Part 7 (1/2)

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.