With a wave Bertie turned away and walked back to the Chez Rossi. He went straight to the side of the building and peered through the window into the kitchen. Mario was there, in an ap.r.o.n and white chef's cap, cooking something over the stove.

Bertie opened the door and went in. The Italian heard the movement and whirled round. His eyebrows went up. 'You have come to the wrong entrance,' said he, speaking in French. 'The bar is at the front of the house.'

Bertie smiled, and answered in the same language. 'No, I have come to the right entrance. I want to talk to you.'

'I have no money for beggars.'

'I am not looking for money.'

'Then what are you looking for?'

'A friend.'

'How can I help you?'

'You can help me,' said Bertie distinctly, 'by tel ing me why you kil ed Gaspard Zabani.'

Mario, who had half turned back to his stove, spun round as though he had been stung. 'Kil who?' he demanded in a thin, hard voice. 'I never kil ed a man in my life.'

Bertie stroked the strings of his guitar. 'Oh, yes, you have, my friend. You kil ed Zabani to-night. For that swine I don't care a broken guitar string. Al I want to know is why you did it, because that may help me to find my friend.'

For nearly a minute the Italian stared at Bertie, his face distorted with pa.s.sion. 'I tel you I know nothing of any murder,' he grated. 'Who are you-the secret police?'

Bertie shook his head. 'No. The police are looking for a young Spanish sel er of onions. They think he kil ed Zabani, but I know better.'

Mario drew a deep breath that might have meant relief. 'I have seen this Spaniard,' he a.s.serted. 'He came here for lunch.'

'Was that al ?'

'As far as I know.'

'What did he drink with lunch-Pernod?'

Bertie knew, from the nervous twitch of the man's nostrils, that his shot had found its mark.

'No, he did not drink Pernod,' spat Mario spiteful y.

As he spoke his eyes flashed for an instant to the side of the room.

The unconscious movement had not been lost on Bertie, who was watching the man closely. His eyes went to the spot, and he saw, near the floor, half pushed behind a cupboard, what was evidently a show-card. One half only was visible, but it was enough to tel him what it was, for the standard advertis.e.m.e.nt for Pernod is on every h.o.a.rding in France.

'You are not a good liar, Mario,' he said coldly, and walked over to the card. He stooped to pick it up. As his fingers closed over it the world seemed to explode inside his head in a sheet of orange flame, and he knew that Mario had struck him. The flame faded slowly to purple, and then to black. He pitched forward on his face and lay stil .

Chapter 7.

Good Samaritans When Bertie opened his eyes the flickering fingers of another day were sweeping upward from the eastern horizon to shed a mysterious light on the ancient Princ.i.p.ality of Monaco. Somewhere near at hand palm fronds began to stir, rustling among themselves.

For a little while he lay stil , trying to remember what had happened. With an effort he sat up, only to bury his face in his hands in a vain attempt to steady the throbbing in his head. Slowly, as ful consciousness returned, and with it the memory of the blow that had struck him down, he looked about him, and saw that he was on a landing half-way down a steep flight of stone steps. On one side a cliff rose sheer. In it there was a little niche occupied by the statue of a saint, surrounded by tinsel and artificial flowers. On the other side a gorge fel sheer for two hundred feet to a tiny church that had been built in the bottom. He recognized it instantly, and knew that he was on the Escalier Ste. Devote. How he had got there he did not know, but he supposed that Mario, after striking him down, had either carried him or thrown him there, perhaps imagining that he was dead. His head ached, and he felt bruised in several places, but as far as he could discover he had suffered no serious injury. The guitar lay beside him.

A woman came hurrying down the steps with a bowl of water and a towel.

'Poor man,' she said. 'I saw you from my window above. They are dangerous, those steps; you were lucky you did not go right over into the gorge.

Doubtless the good Sainte Devote saved you-al praise to her.'

'Doubtless,' murmured Bertie.

The woman bathed his head where the hair was wet and sticky. 'The least you can do after this escape is to offer a candle or two in our little church of Ste. Devote,' she suggested.

'Candles shal indeed be lighted,' returned Bertie fervently, beginning to suspect that Mario had intended he should go into the gorge, in which case every bone in his body must have been broken.

'There,' said the woman. 'I don't think your skul is cracked, but if I were you I would rest for a little while.'

'A thousand thanks, madame madame,' answered Bertie, pul ing himself to his feet. For a moment or two everything spun round him, but then steadied itself.

'Yes, I think I am al right,' he went on. 'I wil rest on a seat on the Quai de Plaisance. I shal remember you, madame madame, in my grat.i.tude.'

'A woman can do no less,' was the pious response. 'My little son fel in just the same way not long ago, and had it not been for Our Lady he must have been kil ed. Don't forget to give thanks.'

'You may be sure I shal not forget,' answered Bertie earnestly. 'My compliments to your husband, who is a lucky man to have a wife so sympathetic.'

The woman smiled. 'I must get back to my kitchen.

Adieu, monsieur. ' '

' Adieu, madame Adieu, madame, and thank you.'

The woman flung the bloodstained water in her bowl into the gorge and went off up the steps. Bertie, with his guitar under his arm, went down, and turned to where the little church faced across the harbour. A black-robed priest was just opening the doors.

' Mon pere Mon pere*', said Bertie, taking a hundred-franc note from his pocket, 'this morning I had a fal on the escalier escalier above, and nearly lost my life. It is my desire to buy two large candles as a thank-you offering.' above, and nearly lost my life. It is my desire to buy two large candles as a thank-you offering.'

The priest smiled. 'Come in, my son. You look pale. Are you hurt?'

'Not much,' answered Bertie.

'Nevertheless, perhaps a smal gla.s.s of cordial would help to restore the life which our Sainte Devote undoubtedly saved.'

'I think that would be a very good idea, father,'

agreed Bertie, who was more shaken than he was prepared to admit.

Ten minutes later, in broad daylight, feeling wel enough to be angry with the man who had struck him down, he crossed the road and made his way along the Quai de Plaisance. It was deserted except for a young girl dressed in the sombre habit of the true Monegasque. When he first saw her she was strol ing up and down as though waiting for someone, but when she noticed him, without altering her gait she began at once to move towards him-or so it seemed to Bertie, although he did not think this could real y be the case.

Reaching the seat for which he had been making, he sat down to wait for Algy, or possibly Ginger. It was time, he decided, to discuss things with them.

He wasn't even thinking about the girl, but he glanced up at her as she drew level. To his amazement-for the girls of Monaco are celebrated for their modesty-she made a movement with her head that said as plainly as words that she wanted him to fol ow her. Had it not been for the faint flush that rose to her olive cheeks as she did this he would have ignored the signal, thinking that he had been mistaken. As it was, he half rose, and then, embarra.s.sed, sank down again.

The girl strol ed back, pa.s.sed him, meeting his eyes squarely. She turned again, now walking back towards the Condamine. As she pa.s.sed the bench she said quietly but distinctly, in English, 'Please fol ow me, monsieur monsieur, but do not speak. Eyes may be watching.'

She walked on, more quickly now, without once looking back.

Bertie, not a little surprised, picked up his guitar and fol owed. Straight along the avenue of oleander trees that fringes the Boulevard Albert, where policemen stood at intervals, walked the girl in black, with Bertie at a reasonable distance behind. She crossed the Place d'Armes, where more police were standing near some ugly stains on the ground, and took the long ramp that leads from the harbour to the top of the rock on which the old vil age of Monaco has sat in the sun for two thousand years or more.

Reaching the top, she crossed the front of the palace and turned into a narrow street where tal stone houses threw a welcome shade.

When Bertie reached the entrance she was standing at the doorway of a private house. With a slight inclination of her head she disappeared.

Reaching the spot, Bertie looked with suspicion into a hal so dark that for a moment he could see nothing. Was this, he wondered, a trap? Then he made out a pale oval face just inside.

'Enter, monsieur monsieur,' said a soft, sweet voice. 'A friend awaits you.' Bertie went in and the girl closed the door.

'This way, monsieur monsieur,' she said, and ascended a flight of stairs. A door was opened, al owing bars of white sunlight to blaze across the corridor. Bertie stepped forward and looked into the room. In a high four-poster bed, his face nearly as pale as the counterpane, but smiling, lay Ginger.

'Good lord!' exclaimed Bertie.

Ginger's smile broadened. 'Come in,' he invited.

A voice at Bertie's elbow said quietly, 'The patient is a little weak from loss of blood, that's al . He wanted to get up, but we thought it better that he should rest for a while. You wil be quite safe here, monsieur monsieur.' The girl went out and closed the door.

'Isn't she a wizard?' were Ginger's first words, rich with enthusiasm.

'Who?'

'Jeanette.'

'Just a minute, old boy,' protested Bertie. 'What is this? Where are we? What's going on?'

Ginger raised his eyebrows. 'Do you mean to say you don't know whose house you're in?'

Bertie sat on the edge of the bed. 'How should I know?'

'I thought Jeanette would tel you. I asked her to go to the Quai de Plaisance to see if you were there-a thin bloke with a guitar.'

'But who is this damsel?' demanded Bertie.

'But who is this damsel?' demanded Bertie.

'Jeanette Ducoste-Henri's sister. He cal ed her his little sister, but I reckon she's grown a bit since he went off to the war. This is number six, Rue Mariniere.'

Bertie exploded. 'Wel , I'm dashed! How did you get here?'

'That,' answered Ginger, 'is a longish story. I did a spot of housebreaking and got plugged in the leg- I'm al right now, though; just a bit weak, that's al . I thought it was about time we compared notes.'

'I've got a few things to tel you, my lad,' declared Bertie. 'I'm not so bright myself. An Italian waiter wal oped me on the boko last night, and the old skul stil rocks a bit.'

Before Ginger could answer there came a sharp knock on the door below. Up the stairs came the sound of voices. A moment later the bedroom door was opened quietly and Jeanette entered. Her face was pale.

'What is it, Jeanette?' asked Ginger quickly.

Jeanette moistened her lips. 'It is the police,' she whispered. 'Mama is talking to them at the door.'

Chapter 8.

Jock's Bar When Algy had elected to go to Nice he knew that he had a long walk ahead of him; it seemed a good twelve miles. One thing in his favour was the gradient, which, between La Turbie and Nice, drops nearly two thousand feet to sea level. Even so, it was a weary walk. Some of the views were magnificent even in the moonlight, the sea on one hand and mountain peaks on the other, but with the fate of Biggles weighing heavily on his mind he was in no mood to appreciate them. He was relieved when, at last, at a bend of the road, after tramping for about three hours, he saw the wide panorama of Nice, the Brighton of the Riviera, before him.

During the entire journey he saw only four persons, and al were police. His role was wel tested. First he ran into a poste. poste. Two men were on duty. They accepted his story of being a repatriated French soldier, bound for Nice, and al owed him to pa.s.s. Two men were on duty. They accepted his story of being a repatriated French soldier, bound for Nice, and al owed him to pa.s.s.

Then he was stopped by a patrol of two more police.

Much the same thing happened. He produced the papers provided by Air Commodore Raymond, and after a short examination was permitted to proceed.

From these experiences he observed that the police were on the alert, more so than normal circ.u.mstances seemed to warrant. He suspected that the extra vigilance was the result of the Biggles affair.

By the time he had descended the long hil leading down to the town, lights were beginning to appear, and a few early risers were moving about the streets.

From the clock on the casino in the Place Ma.s.sena he learned that it was half-past four. There was nothing he could do in the dark, so, turning up his col ar, he found a seat in the public gardens opposite the jetty, and managed to get in a nap. He was awakened by the cal s of a boy sel ing newspapers.

He turned down his col ar, shook himself, and walked to the sea-wal , where began the famous Promenade des Anglais, a splendid esplanade stretching for several miles. He had no idea where Jock's Bar was situated, or who Jock was, or whether the bar was open. He soon discovered that there were cafes and sun-bathing establishments at intervals al along the promenade. These premises, local y cal ed bars, were not actual y on the promenade, but under it, being approached by steps leading down to the beach. The name of each bar was advertised by a painted sign. Looking down over the railings at the first one, which carried the name Ruhl Plage, he saw that it was not so much a bar as a bathing beach; not that it mattered, because the shutters were up and the place was obviously closed, presumably for the duration of the war. The beach was deserted. It was the same with the second, and the third, which turned out to be his objective, the notice 'Jock's Bar' being prominently displayed in sun-faded letters. Walking down the stone steps that led to the beach and the cafe, he saw that the place, like the rest, was shuttered. Not only was it closed, but high seas during the preceeding winter had flung tons of shingle over what had evidently been a concrete sun-bathing 'ap.r.o.n', and against the door. In fact, stones were piled along the whole front; some of them had been hurled so high and with such force by the waves, that the shutters were broken. It was obviously an ideal place for the purpose for which Biggles had proposed to use it, because, in the first instance, few people would be likely to pa.s.s along the front of it, and secondly, there were plenty of convenient places on which to write.

Algy made his way slowly along the frontage. As he walked he scrutinized the wal 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 VILLA V. This was fol owed 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. Vil a V obviously referred to the Vil a 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-wal . 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 stil , 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. Al enter. He looked in. It was like looking into a vault. Al 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 al 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.