ONLY have known what was going on at Castillon he would have been surprised. Events had probably moved far beyond his imagination.
When Bertie had followed the princess he had done so with a certain amount of trepidation. He had no idea of what was going to happen; he was prepared for anything – except what did happen.
A narrow lane wound a serpentine path between dilapidated houses, over fallen masonry, to the outskirts of the village, where a house, larger than most, overlooked a great gash in the rocks that fell away and away, widening as it fell, until at last it dropped into the distant Mediterranean. The girl who had said she was a princess – Bertie only had her word for it – paid no attention to the view. She opened a door from which all paint had long disappeared, and went down two steps into what had evidently been a semi-basement kitchen of considerable size.
‘Enter, monsieur,’ she invited.
‘Ah! The bon cuisine,’ murmured Bertie.
The princess smiled. ‘Had you mentioned at first that you had seen the writing on the wall it would have saved you trouble. Now I think I understand.’
‘The writing on the wall was not a thing to talk about,’ replied Bertie drily.
‘But you came here on account of it?’
‘Yes.’
‘But not really to seek a princess, my noble troubadour?’
‘Not entirely,’ admitted Bertie. ‘I was concerned with a knight who had tried to rescue her from the hands of her enemies.’
The princess laughed quietly. ‘Are you by any chance the Honourable Lacey?’
Bertie nearly dropped his guitar in astonishment. ‘Here, I say, that’s a leading question. No, I am not the Honourable Lacey, but he is not far from here. Mario, I think, has gone to fetch him. Ah – here he is.’
Algy, looking slightly bewildered, came down into the kitchen closely followed by Mario. ‘Bertie!’ he cried, ‘are you in the party, too? How did you get here so soon?’
‘I padded the jolly old hoof most of the way.’
‘No – I mean, what brought you here? I saw the girl write on the wall and came straight along, yet you are here as soon as I am.’
‘A little bird whispered in my ear,’ answered Bertie.
‘You mean – the girl?’
‘Oh, no. And the girl, my inquisitive partner, says she is a princess.’
‘The princess?’
‘Ah! There you have me. I’m no judge of princesses.’
The princess stepped into the conversation. She still carried her automatic. To Mario she said, ‘Close the door and keep guard.’ To the others she remarked, ‘I am going to show you something. It may be what you are looking for. If it is, then all will be well. If you are spies, it will be a pity, because I shall have to shoot you. We take no risks.’
‘No, by jingo, I can see that,’ murmured Bertie.
The princess pushed aside an old wine press, disclosing a flight of steps leading downward. The pale yellow light of a candle came up the steps to meet the dim daylight in the kitchen. ‘Descend,’ she ordered. ‘If you are recognised, all will be well. If not I shall be close behind you. Proceed.’
Algy went first. A dozen steps brought him to the bottom, into a bare, oblong cellar. There was only one piece of furniture, a wooden bedstead, on which a bed of dried herbs had been arranged. On it lay a man, a man whose emaciated face was half covered by a fortnight’s stubble of beard. But the eyes that he turned on the visitors were clear. He was clad in an old boiler suit, but an R.A.F. uniform lay on the floor beside him.
Algy stopped. His heart appeared to seize up. ‘Great heavens!’ he breathed. ‘Biggles!’
‘Hello, boys,’ answered Biggles. ‘What are you staring at?’
‘I – I hardly – knew you,’ stammered Algy.
‘Come right in, Bertie,’ invited Biggles. ‘Yes, I’m afraid I must look a bit of a mess, but I should have looked a lot worse by now had it not been for my nurse. Gentlemen, allow me to present to you Her Highness the Princess Marietta de Palma.’
The princess inclined her head and put away her pistol. ‘So all is well,’ she observed, speaking in English. ‘Forgive me, but I had to be sure. There are more spies than scorpions in the country now.’
‘How the deuce did you fellows find your way here?’ demanded Biggles.
‘When you didn’t show we twisted the story out of Raymond and he let us come down. We traced you by the writing on the wall,’ explained Algy.
‘Which means, I suppose, that Ginger is in the offing?’
‘At the moment he’s gone to a beastly place by the name of Peille,’ put in Bertie.
‘Why?’ asked Biggles. Algy, too, looked surprised, for he knew nothing of Ginger’s adventures.
‘He went,’ said Bertie, ‘to get hold of Henri Ducoste, who is now a prisoner in the hospital at Peille.’
‘Henri! A prisoner? – Peille – I don’t understand! I assumed he got back to England?’
‘He did. But he brought us over, and his engine let him down just after he had turned for home. He crashed between Peille and Baudon, and was taken to hospital pending removal to prison as a de Gaulleist1.’
‘I didn’t know anything about this,’ Algy told Biggles helplessly.
‘There are a lot of things you know nothing about, old boy,’ continued Bertie. ‘I’m a big worried about Ginger. With one thing and another he may be in a mess. A bullet-hole in the leg has let a lot of the pink juice out of him.’
‘Why didn’t you go to Peille with him?’ demanded Biggles.
‘He said it would be better for me to come on here and try to make contact with Algy.’
‘Just a minute – just a minute,’ broke in Biggles. ‘We’re all at sixes and sevens. Let’s take things one at a time. I presume that you came over together and then got split up, so each doesn’t know what the others have been doing?’
‘That’s about it,’ agreed Bertie. ‘But first of all, old boy, tell us about yourself. I hope you realise that until five minutes ago we didn’t know whether you were alive or dead. Even Raymond didn’t know, although in his heart he reckoned you were a gonner.’
Biggles smiled wanly. ‘To tell the truth, I wasn’t quite sure about it myself. The story won’t take long. How much did Raymond tell you?’
Algy explained.
Biggles nodded. ‘Well, as far as I can make out, what happened at Californie was this. I was making for the machine when a bullet hit me. Oh, yes, ther
e was no fake about that. It knocked me for six. Actually the bullet hit a rib near the heart, glanced off and tore a hole in my side. The wound has healed up pretty well, but it kept me off my feet for a few days. The princess was already in the machine. When she saw me go down she jumped out again, with the result that the machine took off without either of us. Mind you, I didn’t see this, because I was down for the count. Apparently there were a couple of Italians right on top of me. Her Highness, who carried a gun, shot them. There were some more on the way, so somehow or other she dragged me down to the sea, which was handy. The shock of the water brought me round, and for a little while I was able to take some slight interest in the proceedings. We lay there, the pair of us, with our noses just out of the water for about an hour, while the Italians searched high and low. When the excitement died away a bit we started making our way to Nice, half wading and half swimming. We managed to get to Jock’s Bar, where I had already arranged for a blue message to be left – I’ll explain about that later. It was my intention to write more, in case Raymond sent someone to look for us, but by that time I was all in. I’d lost rather more blood than the old system would stand.’
‘I saw some of it,’ murmured Algy.
‘The princess got me inside,’ resumed Biggles. ‘She did a bit of first-aid work with some old bathing costumes, and then found herself with an unconscious man on her hands. Of course, she should have abandoned me and made for Spain—’
‘I would not go over that again, my comrade,’ broke in the princess. ‘In my family we do not abandon our friends.’
Biggles smiled. ‘That’s the sort of girl she is,’ he said softly, and then continued: ‘Leaving me in Jock’s Bar, she went back to Monaco, where she knew a chap who had once been in the Royal Service. He ran a restaurant. As a matter of detail, I knew him myself – I’ll explain how that came about presently.’
