'What's wrong with it?'

'Mario Rossi, the owner. He is Italian, and that is not al . It is said . . .' Francois dropped his voice to a whisper. 'It is said he is a Camorrista*6. They are too handy with their knives. The Chez Rossi is no place for a gentleman like you.'

'Al the same,' declared Bertie. 'I must go.'

'What wil you do there?'

'I shal look for something with the mark Pernod- a bottle perhaps.'

'Let me go,' offered Francois. 'It wil be safer. Me, I am known to everyone in the town, but you, milord, if the police see you too much they may ask questions.

Stay here and rest. I wil find out what I can. The people here wil not talk to strangers, but they wil talk to me. I shal hear the latest rumours of this affair of the Englishman and the girl.'

Bertie perceived the wisdom of his advice. As a native Francois would be able to ask questions more or less with impunity. At any rate, he stood a much better chance of gathering information than a stranger.

'I accept your offer, Francois,' he decided. 'But be careful how you ask questions.'

'Leave that to me,' said Francois confidently. 'You 'Leave that to me,' said Francois confidently. 'You rest here. Au revoir Au revoir, milord.'

Left alone, Bertie settled down to make up for the rest he had lost during the night. He did not hear madame madame return, but it was getting dark by the time Francois came back. return, but it was getting dark by the time Francois came back.

'Wel , old lobster, what did you discover?' asked Bertie.

'Not much,' replied Francois, looking crestfal en. 'I could see nothing of Pernod. I spoke to Mario and asked him if he knew of any blue writing, or of anything to do with Pernod. He said no, he knew of no such thing, but I do not trust the fel ow. He gave me a queer look when I mentioned blue writing. It is my opinion that he knows more than he says. I asked him if any strangers had been there, and he said no; but his woman told me that a stranger, a young Spanish sel er of onions had been in. That makes Mario a liar straight away. After that I went round the cafes trying to hear news of the English spy the people are talking about, but no one knows anything, except that the police have had orders to keep their mouths shut. That's al .'

'Thank you, mon vieux mon vieux. Only one thing is clear. My friend the onion-sel er has read the writing on the wal , and he fol owed the clue to the Chez Rossi. I wonder where he went after that?'

Francois shook his head. 'I don't know. I saw nothing of him.'

Glancing through the little window Bertie saw that night had fal en. 'I think I'l go and have a look round myself,' he said. 'It should be safe enough now it is dark.'

'And you wil come back, milord?'

Bertie picked up his guitar. 'Perhaps-if I need a friend. Here, take this, and get some food, in case I come back hungry.' As he spoke Bertie took out some money and pa.s.sed it to the mechanic.

Francois would have refused it, but Bertie insisted. 'It is in the interest of everyone,' he said. ' Au revoir Au revoir, Francois. Au revoir, madame. Au revoir, madame. ' '

' Au revoir, monsieur. Au revoir, monsieur. ' '

Bertie went out into the night.

He walked along to the Quai de Plaisance, and in the light of his torch examined the writing to confirm that Francois had not overlooked anything. He was puzzled about the reference to the girl, but not seeing how she could fit into the scheme of things he dismissed her from his mind, and made his way, slowly, for he had sometimes to stop and ask the direction, to the barrestaurant at the corner of the Escalier des Revoires. He went in, sat at a table and glanced around. There was perhaps a dozen customers, mostly at the bar, talking in low tones. A woman was serving. She came over to him.

' Monsieur? Monsieur? ' '

'The soup,' ordered Bertie.

' Oui, monsieur. Oui, monsieur. ' '

As the woman was turning away Bertie asked casual y, 'Where is Mario to-night?'

'He has had to go out for a little while on business,' replied the woman, and went on to the kitchen, to return presently with the soup.

Bertie ate it slowly, watching the people around him, but he could detect nothing suspicious in their actions. He had nearly finished, and was thinking of leaving, when he was startled by hearing shots in the distance. The other customers stopped talking to listen, and then, as there were more occasional shots, went to the door, guessing in quick excited voices what it might be.

'I should say,' said one, 'they have at last tracked down the Englishman.'

n.o.body disputed this, and as the subject was not pursued, Bertie went out. But instead of leaving the district he turned in the bottom of the escalier escalier from where he could see the front and side entrances of the restaurant-practical y the same spot on which Ginger had stood only a short time before. from where he could see the front and side entrances of the restaurant-practical y the same spot on which Ginger had stood only a short time before.

There was no more shooting, and soon afterwards the men went back into the bar. Bertie moved deep into shadow and leaned against a wal . He was not expecting anything unusual to happen, and his chief reason for remaining was, he thought he might as wel , for he had nowhere else to go unless he returned to Francois.

Five minutes pa.s.sed. Then he heard swift footsteps approaching, and a second later a man turned the corner. He went straight to the side entrance of the Chez Rossi. For a moment or two while he stood there, one foot on the step, listening, the light from the kitchen window il uminated a dark, swarthy face. He was breathing heavily, and his nostrils were quivering, dilated, as though with excitement. Then he went in, closing the door behind him.

him.

Bertie guessed that the new arrival was Mario Rossi, and the man's obvious agitation so aroused his curiosity that he went over to the kitchen window in the hope of learning the explanation. There was a muslin blind drawn over the lower part of the window, but this did not prevent him from getting a fairly clear view of the interior of the lighted room. The man whom he a.s.sumed to be Mario was there, and his actions were now even more sinister than they had been outside.

First, he took from his pocket a red-stained handkerchief and threw it into the stove. Then, going quickly to the sink, he rinsed his hands, and Bertie noticed that the water which fel from them was also red. This done, he wiped his hands on a towel, examined his clothes for some reason that was not apparent, put on an ap.r.o.n, and lit a cigarette with hands that trembled so violently that he had difficulty in making match and cigarette meet. For a few seconds he drew at the cigarette in short, nervous whiffs, but this evidently did little to steady his nerves, for, crossing to a cupboard, he took down a bottle and helped himself to a generous drink.

He had just replaced the bottle when the woman who had been serving in the bar came in. Bertie could not hear what was said, but the woman's face expressed surprise. The man said something, and turning on his heel, opened a door and disappeared up a narrow flight of stairs. The woman fil ed some plates with soup and went back into the restaurant.

Bertie stood back, trying to work out what al this meant. From what he had seen, there was good reason to suppose that something unpleasant had happened. He felt certain that the stains on Mario's handkerchief and hands were blood. The question was, whose blood? He remembered what Francois had said about the man being a member of the notorious Italian secret society, the Camorra, and he knew that the methods of the Camorra were deadly, that the usual weapon was the stiletto*7; but even so, he found it hard to believe that the man could just have committed a murder. Such things rarely happen. Yet, reflected Bertie, Mario's manner certainly suggested that something of the sort had happened.

He hung about for a bit, and then, as there was no development, without any definite object in view he development, without any definite object in view he strol ed down towards the town. Somewhat to his surprise he met Francois coming up, and his surprise turned to alarm when Francois grabbed him by the arm and he saw the expression on his face. It was clear that the old mechanic was the bearer of hot news, and his first words conveyed the extent of its importance.

' Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Praise the saints that I have found you.' Praise the saints that I have found you.'

'What has happened?' asked Bertie tersely.

'Haven't you heard?'

'No.'

'There has been a murder, a stabbing.'

'What of it? I didn't do it.'

'No, but your friend did.'

'What!' Bertie's voice was brittle with incredulity.

'Ridiculous!'

Francois shrugged. 'Perhaps. But this is certain.

Al the police in the town-and there are many-are hunting for the young Spanish sel er of onions. He was in the room with the body-they saw him leave.'

'Whose body?'

Francois looked furtively to left and right. 'The body of Gaspard Zabani, of the Vil a Valdora.'

Chapter 6.

Strange Encounters There was a short silence during which Bertie stood and stared blankly at his informant.

'I stil say it's nonsense,' he declared. 'We don't carry daggers.'

Francois threw out his hands appealingly. 'But, milord, the police find onions under the window by which the a.s.sa.s.sin entered. I tel you the police are turning the princ.i.p.ality inside out in their search for him. And, what is more, there is a rumour going round that these onions are not Spanish, but English onions.'

Bertie tried to get the thing in line. 'How did you hear of this?'

''Cre Dieu! Everyone knows. First there was the shooting.'

'Yes, I heard that,' admitted Bertie.

'That was the police shooting at the a.s.sa.s.sin as he ran. Afterwards I stand in a doorway and listen to some police talking. They say that there was no reason for a Spaniard to kil Zabani, but plenty of reason why an Englishman should. Zabani, when he saw death coming, knocked over the telephone, and with his last breath cal ed the police. They came at once, while the a.s.sa.s.sin was stil there. He ran. They fired- bang-bang bang-bang! They wounded him.'

Bertie felt his muscles contract. 'Wounded him?'

he echoed, aghast.

'Yes. He fel , but ran on, leaving a trail of blood.

Voila! The blood leads down an The blood leads down an escalier escalier, but stops suddenly in the Place d'Armes. There the police lost track of him, but they think he is stil in La Condamine. There was much blood. He could not get far, they say.'

'By Jove! This is awful,' muttered Bertie. His brain was whirling.

'Zabani was one of the richest men in the princ.i.p.ality,' offered Francois.

Bertie did not answer. He wanted to think. He realized that it was quite on the boards that Ginger might have gone to the house of the man who had betrayed the princess. Could he have kil ed Zabani in self-defence?

Francois' next words swept the suspicion aside. 'It was a crime of revenge,' said he.

'How do you know that?'

Francois pul ed Bertie's head forward and breathed in his ear. 'It was the knife of a Camorrista.

The dagger carried the usual sign, a letter C, on a piece of paper.'

'My G.o.d!' whispered Bertie, suddenly seeing daylight. In the shock of Francois' information he had forgotten Mario.

'Was your friend of the Camorra?' asked Francois nervously.

'No,' snapped Bertie.

'Pardon, milord.'

'Francois,' said Bertie in a hard voice, 'did you tel me that Mario Rossi was a Camorrista?'

'But yes-so they say.'

'He kil ed Zabani.'

'How could you know this, milord, when you did not even know there had been a kil ing?'

'Listen! A few minutes ago Mario came running back to the restaurant, to the side entrance.

Watching through the window, I saw him wash blood from his hands. His handkerchief, also bloodstained, he threw in the fire.'

Francois whistled softly through his teeth. ' Tiens Tiens!

The affair becomes fantastique fantastique.'

'No,' denied Bertie. 'I begin to see the way of it.

Attendez*1! My friend, the one whom you cal the British spy, must have known something of this man Mario, which is why he wrote the name of the restaurant on the wal of the Quai de Plaisance.

There is another link between my friend and this man Zabani. My other friend, the onion sel er, is also concerned.' Bertie broke off. The fact was, he felt that he held the pieces of a jigsaw which, could he but fit them together, would present a complete picture and so solve his problem. 'I must find the onion sel er,' he decided.

Francois threw up his hands. ' Comment Comment?*2 If the police cannot find him, how can you hope to do so?

He has gone into hiding, no doubt-but where?'

Bertie saw the sense of Francois' argument. It was not much use walking about the streets of Monaco without a clue of any sort, trying to find Ginger.

'There is one thing I can do,' he predicted.

'What is that?'

'See Mario Rossi.'

'Name of a dog! Are you mad, milord? If he has done one murder he wil do another. These Camorrista, they use a dagger like we use a toothpick.'

'Nevertheless, I wil go,' a.s.serted Bertie. 'Time presses, and I am no use at guessing. Perhaps I can make Mario talk.'

'It is more likely, I think, that he wil cut your throat.'

'Listen, mon ami mon ami*3,' went on Bertie. 'For the time being you go your own way. Gather what news you can of this affair. If al goes wel with me you wil see me to-morrow on the Quai de Plaisance.'

'Very wel , milord. It was always said that you were mad. Now I believe it, too. Adieu Adieu*4.'

' Au revoir Au revoir, and thanks for your help. One day, when the world becomes sane again, we wil laugh over this affair.'