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. Al the time there had been sounds of pursuit behind him, but he knew that the car in which the police had arrived would be unable to fol ow him down the escalier 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 fol owed. 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 fete.

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 pa.s.sed at a run.

Occasional y a whistle was blown.

Stil 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 vil age 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 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 pul himself up by the railings. Struggling on with the desperation of sheer determination to get to the top, he pa.s.sed under a stone arch and found himself on a wide gravel s.p.a.ce. 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-bal s. On the left, occasional paved al eys, too narrow to be cal ed 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 Mariniere. In such a turmoil was his brain that for a moment he could not recal where he had heard the name before. Then he remembered. It was the street in which lived the mother of their Monegasque 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 wal s 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 fel 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 att.i.tude of alarm.

The picture was engraved indelibly on Ginger's brain. Al he could see was the girl, a girl of about eighteen years of age, who from the sombre manner of her dress was a Monegasque. 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 smal 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.

'Pepe,' he gasped. Then again, 'Pepe.' 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 fal ing-fal ing-fal ing . . .

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 Peil e 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 pa.s.sed 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, so he curled up in an olive grove, slept until dawn, and then, singing to himself, made his way to the hotel which stands almost opposite the disused railway. An old man and a young girl were already astir, and they wished him a cheerful bon jour bon jour*1.

Over breakfast of a rol and some poor coffee he proceeded cautiously with his inquiries, but without success. Either the people knew nothing, or they were not prepared to talk. Conversation ended abruptly when four gendarmes gendarmes who had evidently been on night duty came in and ordered coffee. 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 gendarme, who appeared to work in couples. His answers satisfied them and he was al owed to pa.s.s.

Arriving in Monte Carlo he walked down the hil 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 wel -patched overal s 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 Francois Budette, a Monegasque 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 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 antic.i.p.ating 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.

Bertie quickened his pace, hoping to lose his pursuer among the miscel aneous boats and fishing gear that lay strewn about in front of the tiny houses that backed the wharf-a wharf that had been reserved for the local people. He dare not run for fear of attracting the attention of people, men and women, who were standing about, some loitering, others working on their fishing tackle. But this reluctance did not apply to the mechanic, who broke into a trot, with the result that as Bertie was turning out of the wharf into the Place d'Armes he felt himself caught by the arm. Turning, he looked into the grinning face of Francois Budette, and knew that it was useless to pretend he did not know him.

'Bon jour, milord!' cried Francois. 'C'est bon! Je suis content . . .*2'

Bertie stopped him with a word, and glancing along the wharf was relieved to see that the meeting appeared not to have been noticed by anyone.

'Have you been here al the time, milord?' asked Francois wonderingly.

'No,' Bertie told him. 'I have just returned. But let us not talk here. If I am caught by the police I shal be shot as a spy.'

Francois's face expressed concern. 'That is no use,' he muttered.

'No use at al ,' agreed Bertie. 'Where can we talk?'

'There is stil wine to be had in the Cafe de la Cote d'Azur-you remember the old place?'

'No, there are too many people,' broke in Bertie. 'I know it's no use trying to deceive you, so I shal have to tel you the truth. Let us find a place where it is quiet.'

'Come home with me. My wife wil be so glad to see again the English milord.'

Bertie thought swiftly. 'Yes, that's the best thing,'

he a.s.sented.

'I stil live in the same house,' remarked Francois, leading the way to one of the cottages behind the wharf.

'I see you've stil got the old boat?'

'But of course. I take care of her. There is no petrol any more, but al the same I keep her good in case one day you come back.'

'I shal remember that, Francois,' returned Bertie.

'Do you stil use the boat?'

'Oui. The Italians gave me a fishing licence, so I fix a sail to catch the lobsters by Cap Martin. But without the petrol, the boat is not so fast as when we won the Grand Prix, milord. My G.o.d! That was a race to remember. Those were the days.' The mechanic glanced around. 'How goes the war, do you think?' he asked in a low voice. 'Shal we win?' The Italians gave me a fishing licence, so I fix a sail to catch the lobsters by Cap Martin. But without the petrol, the boat is not so fast as when we won the Grand Prix, milord. My G.o.d! That was a race to remember. Those were the days.' The mechanic glanced around. 'How goes the war, do you think?' he asked in a low voice. 'Shal we win?'

'Who do you mean by we?'

'The British and the Americanos. Every day we pray for them, milord.'

'You prefer the good old days, eh?'

Francois indicated the town with a sweep of his brown arm. 'Look at the place. It fal s to pieces. No money, no food, except fish and potatoes-and not many potatoes. There is not coffee any more, and the bread she is black. Everyone goes broke. Even the casino goes broke. These n.a.z.is stay at the hotels but they do not pay. The Italians take everything. They do not, like the English, understand what it is to be sporting-no. Tiens! Tiens! These are bad times.' These are bad times.'

Francois turned through a tangle of fishing gear into a neat little house with bright green doors and shutters. An elderly woman, fat, swarthy as an Indian, glanced up from the stove over which she was bending. Her back straightened. She uttered a cry of glad surprise. 'The milord!'

Bertie held out his hand. ' Bon jour Bon jour, Madame Budette.'

Madame shook his hand warmly, looking from one man to the other. 'But this is something I do not understand!' she cried.

'Shut the door, mon vieux mon vieux*3, and I wil tel you why I am here,' answered Bertie.

Francois closed the door, pul ed forward a chair, and took a bottle from the cupboard. 'A gla.s.s of cognac, milord?' he offered.

'Not just now, thanks,' declined Bertie. 'I have things to do. Where are the children, madame? madame? ' '

'At school.'

'Good. I must go before they return or perhaps they wil chatter with their friends and so bring the police here. In any case I wil not stay long because you are risking your lives by having me in your house. I tried to run away from Francois, but he caught me, and here I am.'

'Where have you come from, milord?' asked Francois.

'I have come,' replied Bertie, 'from England.'

Francois gasped. ' Nom de Dieu! Nom de Dieu! But how?' But how?'

'By aeroplane.'

'But why?'

'I am looking for a friend. But if the Italians catch me they wil shoot me for a spy.'

'A friend!' Francois' eyes narrowed. ' Tiens! Tiens! ' he breathed. 'Then you are perhaps a friend of the Englishman who al the police are looking for?' ' he breathed. 'Then you are perhaps a friend of the Englishman who al the police are looking for?'

Bertie's face flushed with excitement. 'Then he is stil alive?'

Madame shrugged. 'Who knows? Al we know is, an Englishman was here. He came, it is said, to fetch a girl who was locked up at the shrugged. 'Who knows? Al we know is, an Englishman was here. He came, it is said, to fetch a girl who was locked up at the poste de poste de police police*4, on the Rock. There was shooting here, and o n La Grande Corniche. La Grande Corniche. That is al we know. After that we are told not to mention the affair, but so many police came we think he got away. n.o.body knows anything for certain. Where do you stay while you are in Monaco, milord?' That is al we know. After that we are told not to mention the affair, but so many police came we think he got away. n.o.body knows anything for certain. Where do you stay while you are in Monaco, milord?'

'Nowhere in particular.'

'Then you wil stay with us,' invited Francois.

Bertie smiled. 'No, my friends, thank you al the same. This is no affair of yours. Al I ask is, forget that you saw me here, or you may find yourselves in serious trouble.'

'But you must eat, milord,' muttered madame madame, with a worried frown.

a worried frown.

'I shal manage.'

'Have some of my soup now? It is good.'

'That is an invitation I wil not refuse,' declared Bertie.

Madame bustled about laying the meal. bustled about laying the meal.

'What I do not understand is, how do you expect to find your friend?' said Francois. 'Where wil you look for him? In the casino? In the museum? Wil he walk along the Boulevard des Moulins, or sit on the terraces? But no! This is not possible with the place so ful of police.'

'First, I am going to look for some writing on a wal .'

'On what wal , milord?'

'The wal behind the Quai de Plaisance.'

Francois slapped his thigh and clicked his tongue.

' Zut alors! Zut alors! Now, here is a thing the most curious,' he exclaimed. 'One day I saw a girl writing on that very wal . She wore a blue shawl, I remember.' Now, here is a thing the most curious,' he exclaimed. 'One day I saw a girl writing on that very wal . She wore a blue shawl, I remember.'

Bertie stared. 'What day was this?'

Francois twisted his face in an effort to think. ' Oh Oh la la. la la. I forget. It was many days ago-seven-eight I forget. It was many days ago-seven-eight -perhaps ten-I do not know. Al days are the same here.'

'What did she write?'

'Fool that I am, I did not look. When I saw her writing I was working in the boat. I think when I go home I wil look what she writes, but the sun is hot and I forget.'

Bertie looked from one to the other. 'I know nothing of such a girl,' he said. 'If she was writing, then it is no concern of mine. Just where did it happen?'

'This side of the Escalier du Port. There was a young man standing there this morning, a sel er of onions, on the very spot. Perhaps you noticed him?'

'Er-yes-er-a man sel ing onions.'

'Is there anything remarkable in that?'

Bertie hesitated, but only for a moment. 'He, too, is my friend. He is helping me find the one who is lost.'

Francois started for the door. 'I go to see if there is writing on the wal .'

'No,' protested Bertie. 'I'l go.'

'It is better that I should go. Everyone knows me.

You eat your soup, milord. Au revoir. Au revoir. ' '

Bertie turned to madame. madame. 'It is nearly time for the children to come home?' 'It is nearly time for the children to come home?'

Madame nodded. 'I wil go to the convent and tel them that to-day they must eat with their aunt who lives in the Avenue Bel vue. They shal remain until I fetch them, this evening. It is better so.' nodded. 'I wil go to the convent and tel them that to-day they must eat with their aunt who lives in the Avenue Bel vue. They shal remain until I fetch them, this evening. It is better so.'

' Merci madame. Merci madame. It is good of you to go to so much trouble.' It is good of you to go to so much trouble.'

'Do not speak of it, milord.' Madame hurried off on her errand.

About ten minutes later Francois returned. His face was flushed with excitement. 'There is writing, in the colour blue,' he said in a tense voice.

'What does it say?'

'It just says, Chez Rossi. Pernod. There is also a little mark.'

'A triangle.'

'Exactement! *5' *5'

Bertie looked puzzled. 'Chez Rossi? What is this place-a restaurant?'

'Yes. It is at the back of the town, next to the Escalier des Revoires. But it is not a good place, I've heard tel .'