Part 8 (1/2)

Such were Algy's thoughts-a trifle chaotic-as he climbed through the gap and stood on the concrete floor. Instantly he was seized by both arms.

For a moment he struggled, and then, seeing the men who seized him, he desisted. One was a short, dark, stockily-built man in civilian clothes. The other was a French gendarme gendarme.

'What's the matter?' demanded Algy indignantly in French, aware that he had blundered into a trap.

'What are you doing here?' demanded the civilian.

'I was going to undress and have a bathe,'

declared Algy. 'Is there anything wrong with that?'

'Let me see your papers.'

'Who are you?'

'My name is Signor Gordino. You may have heard of me. I am head of the special police.'

'I beg your pardon, sir,' answered Algy, affecting humility. He produced his ident.i.ty papers and pa.s.sed them over.

The civilian examined them closely-in fact, so minutely that Algy realized that he was in a tight corner. He remembered what Air Commodore Raymond had said about Gordino.

'I am not satisfied with these,' said the Italian.

'Why not? What sort of treatment is this? I am a French citizen,' a.s.serted Algy hotly.

'And I am Gordino,' was the curt response. 'Turn out your pockets.'

Now this was something Algy dare not do, for in one pocket he carried a torch, and in the other a British service automatic. The situation, he perceived, was so desperate that only desperate measures could meet it.

'Very wel ,' he said quietly, and put his hand in the pocket that carried the pistol. He took it by the squat muzzle, and drawing it swiftly, slammed it against the Italian's head. Almost with the same movement he kicked the gendarme gendarme's legs from under him. The man fel , dropping his baton. baton. Algy s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and, as the man started to scramble to his feet, struck him on the head with it. No second blow was needed. The man col apsed and lay stil . The Italian was on his knees, one hand to his head. Algy s.n.a.t.c.hed it up and, as the man started to scramble to his feet, struck him on the head with it. No second blow was needed. The man col apsed and lay stil . The Italian was on his knees, one hand to his head.

Algy pocketed his pistol, dropped the baton baton, s.n.a.t.c.hed up his papers, which the Italian had dropped, and scrambled through the window into the bright sunlight. Panting with suppressed excitement, he ran on to the stone steps and so up to the promenade. This he crossed, and dived into a narrow street. He dare not run, for there were now a good many people about and he did not want to cal attention to himself. He was wel up the street when he heard a whistle blowing behind him.

His objective now was to get out of what was, or soon would be, a red-hot danger zone, as quickly as possible. He was no longer concerned with Jock's Bar because quite obviously, Biggles was not there.

The only reason for remaining in Nice was to ascertain if the Californie landing ground was stil serviceable. He would have preferred to postpone this investigation, but he saw clearly that after what had happened his only chance of doing it was immediately, before the hue and cry for him became general. Henri had said that Californie was about three miles to the west of Nice, on the way to Cap d'Antibes, so, turning to the left, he struck off along a wide boulevard that ran paral el with the sea front.

A workman came out of a yard wheeling a bicycle, and was about to mount when Algy, in whose head an idea had been born, strode up to him.

'My friend,' he said, 'I have most urgent reasons for getting to Californie. It is a matter of life or death.

Walking is slow work. Wil you sel me your bicycle?'

The man looked surprised. 'Why not take the Cannes autobus? It pa.s.ses Californie.'

'How often does it run?'

'Every hour.'

'When is the next bus?'

The man looked at his watch. 'In half an hour.'

'That wil be too late. Is it possible to buy a bicycle in the town?'

'There is a shop in the Avenue de la Victoire 'There is a shop in the Avenue de la Victoire where they stil have a few, but they are expensive.'

'That would mean going a long way back. How much wil you take for yours?'

The man considered his machine. 'It is a good bicycle,' he observed.

This was a lie, for the bicycle was an old type, and badly worn, but Algy was in no mood to argue. 'How much?' he asked.

'I wil sel you this very good bicycle for . . . a thousand francs.'

'In a matter of life or death money is of smal importance,' answered Algy tritely, as he counted out the money. In another moment he was astride the saddle, pedal ing down the road, leaving the late owner standing in the road, the notes in his hand, a look of wonder on his face.

Wel satisfied with his bargain, Algy pedal ed hard.

He was anxious to get the business over, so that he could turn his back on Nice. As he sped down the road he tried to get into clearer focus the curious affair at Jock's Bar. One thing was certain. He had stepped into a trap. The police were there, waiting.

For whom? Were they waiting for Biggles? If they were, then it meant that he was stil alive. But why should they be waiting at Jock's Bar? Why should they suppose that he would go there? Certainly, something had happened there, for the bloodstains were there to prove it. Whose blood was it? Algy felt that if he knew the answer to that question it would provide the answer to a lot of things, but there seemed to be no way of finding out. Of course, he reasoned, he might be on the wrong track altogether.

The stains, and the trap, might have no connection with Biggles. The whole thing might be coincidence.

Doubtless there were other people wanted by the police in Nice besides Biggles.

With such thoughts as these surging through his brain, Algy came to Californie. A signpost told him that he had arrived, and a frayed windstocking on a crazy pole, on the left-hand side of the road, indicated the aerodrome. One glance told him al he needed to know. Men were at work with shovels throwing up heaps of stones. Two long rows of such obstruction had already been completed. They straggled right across the landing ground, making it useless for that purpose.

Algy was not unduly dismayed. He was half prepared for something of the sort. After al , it was an obvious precaution. He decided to make for Monaco forthwith to let the others know about it, and this decision was hastened by the appearance of two policemen at the door of a house not far away.

Turning, he pedal ed back to Nice. He would have avoided the town had it been possible, but it was not -unless he was prepared to make a detour of fifty or sixty miles through the mountains. He knew from the maps he had studied that three roads ran from Nice to Monaco, al close to each other, and more or less paral el with the coast. There was the Grande Grande Corniche, Corniche, over which he had walked during the night, the middle corniche and the lower corniche, which was used chiefly by heavy commercial traffic. over which he had walked during the night, the middle corniche and the lower corniche, which was used chiefly by heavy commercial traffic.

This latter road was the most attractive because, as it fol owed the beach, there were no hil s, but this advantage was offset by the fact that in the event of trouble there could be no escape. On one side the cliffs rose sheer; on the other side was the sea. For this reason he decided on the middle road, from which, in emergency, he could get up to the top corniche, or down to the lower one.

He was some time getting through Nice, for keeping wel away from the sea front he lost himself in the extensive suburbs. In the end he had to dismount to ask the way. This was in the poorer quarter of the town, where an open-air market was being held. Al sorts of articles were offered for sale on stal s, and the sight of a second-hand clothes shop gave him another idea. For a hundred francs he acquired some faded blue workmen's overal s, and these he put on over his suit in case a description of him had already been circulated. For the same reason he bought one of the local wide-brimmed straw sun-hats. Wel satisfied with the change, directed by the man from whom he had bought the clothes, he continued his journey, and was soon climbing the long hil that overlooks the fis.h.i.+ng vil age of Vil efranche.

From there his journey was uneventful until he came to Eze, an ancient vil age perched precariously on a pinnacle of rock. There, to his disgust, his front tyre burst. It was now noon. The sun was hot and he was tired and hungry; so, leaning his bicycle against a tree, he went into a little cafe and made a miserable meal of vegetable soup and dry bread-there was nothing else. Having finished, he bread-there was nothing else. Having finished, he was waiting for the waitress to come back to ask her if there was anywhere in the vil age where he could get his burst tyre repaired, when the sound of motor-cycles pul ing up outside, fol owed by voices, took him to the window. He saw four gendarmes gendarmes. They had dismounted and were looking at his bicycle.

One cal ed to a labourer, who was working in a garden, 'Where is the man who owns this bicycle?'

The man straightened his back and pointed.

' Voila! monsieur. Voila! monsieur. He went into the cafe.' He went into the cafe.'

Chapter 9.