Biggles Fails to Return Page 3

  Half an hour later he was laying the proposition before Commodore Raymond, who listened patiently until he had finished.

  ‘You fellows are all old enough to know what you’re doing,’ said the Air Commodore quietly, at the conclusion. ‘But for the fact that you have had experience in this sort of deadly work I wouldn’t consider the project. However, your previous successful operations do entitle you to special consideration. I must say, though, that I shall be very much surprised if I see any of you again until the end of the war—if then. By discarding your uniforms you will become spies, in which case, it is hardly necessary for me to tell you, it is no use appealing to me if you are caught*1. I’m sorry if that sounds discouraging, but we must face the facts. I’ll make arrangements with your Group for you to go on leave, and supply you with such things as you think you will require, as far as it is in my power. I’ll get in touch with Ducoste right away and tell him to telephone you at the squadron. He volunteered for the last show, and I have no doubt he’ll do so again. He can have the Breguet. It will be less likely to attract attention over France than one of our machines, and at the same time save us from using—I nearly said losing—one of ours. If he’s caught he’ll be shot, so don’t let him down. Anything else?’

  ‘Just one thing, sir,’ requested Ginger. ‘What is the name of the Italian businessman you mentioned, the fellow at whose villa the princess hoped to stay—the skunk who let her down?’

  ‘The man is a retired Milanese banker named Zabani—Gaspard Zabani. His place is the Villa Valdora, in the Avenue Fleurie. Why did you ask that?’

  ‘Since, apparently, he is well in with the Italian secret police, he may know how his betrayal of the princess ended. He might be induced to speak.’

  A ghost of a smile crossed the Air Commodore’s face. ‘I see. As far as I’m concerned you can do what you like with him. He must be an exceptionally nasty piece of work. But while we are on the subject of the Italian secret police, be careful of a fellow named Gordino. He is in charge of things on the Riviera. He’s a short, dark, stoutish, middle-aged man—usually wears a dark civilian suit. He’s got an upturned black moustache and a scar on his chin. He looks rather like a prosperous little grocer, but don’t be deceived by that. He’s a cunning devil.’

  ‘What a bounder the blighter must be,’ murmured Bertie in his well-dressed voice.

  ‘Matter of fact, he is,’ agreed the Air Commodore, smiling. He stood up. ‘And now, gentlemen, if that’s all, I must ask you to be on your way. I’ve a pile of work in front of me. I’ll get Henri Ducoste to ring you later.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, for giving us so much of your time,’ said Algy. ‘We are grateful to you for being frank and for giving us this chance. Biggles shall know about it—when we find him.’

  ‘Bring Biggles back alive and I shall be amply repaid,’ returned Air Commodore Raymond. ‘Good luck to you.’

  Still discussing the plan the deputation returned to the aerodrome.

  At nine o’clock that night an officer in the uniform of the Fighting French Air Force walked into the anteroom. Ginger saw him first, and guessed at once who he was, although they had been expecting a phone call, not a personal appearance. Nudging Bertie, he went to meet the visitor.

  ‘Henri Ducoste?’ he queried.

  Smiling, the French airman nodded assent. He was a slim, dark young man, with straight, rather long black hair, and a shy manner. Ginger had visualized—not that the Air Commodore had given any reason for it—an older man. He judged him to be not more than nineteen.

  Having introduced himself and Bertie, Ginger took his arm, saying. ‘Let’s get out of the crowd.’ They went to the station office where Algy was busy clearing up some squadron matters to leave everything shipshape for Angus to take over. Henri was introduced.

  ‘I have spoken with your Air Commodore,’ he said in fair English. ‘Better than the telephone, I think I come here and talk.’

  ‘Much better idea,’ agreed Algy. ‘Sit down. Cigarette? Did the Air Commodore tell you just what we had in mind?’

  ‘Yes, he tells me all you know, I think.’

  ‘You know we want you to fly us to Monaco?’

  ‘But yes.’

  ‘How do you feel about it?’

  Henri shrugged his shoulders. ‘How you say? Okay wiz me. I go anywhere. What does it matter?’

  ‘That’s the spirit,’ returned Algy.

  ‘Only with one thing I do not agree so much,’ went on Henri, frankly.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I understand not quite this making of a landing at Californie, on the beach by Nice.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’

  ‘Tiens! We have use it one time. The Italian mens are not of the most clever, but they are not always the fools. They stop any more landings at Nice, I think. Perhaps there may be now the trench, the wire, or the big sticks of wood, to make a crash.’ Henri shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but it would be good to make sure.’

  ‘By Jove, you know, the lad’s right—absolutely right,’ declared Bertie. ‘No bally use busting ourselves right at the word go, or anything like that—if you see what I mean?’

  ‘I see what you mean all right,’ agreed Algy thoughtfully. ‘It would be taking a pretty hefty risk to use this landing ground without first confirming that there were no obstructions. I always realized that, but I couldn’t think of an alternative. Of course, once we were there we could check up, and if the place was all right we could use it to go home from.’ To Henri he said, ‘Can you think of a better plan?’

  ‘There are two ways more,’ announced Henri. ‘Either we find another aerodrome or you use the parachute. There is no other aerodrome for many kilometres. Alors! I think it better to use the parachute.’

  ‘That seems to be a sound argument,’ agreed Algy, ‘but I was given to understand that the country round Monaco was dangerous for parachute landings—rocks and ravines, and so on?’

  ‘Oui. But there are places where the rocks are not too close. I live all my life at Monaco. I know such a place. It is much nearer to Monaco than Californie, only three, perhaps four, miles. Regarde*2. Here is my map. I show you.’

  Henri unfolded his map on the desk. ‘Voila!’ he continued. ‘Here we have Monaco. There are three roads. One, she go east to Italy. Two, she go west to Nice, Cannes, and sometime to Marseilles. Three, she go north, very steeply up the mountain, to the village of La Turbie. Behind La Turbie a road the most small she goes to Peille. On the left of the road, we have a wide valley, many kilometres long. Men who make the farm in the valley, they clear away all the big rock. You jump there and you make only four miles down the mountain to Monaco. And there is another thing I tell you. From La Turbie to Monaco you need not the road use. On it perhaps there are the soldiers and the police. See here.’ Henri pointed on the map to a more or less straight line that ran from La Turbie to Monaco. ‘That is the old mountain railway—very steep, very dangerous. One day the train she go down the mountain alone. Zip! Many people they are killed, so the railway she runs no more. But the line is still there, and so when I was a boy we ascend to La Turbie by the iron rails. If you land in my valley you can go straight down the line into Monaco and no one knows—no one see you. How’s that?’

  ‘Pretty good,’ agreed Algy. ‘But about the parachutes. We have things to carry; they are likely to get broken.’

  ‘We can heave them over on a special brolly*3,’ suggested Ginger.

  ‘Yes, of course. But what shall we do with the parachutes, Henri? Is there any place where we can hide them?’

  Again Henri stabbed the map with an enthusiastic finger. ‘Here on the Peille road there are no ’ouses. Only one. The stone walls have all fall down. Put your parachutes inside and cover them with stones, and no one sees them. But it is so simple.’

  Algy looked at the others. ‘Henri has certainly got the right ideas. We’ll take his advice.’

  ‘I throw you down in good place,’ promised Henri. ‘I am a Monégasque. I know this country all over.’ His eyes moistened, without shame, as only those of a Latin can. ‘One day I go back and see my mother, and my little sister, Jeanette. My father, he is dead five years now.’

  ‘And your mother still lives at Monaco?’ asked Algy.

  ‘But yes.’

  ‘Where? It might be possible that we could give her a message from you.’

  ‘La-la? That would be the most marvellous!’ cried Henri. ‘They know I go to the war and for them that is the end. They do not know if I am alive or dead. I dare not try to send the message, because if it is known I fly for De Gaulle perhaps they are put in a concentration camp for hostages.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  ‘At Monaco, on the rock—the old village. Number six, Rue Marinière. It is the first little street opposite the palace. If you see them, say that Pepé’—Henri blushed slightly—‘they call me Pepé,’ he explained. ‘Say that Pepé sends his love and is of the best health, fighting for France.’

  ‘We ought to be able to manage that,’ asserted Ginger.

  ‘Let’s have a good look at the map,’ suggested Algy. ‘It would be as well to make ourselves absolutely au fait*4 with the country.’

  ‘I say, chaps, there’s one thing we seem to have left out of the calculations,’ put in Bertie. ‘What about the jolly old princess?’

  ‘What about her?’ snorted Ginger. ‘She was the cause of all the trouble. As far as I am concerned she can stay where she is, wherever that may be, or she can splash her own way out of the kettle of fish she put on to boil at Monte Carlo. Let’s forget her.’

  Chapter 3

  The Road to Monte Carlo

  The following night, a little before twelve, Henri’s Berline Briguet glided quietly at twent
y thousand feet, on a southward course, over the grey limestone mass of the departement*1 of France known as the Alpes Maritimes. The air was still, clear and warm, as it is at this pampered spot on three hundred days of the year. Far to the east the silver disc of the moon hung low over Italy, just clearing the peaks of the Ligurian Alps, which, like the edge of a saw, cut a jagged line across the sky. Into the west ran the deeply indented coastline of the French Riviera. To the south, glistening faintly to the moon, lay the age-old Mediterranean Sea, silent, deserted, centre of the bitterest wars of conquest since history began.

  Henri nudged Algy, who sat beside him, and pointed ahead. ‘Voila*2!’ he breathed. ‘Monaco.’

  Algy could just make out a town of considerable size, standing, it seemed, knee-deep in the sea between two capes, one large, the other small and blunt, like a clenched fist.

  Henri named them. ‘On the left, Cap Martin. On the right, the little one, the rock of Monaco, where I live when I am home. Between, on the hill, Monte Carlo. The big white building, she is the casino. At the bottom of the hill on the right, the harbour, which we call La Condamine. Now we go down.’

  Henri circled, losing height, for several minutes, paying close attention to the ground. At last he levelled out and held the machine steady.

  ‘Now you go,’ he said sharply. ‘We glide straight up the valley. Au revoir*3.’

  ‘Au revoir, and many thanks,’ answered Algy, and went aft to the cabin in which the others were waiting. ‘This is it,’ he announced crisply, and picked up a bulky bundle from the floor. Opening the door, he tossed it into space. ‘See you on the carpet,’ he said, and followed the bundle into the void.

  As soon as the parachute opened he looked down, but it was still a little while before he could make out the details of the ground below. The terrain all looked much the same, the mountains dwarfed by his own altitude. But presently he saw that he was dropping into a long shallow valley, bounded on the eastward side by a slim road cut in the side of a mountain of considerable size, capped by an embattled citadel which he knew, from his study of the map, must be the fort on Mont Agel, overlooking the Principality of Monaco.

  A minute later the ground rose sharply to meet him, and he braced himself for the shock of landing. He fell, but was soon on his feet, slipping out of his harness and rolling the parachute into a ball. He sat on it for a little while, listening, then whistled softly. The only other sound was the drone of the departing aircraft. An answering whistle came out of the moonlight; footsteps followed, and a minute or two later Bertie and Ginger appeared together.

  Algy rose. ‘Let’s find the equipment,’ he said quietly. ‘Spread out and we shall cover more ground.’

  It did not take them long to find the other parachute, which carried for its main load two strangely assorted articles—a guitar, and a sack of onions tied up in strings. Bertie picked up his guitar and Ginger sorted out the onions that were to lend colour to his role of a Spanish pedlar.

  ‘Now we’ve got to find the broken-down house,’ said Algy. ‘I think I marked it on the road. Bring the stuff along.’

  It was a steepish climb to the road, the road which Henri had told them, and confirmed on the map, ran from La Turbie, the mountain village behind Monaco, to Peille. They followed it for about half a mile, and then came upon the ruin they sought. It turned out to be a mere skeleton surrounded by loose stones that had once been the wall of a little garden. From near the gaping doorway sprang the customary twin cypress trees, one of which—so Bertie told them—is planted in the South of France to ensure Peace, and the other Prosperity.

  The parachutes were thrown in a heap inside the building, and rocks from the broken walls piled over them until they were hidden from sight—a task that occupied them for the best part of an hour. No traffic of any sort passed along the road. Once a dog barked in the far distance, otherwise they might have been a thousand miles from civilization.

  Algy straightened his back. ‘That’s that,’ he remarked. ‘From now we go our own ways, working on our own lines. The first most important thing to remember is that Henri will be at the Californie landing ground this day week, at twelve midnight, waiting for our signal that it is okay for him to land. It means that those who want to go home will have to be there on the dot. In the meantime, our temporary meeting-place, where we can compare notes, is on the Quai de Plaisance, in the Condamine, at the bottom of the steps that lead up to the water company’s offices. Apparently there are steps all over the place in Monte Carlo. They call them escaliers. This particular lot goes by the name of the Escalier du Port. Is that all clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Ginger.

  ‘Absolutely,’ confirmed Bertie.

  ‘Right, then off we go. You can go first, Ginger. Bertie will give you ten minutes and then follow. I’ll go last. Keep straight on down the road for a mile and a narrow cutting on the right will take you down to La Turbie, which sits astride the Grande Corniche Road. Cross the road and you’ll see the old rack-and-pinion railway line that drops down into Monaco. Actually it comes out in Monte Carlo, on a bit of an elevation overlooking the casino gardens. Everyone has got plenty of money, so there should be no difficulty about food.’

  Ginger pulled down over his right ear the rather greasy black beret that he wore, and shouldered his onions. ‘So long,’ he said, and set off down the road.

  He knew just where he was, for he had studied the map of Monaco and its environs until he had a clear mental picture of the district in his mind. He had also read a recommended guide-book, which he had found more interesting than he expected. He knew just what he was going to do, for the choice of possibilities was narrow and he had had ample time to formulate a plan of action. Obviously, the first thing was to ascertain if Biggles had left any written messages at either of the places he had named, the Quai de Plaisance at Monte Carlo, and Jock’s Bar below the promenade at Nice. The others would probably do the same, but that didn’t matter. He would go to Monte Carlo first, because that was the nearer. He plodded on, whistling softly, feeling curiously like the part he had decided to play. The road was deserted, as he expected it would be at such an hour. Not a light showed anywhere.

  Twenty minutes’ sharp walk and a cutting dipped suddenly to the right, past some cottages. An incline of perhaps a quarter of a mile brought him to a main road, which he had learned from his guide-book was the Grande Corniche, the famous Aurelian Way of the Roman conquerors of Britain. The old Roman posting village of La Turbie lay before him. If confirmation were needed, it was supplied by the towering marble monument erected nearly two thousand years before to the Emperor Augustus. He was amazed at its size. With a strange sensation of living in the past he walked a little way along the road until he came to another time-worn landmark, the Roman milestone number 604—the 604th mile from Rome. And there, almost at his feet, began the overgrown rails of the disused railway, dropping almost sheer into Monte Carlo. Moving his position slightly, he could see the famous international holiday resort snuggling in its little bay, nearly two thousand feet below. On the left of it, Cap Martin thrust a black claw into the sea. On the right, the castle making it unmistakable, was the blunt headland of Monaco itself. Silhouetted against the sky, a short distance from where he stood, rose a single stone column, which he again knew from his book was all that remained of the formidable gallows on which innumerable corsairs, in the distant past, had ended their careers of pillage. Beyond, rolling away, it seemed, to infinity, was the Mediterranean, as devoid of movement as a sheet of black glass. That same sea, he reflected, from the very viewpoint on which he now stood, must have been the last earthly scene on which the condemned pirates had looked.

  He was about to start the descent when footsteps approaching from the village sent him creeping into the ink-black shadow of a broad-leafed fig tree. He lay flat and remained motionless. The footsteps came nearer.

  A voice said, ‘But I tell you I did hear something.’

  Another voice answered, ‘It must have been a dog or a cat.’