Part 6 (1/2)

'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.'