by W E Johns
‘Fetch her, please. Time is short.’
Madame ran up the stairs and returned with Jeanette, looking not a little startled. Her eyes were red as though with weeping.
‘Now listen carefully, madame,’ went on Ginger. ‘All is well. Don’t be alarmed.’
‘But we are in great trouble, monsieur,’ broke in madame.
‘Yes, we know all about it – that’s why we are here. Henri is safe. We have him with us in the mountains.’
‘Thank God.’
‘He is hurt, but not seriously. If he gives himself up he will be shot. If he does not give himself up, you will be shot. There is only one way of escape. Come with us and we will take you to him. Afterwards we shall all go to England. But this you must understand. If you decide to come with us you must be prepared to abandon everything. We have no time for baggage. Now, madame, the choice is yours. Shall Henri give himself up? Will you submit to arrest, or will you throw in your lot with us – and Henri?’
Jeanette’s eyes were on her mother’s face. ‘Let us go,’ she breathed. ‘It is the only way.’
‘We will go with you, monsieur,’ decided madame. ‘I must be with my boy. If we are to die, then we will die together.’
‘Bravely spoken, madame,’ put in Biggles. ‘That is what we hoped you would say. Are you ready?’
‘We are in your hands, under God, monsieur.’
Ginger opened the door. To his alarm a little crowd had collected, but its sympathy, as was to be expected, was with the two women – their own folk.
‘Say nothing, madame. Look as though you are resigned to being arrested,’ said Biggles quietly as he opened the rear of the ambulance and helped them in.
There was some hissing and hooting. A stone was thrown.
Ginger got in with the two prisoners. Biggles slammed the door and went round to the front, to Mario, who sat like a graven image on his seat.
‘Drive on, Mario,’ ordered Biggles as he got in.
To a chorus of shouts and curses the car went down the narrow street with Mario sounding his horn to clear a path through the swiftly growing crowd before the anger of which the two Italian soldiers were beating a hasty retreat. For a moment or two it looked as though there was going to be a riot, which was something Biggles had not foreseen, and which was the last thing he wanted. However, the car got clear of the street and Mario sped on down the long ramp that leads to the Condamine. Straight through the Boulevard Albert behind the Harbour he drove, and up the incline to Monte Carlo.
‘Stop at the place where you dropped us this morning,’ ordered Biggles. ‘We have someone to pick up.’
A few seconds later the corner came into sight. Bertie was waiting, making music to an admiring gathering of urchins.
‘Get in the back,’ called Biggles.
Without a word Bertie got in. The door slammed. The car went on.
After that, on the whole, progress was good, although there was one nasty moment in a traffic hold-up, when Biggles saw a Monégasque gendarme regarding the vehicle curiously. Mario noticed it, too. Instead of waiting, he turned out of the queue and took a turning to the right, to the lower road, at the end of which a left turn brought him back to the main thoroughfare. There was still a certain amount of traffic coming from Italy, but it had thinned out considerably and Mario was able to maintain a good speed.
On reaching Mentone there was another hold-up at the Sospel turning. The road, a sentry insisted, was closed. This came as no surprise. But as there was no other road within miles of Castillon, Mario had to take a chance. He did it well.
‘Fool!’ he shouted. ‘Can’t you see that this is an ambulance? There has been trouble. We have orders to fetch a wounded man.’
The sentry apologised and waved them on.
On the long pull up the mountain road Biggles had a serious talk with Mario. He realized that the restaurant owner’s only real interest in the affair was his attachment to the princess and his secret society. He probably hated Fascism, anyway, on the principle that most Sicilians hate any form of government which must inevitably exercise restraint – as against complete freedom of action. Hence the numerous secret societies which exist on the island.
Biggles apologised for having got Mario involved in his affairs, pointing out frankly that he feared this latest escapade would make it difficult for him to return to Monaco.
Mario stated with equal frankness that he was quite sure of it. It would be known that his ambulance had been used for the rescue. The police in Monaco, to say nothing of half the people, had seen him. He had also been observed by the gendarme at the traffic hold-up.
‘If you go back to Monaco you will be arrested,’ predicted Biggles.
Mario answered – somewhat surprisingly, Biggles thought – that he had no intention of going back to Monaco. It was not outside the bounds of possibility that the secret police would discover that he had killed Zabani. He had always been suspected of being a Camorrista, and the paper on the dagger would tell them that the crime was an act of vengeance by the Camorra. In any case, he said, the little business he had spent years working up had been ruined by the war. ‘How,’ he asked plaintively, taking his hands off the wheel to lend expression to his words, ‘how can a man run a restaurant when there is nothing to cook?’
Biggles admitted that as a problem the question did present difficulties.
‘What does it matter?’ rejoined Mario, with true Latin philosophy. ‘I would rather serve the princess. If she will have me, I will stay with her and go where she goes. It may be that there will be some more traitors to kill,’ he added hopefully.
This decision simplified Biggles’ immediate problem. ‘We hope the princess will go to England with us,’ he announced. ‘Would you follow her there?’
Mario drew a deep breath. ‘Yes, I would follow her even to England. For her I will suffer the rain and the fog,’ he announced in a tone of voice which left Biggles in no doubt as to his opinion of the English climate.
‘Tonight we shall try to escape in an aeroplane,’ continued Biggles. ‘I have a plan. If we decide on it, will you drive the party down to the sea?’
‘Why should I mind? There is enough petrol. There is even a spare can, not yet opened. I am told that if I open it I shall be sent to prison; but as I shall be shot now if they catch me, how can they send me to prison for opening the petrol?’
‘How, indeed?’ murmured Biggles. ‘It was clever of you to think of that.’
‘Thank you, signor,’ answered Mario simply.
‘The question is, what shall we do with the ambulance when we get to Castillon?’
‘What shall we do with it?’
‘That’s what I’m asking you. We can’t leave it standing on the road. Could we get up the track to the village?’
‘Who knows?’
‘I thought perhaps you might,’ replied Biggles softly. There were times when he found Mario’s Latin habit of answering a question with a question rather trying. ‘Well, see what you can do about it. We’ve got to get it off the road,’ he concluded.
Arriving at the end nearest to Castillon, Mario got the vehicle off the road by the simple expedient of charging the hillside, with a fine disregard for tyres, springs and passengers. ‘The ambulance doesn’t belong to me,’ he explained in replying to a questioning look from Biggles. With the engine racing in bottom gear the car crashed and banged its way over the rocks, and finally bounded into the village street.
‘No one will see us here unless a person comes to the village,’ announced Mario carelessly. ‘If a person comes – tch,’ he touched his stiletto.
Biggles dismounted, and going to the rear of the vehicle, found Bertie and Ginger, with their charges, getting out.
‘For the moment you are safe, madame,’ he said with a smile of confidence. ‘Come with me and I will take you to Henri.’
The others followed.
CHAPTER 17
PLAN FOR ESCAPE
THE REUNION OF Henri and his family, whom h
e had not seen for three years, gave Ginger an idea of the mental anguish hundreds of thousands of people, parted by the war and unable to get in touch with each other, were suffering. It made any risks they had taken more than worthwhile. After watching them for a minute, Biggles beckoned to the others to follow him up to the kitchen, where, without preamble, he asked Bertie to report the result of his reconnaissance at the harbour.
‘First I had a talk with François,’ began Bertie. ‘From the window of his house I could see everything that was going on, so the whole show was really a slice of pie. François, by the way, is all against these beastly Fascists who have made a mucker of jolly old Monaco. He’ll do anything to annoy them, and as he has the boat he may be useful. It’s my old racer, you know. I’ve told him he can have it – it’ll be out of date for racing by the time the war is over.’
‘Does the engine still function?’ put in Biggles.
‘Well, old boy, it would if it had any petrol. François is a first-class mechanic, which is why I employed him in the old days, and as he couldn’t bear to see the engine go to bits he has kept it on the top line – if you see what I mean? Not being able to use the motor, he’s rigged up a sail for waffling up and down the coast looking after his lobster pots, which is about as much fishing as he does. By the way, he has a licence from the authorities to go fishing, so everyone is accustomed to see him pottering in and out of the harbour. We talked over the possibility of sailing to Spain, but we decided it was too far – eight hundred miles or thereabouts. Bluebird is purely a racer, with no keel and a very shallow draft; without power she couldn’t live five minutes in a heavy sea. The Gulf of Lyons can be the very devil in a westerly gale, should we be caught out. Moreover, she was designed as a two-seater, but François has taken off most of the faring, so she would carry eight or nine people for a short distance in a calm sea.’
‘That’s useful to know,’ murmured Biggles. ‘What about the aircraft.’
‘There are twelve Savoias in the harbour, moored to buoys in three lines of four – as you probably saw for yourself?’ continued Bertie. ‘The leading machine of the outside line carries a pennant, so presumably it’s the C.O.’s kite. The officers are living in the Bristol hotel, just opposite, and the crews are parked in the Beau Rivage, at the bottom of the hill. As far as I could make out there are no sentries except a headquarters guard in the custom-house; but if I know anything about the Ities1 they probably spend most of their time playing cards. I don’t suppose it would occur to them that someone might borrow one of the machines. There are a fair number of troops round the harbour, bathing and what not. I gather from François that it goes on half the night. I’ve saved the most important spot of news still last. I didn’t hear this myself, but an Italian told François that the squadron leaves tomorrow for a secret destination, which I wasn’t able to discover.’
‘It doesn’t matter two hoots where they’re going,’ observed Biggles thoughtfully. ‘But if they’re pushing off tomorrow it means that as far as we’re concerned to-night’s the night. What time are they going?’
‘I couldn’t find out. There seems to be some doubt about it.’
‘No matter. They’ll hardly be likely to move before daylight, and by that time our show will be over, one way or the other. Did you hear of any particular reason why they stopped here?’
‘François thinks it was something to do with fuel – at least, he heard them talking about oil and petrol.’
‘Thanks, Bertie. You’ve done a good job. Now let us see how the show lines up. We’ve got quite a large party. Mario has decided to come with us, so that will make nine all told. As far as the aircraft is concerned, that’s all right; a dozen people could pack into one of those Savoias. Our big difficulty will be Henri. He’ll have to be carried. All the same, with reasonable luck I think we ought to be able to pull this off. The Italians are an easy-going lot – thank goodness.’
Biggles thought for a little while, gazing at the floor. Then he looked up. ‘All right,’ he resumed. ‘Listen carefully, everybody. This is my scheme, and success, as usual, will depend on perfect timing. The moon is due to show just before three, so our best time for action will be a trifle before that. What I mean is, we should have darkness when we want it, and afterwards, when a spot of light would be useful, we shall have the moon.’
‘We’re still wearing Italian uniforms, don’t forget,’ interposed Ginger. ‘How does that work in?’
‘So much the better for the scheme I have in mind. Our two most useful assets are Mario’s ambulance and François’ boat. I’m adapting the show to use them both. Mario tells me he is all right for petrol. This is my idea, bearing in mind that we shall need the two fittest men in the party – that’s you, Algy, and Bertie – to carry Henri. At twelve midnight Mario will drive Ginger and me to just this side of Monaco, to within reasonable walking distance of the harbour. It would be dangerous for him to go right into the town in case they are on the look-out for him. Our job will be to get the aircraft. Mario will return to Castillon, where Algy will be in charge. The whole party will get into the ambulance, which will then proceed to Cap Martin. Run along to the end of the cape and take cover in the trees, where the party will wait until François arrives with the boat. I shall arrange that with him. I gather he knows all about us, Bertie? Remember to tell me just where he lives.’
‘Oh, yes, he knows all about you,’ put in Bertie.
‘Good. I shall ask him to try to be at the point of Cap Martin at two-thirty precisely. When he arrives, Algy’s party will abandon the ambulance and go to the boat, taking with them Mario’s spare can of petrol, and my uniform, which I shall need. Is that clear so far?’
‘Perfectly clear,’ confirmed Algy.
‘The point about the can of petrol is this,’ went on Biggles. ‘François will come in under sail, and if he is all right for time he may not need the petrol. On the other hand, if there is a delay, the petrol can be used to speed things up. Put it in the tank, anyway. The boat will then proceed to a point about two miles off the tip of Cap Martin, where, if we are not there, it will wait. The time is now, shall we say, a few minutes to three, and the moon will be coming up. We shall aim to get away with the Savoia in order to arrive at the same time. In short, the rendezvous is two miles off Cap Martin at three o’clock. You’ll probably have to use the engine to come alongside – if we try to come to you we may swamp you. Both parties will have to make every possible effort to be on time. I think that’s all – except if the aircraft doesn’t show up by three-fifteen you’ll know we’ve come unstuck, in which case François will take you back to Cap Martin, from where Mario will drive you to Castillon. That’s only in the event of failure. Should it happen, Algy, in charge of the party, will have to devise some other means of getting home. Is that all absolutely clear?’
‘Yes, it seems perfectly straightforward,’ agreed Algy. ‘You’ve landed yourself, as usual, with the dirty end of the stick. Have you any idea of how you are going to get hold of this aircraft?’
‘More or less. We shall simply swim out to it, cut the cable and start up. Whether we taxi to the rendezvous, or take off, will depend on the circumstances – it’s only five or six miles from the harbour to Cap Martin. Looking at the thing now, there appears to be nothing to prevent anyone from doing that, but as a result of past experience we know jolly well that some snag usually turns up to upset things. Anyway, that’s the scheme, and we shall stick to it as long as nothing occurs to bust it up.’
‘Assuming that all goes according to plan, and we get the machine, where do you propose to make for?’ asked Ginger.
‘I shall try to run straight through to England. Naturally, that will depend on how much fuel we find in the tanks, and the wind, if any. I’ve left the wind out of my calculations because the weather seems settled.’
‘What about Lucille?’ asked Ginger. ‘I’ve got very fond of that little moke.’
‘Algy can turn her loose; she’ll browse on these hi
lls till someone picks her up. Maybe she’ll find her way home. Any more questions?’
Nobody answered, so the plan, as outlined, was accepted. It was now late in the afternoon. The others were called up from the cellar and informed of the decision.
The princess smiled. ‘But this is most romantic. My ancestors would be chuckling in their graves if they knew. Until recent times, for hundreds of years this sort of thing went on up and down the coast, fighting, rescues, princes at war with each other, and the Saracens making raids everywhere.’ The princess sighed. ‘What days they were.’
‘We’re not doing so badly ourselves,’ Ginger pointed out, glancing at Jeanette.
The princess intercepted the glance and smiled. ‘I think you are doing very well,’ she observed. ‘When the war is over you must visit my home near Palermo – that is, if Jeanette will let you. The Sicilian girls are very good-looking.’
Jeanette blushed. The princess laughed. Ginger grinned sheepishly. Bertie shook his head sadly.
Mario produced some food. Nobody asked where he had got it from, but it was a welcome diversion. After that they sat and discussed the plan in all its aspects while the sun went down in a blaze of gold and crimson behind the long arm of Cap d’Antibes, far to the west. Princess Marietta went back to the cellar and returned to say that Henri seemed slightly better. His mother was still with him.
‘Which reminds me,’ said Algy, addressing Biggles. ‘Do you really feel up to this show tonight? You haven’t been on your feet very long.’
‘I couldn’t do it if there was likely to be much violent exercise,’ admitted Biggles. ‘But as far as one can foresee, that isn’t likely to arise. Bar accidents, I should be okay.’
Algy did not pursue the subject, and after that there was little to do except wait for the time to pass until zero hour.
Just before midnight, after a handshake all round, Biggles, Ginger and Mario, in accordance with the arrangement, went to the ambulance which, not without difficulty, was coaxed back to the road. At Biggles’ suggestion they all sat on the front seat, where their uniforms would be seen if they were stopped, and so made their way, slowly, for the night was dark, to Mentone. Turning right, Mario went on to the outskirts of Monte Carlo, the ambulance taking its place in a considerable convoy going in the same direction. At a convenient spot it stopped. Biggles and Ginger got out. Mario turned the car and disappeared up the road on the return journey. Biggles and Ginger walked on towards the harbour. There were a number of Italian military cars, guns and tanks, parked beside the road, and a fair number of soldiers were moving about, but none had anything to say to the two officers who walked along as though they were out for a stroll before turning in. Without once being accosted they reached the harbour, where a few soldiers, presumably late arrivals, were having a midnight bathe. In a few minutes they were outside François’ little house, knocking on the door.
