Part 12 (1/2)

Turning slowly Algy found himself staring at the girl he had last seen on the Quai de Plaisance-the girl in the blue shawl. But for the first time he could see her clearly. Her face, moulded on cla.s.sic lines, and very beautiful, was pale. Her head was proudly poised, and dark flas.h.i.+ng eyes met his own without a trace of nervousness. A faint smile played about the corners of perfectly formed lips. Her clothes were those of a girl of the country, but her general bearing, which they could not hide, was not. Algy did not know what to make of her.

'Wel ,' he began, and would have gone on, but she stopped him with a gesture.

'Talking wil lead to nothing,' she said coldly.

The man suddenly broke in with a request that the prisoner be shot forthwith, but the girl in blue stopped him with a glance of her flas.h.i.+ng eyes. It was obvious to Algy that the man was subordinate to the girl, in whatever business they were engaged.

'He fol owed me al the way from Monaco,' said the man.

Algy ignored him. To the girl he said, 'I should like to talk to you, mademoiselle mademoiselle.'

'It wil do no good,' she returned curtly. 'We have been into al the arguments before. Now it is war.' To the man she said, 'Mario, put him in the cel ar until it is decided what shal be done with him. You know the one I mean?' And with that she turned on her heel and walked away.

Algy cal ed after her. He wanted to know what she was doing on the Quai de Plaisance, but she walked on without looking back, and the man she cal ed Mario told him to make less noise.

'Walk,' he ordered, 'and do not talk.'

Algy shrugged his shoulders. For the moment, at any rate, there was no alternative than to obey. With his own pistol uncomfortably close to his back he was marched to one of the several cel ars, one that had a stout door. He was thrust inside. The door crashed shut behind him, and he was left in darkness.

Chapter 12.

Bertie Picks a Lemon Bertie left Ginger with the fixed plan of getting to Castil on as quickly as possible. He recal ed, now, having heard of the place, although he had never had occasion to make a visit. In any case, he had always understood that the place was a ruin.

He felt that he ought to let Francois know where he was going, and with that object in view he proceeded first to the Condamine. Francois appeared with an alacrity that suggested he had been on the watch. They held a brief but enlightening conversation. Bertie told Francois that he was going to Castil on, and that the man who had asked about the place, on the quay, shortly after dawn, was a friend on the same errand as himself. He also told him about Ginger, and said that he proposed, if circ.u.mstances made it necessary, to use Francois'

house as a letter-box, an arrangement to which the boatman readily agreed.

'But, milord,' said he, 'you wil find it difficult now to get to Castil on.'

'Why?' asked Bertie. 'Speaking from memory, the vil age lies near the Sospel road.'

To this Francois a.s.sented.

'Does not the autobus stil run to Sospel?' inquired Bertie.

'That I do not know,' confessed Francois, 'but I should doubt it. I comprehend, milord, that you have not heard the news?'

'What news?'

'Al the roads near the frontier are to be closed-if they are not already closed.'

'In heavens name, why?'

'During the night the British and the Americans landed in Morocco and Algeria. Now Hitler and Mussolini occupy between them al France.

Regardez!' Francois pointed to the main road down which military traffic was streaming.

Bertie was dumbfounded. This development came to him as a complete surprise-as it did to most people.

'This is not going to make things easier, mon mon vieux vieux,' he observed. 'Is the road to Mentone closed?'

'So it is said. And if that road is now closed, surely, too, wil be the road to Sospel, which skirts the frontier. They say the roads may be opened later.' Francois spat, thoughtful y. 'I should say, milord, that for you, this morning, the Sospel road is a thing to avoid.'

'But I must get to Castil on,' declared Bertie. 'How else can I get there? There is no other road.'

'There is no other road, but there are the chemins chemins muletiers muletiers.'

'Ah! The mule tracks that were used in the old days, before the roads.'

' Oui Oui.' Francois snapped his fingers. ' Bon-ca Bon-ca!' he e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed. 'I have an inspiration. I know a man who every day brings vegetables down from his terraces behind St. Agnes. He takes the back way. Since he deals in food he has been al owed petrol for his camionette camionette.*1 St. Agnes is more than half way to Castil on. There is no road between the two, but there is an old mule path, as there is between al the vil ages. If my friend wil take you in his camionette camionette to St. Agnes, by marching quickly you would be in Castil on by the setting of the sun.' to St. Agnes, by marching quickly you would be in Castil on by the setting of the sun.'

'How far is it from St. Agnes to Castil on?'

Francois shrugged. 'Four hours, perhaps,' he replied, resorting to the usual way of counting distances in mountain country, by time, and not miles.

'Good,' declared Bertie. 'Where is this friend of yours?'

'He should be at the market, in Monte Carlo, if he has not already left for home. Let us go and find out.'

It took them some time to get to the market on account of the traffic, and the crowds that thronged the pavements to watch. And having reached the market they found everything in a state of chaos, customers and stal -holders alike having gone to the steps of the church to watch the procession pa.s.sing by. People who wanted to leave had also been held up by the invasion of the Italian troops. Francois found his friend's camionette camionette-a battered light lorry, filthy and delapidated beyond description-but it was twelve o'clock before the man himself appeared.

He greeted Francois warmly and slapped him on the back. 'By G.o.d! These are times,' he cried.

Francois broached his subject, but did not mention Castil on. He merely said that his friend was anxious to get to St. Agnes.

'I shal be lucky to get there myself,' declared the vendor of vegetables. 'The roads are ful of these Italians. Doubtless we shal get to St. Agnes sooner or later, and if your friend cares to come with me he wil be welcome, but it would be better, I think, to wait until the road is clearer.'

With this the others were bound to agree, so they adjourned to a cafe for lunch.

It was two o'clock before the camioneur camioneur*2 suddenly declared his intention of going home, which suited Bertie, who was finding the delay irritating. He said good-bye to Francois and promised to look him up when he returned.

The first part of the journey was slow, for there was stil a lot of traffic about, but once off the main road the driver whirled his vehicle up the formidable corniche road that led to St. Agnes with a confidence born of familiarity. Accustomed though he was to the mountain roads, Bertie covered his face at many of the hairpin bends where the road hangs like a ledge over a drop of a thousand feet or more; and he was weak at the knees when the vehicle final y skidded to a standstil in the vil age, which is not real y a vil age so much as a cl.u.s.ter of old houses clinging precariously to a spire of rock, as bare as a boulder, over two thousand feet high. Why anyone should choose to live in such a place is one of the great mysteries that have never been solved-unless it is to sit in wonder at the marvel ous panorama of sea and coast spread out below.

'By the way,' said Bertie to his driver as they dismounted, 'where is Castil on?'

' Voila Voila!' answered the man, pointing. 'There it is.'

Fol owing the direction with his eyes Bertie saw a vil age similar to the one in which he was standing about three miles distant. It looked so near that it seemed incredible that it would take four hours to cover the s.p.a.ce between them-until he looked at the chaos of ridges and ravines that intervened. He saw that he would be lucky to reach his objective before nightfal .

He pointed to a track which dived down the mountain on the landward side. 'That, I suppose, is the track to Castil on?' he observed.

'It is,' answered the driver. 'Only no one uses it.'

Bertie thanked him for the lift, waited for him to go, and then, glancing round to make sure that he was un.o.bserved, set off on his long hike. An hour later, from the crest of a ridge, Castil on looked just as far away, so he increased his pace. Al around the country lay silent and deserted, which was not to be wondered at, for except for a few artificial terraces to which clung olives and sad-looking cypress trees, there was nothing but grey, sun-bleached limestone.

The sun was fast dropping into the mountains when he came within striking distance of his objective. He sat down to rest for a few minutes. Fit as he was, the muscles of his calves ached unmerciful y, as is usual y the case when a man accustomed to walking on pavements finds himself in mountain country. He lit one of the few cigarettes that remained in his case; and as he smoked he looked at the sad grey ruins before him, slightly below, and perhaps two hundred and fifty yards away.