Part 12 (2/2)

Suddenly he stiffened. Jeanette had distinctly said that the vil age was abandoned, yet he was sure that he had seen somebody move, somebody in blue. He continued to watch. The speck of blue appeared again from behind some houses, and he saw it was a girl, with a blue shawl draped round her shoulders.

She halted by a rock, as if waiting. It looked as if Jeanette had been right about a girl in blue writing on the wal . A girl in a blue shawl had written the word Castil on on the wal of the Quai de Plaisance, and now, here was a girl, thus dressed, in the vil age.

That could hardly be coincidence, thought Bertie. His weariness forgotten, he was about to hurry forward when he saw another movement. This time it was a man in black. He was walking quickly towards the spot where the girl was waiting, as if keeping an appointment.

Bertie continued to watch. Could it be possible, he wondered, that in some way these people, these strange events, were a.s.sociated with Biggles? It seemed impossible, and yet . . . there was the blue writing on the wal . Surely there must be some connection?

The man reached the point where the girl was standing. They met. For a minute they stood together as if talking; then they disappeared into a narrow lane, behind houses which hid them from view.

Hardly had they disappeared when, to Bertie's Hardly had they disappeared when, to Bertie's astonishment, a third figure appeared. He recognized Algy. He was approaching the vil age from the opposite direction, having arrived, it seemed, from the Sospel road. He was walking in the tracks of the man in black.

In his excitement Bertie nearly shouted a greeting, but remembering that there were other people about, he thought better of it. Instead, he hurried forward.

Half-way to the vil age there was a dip in the ground that hid it from view, and when he reached the far side Algy was nowhere in sight. He watched for a minute or two, hoping to see him among the houses, but when he did not appear he continued on his way. Once he thought he heard voices, raised as if in anger, but he was not sure. He went nearer, and at last, having reached the outskirts, he paused to survey it from the cover of a gnarled lemon tree, on which hung some half-ripe fruit. Nothing happened.

Thinking it might a.s.suage his thirst, he casual y picked a lemon and went on.

Turning a corner, he came suddenly face to face with the black-coated man. It was not the actual meeting, nor was it the black coat that brought an exclamation of incredulity to his lips. It was the face of the man who wore it. For he was the very last person he expected to see there. It was Mario, the waiter of the Chez Rossi, the man who, the previous night, had struck him on the head and then thrown him down the Escalier Ste. Devote.

Fortunately for Bertie the waiter appeared to be equal y astonished, with the result that for five breathless seconds they simply stood and stared at each other. Bertie spoke first.

'By Jove!' he said, 'you're the blighter who dotted me on the skul last night!'

Mario did not answer. His hand flashed to his belt, and came up holding a slim-bladed stiletto. With a snort of anger Bertie used the weapon that came readiest to his hand. In fact, it was already in his hand. He flung the lemon-and he flung it hard. It hit the Italian in the eye and brought from him a cry of pain. Bertie fol owed the fruit, and dodging the waving stiletto, hit the waiter in the stomach. 'I'l teach you, you nasty fel er,' he said. The waiter went over backwards among the rocks, fal ing with some force. Apparently he knocked his knuckles, for the stiletto flew out of his hand. Bertie picked it up and tossed it away.

Feeling that he had done enough he took a pace backward, prepared to open negotiations. But this did not suit the waiter, who, with a snarl of fury, charged, head down, like a horned animal. Impeded by his guitar, Bertie could not avoid the rush, so they grappled in a clinch, the man stil snarling, using teeth and nails, Bertie silent, trying to break away to use his fists. Mario kicked Bertie on the skin, and the pain moved him to wrath.

'Al right, my garlic-eating dish-wiper; two can play at that game,' he rasped, and stamped on the man's foot. With a howl of agony Mario released his hold, whereupon Bertie got in a hook to the jaw that stretched him on his back for the count.

Slightly winded, Bertie sat down to recover his breath and his composure. He took out his monocle, polished it, and putting it in his eye, regarded his antagonist with disfavour. He lit a cigarette and waited for him to recover, for there were several questions he was anxious to ask-among other things, why he had kil ed Zabani, why he had hidden the Pernod show-card and why he had tried to murder him. Then he remembered that Algy was somewhere in the vil age, so he struck a few chords on his guitar to let him know that he was there. Algy did not come. Instead, Mario sat up, holding his jaw, eyeing his victor malevolently.

'Now, before you play any more tricks, my merry dart-thrower, just you listen to me,' said Bertie severely. 'I'm going to ask you some questions, and if you don't answer them I shal hand you over to the police for letting the daylight into Signor Zabani. Oh, yes, I know al about that.'

Mario started, half closing his eyes. 'You are not of the police?'

'Me? Ha, ha! That's a good one. No, I am not of the police-not the French, the Italian or the Monegasque. Why did you knife Zabani?'

'If you must know, it was by order of the Camorra. I am a Camorrista. Take care, or you wil have a knife in, you, too.'

'And Zabani? He upset the chief Camorrista-is that it?'

'Yes. Take care you do not upset him. Why have you come here?'

Bertie smiled faintly. 'If I told you, my little soup-ladler, you would not believe me.'

ladler, you would not believe me.'

'Tel me why you come here and perhaps I can help you,' suggested Mario slyly-and, Bertie thought, unexpectedly.

He drew his fingers across the strings of his guitar. 'I am a troubadour-a troubadour who would sing to a princess.'

Mario's sal ow face turned ashen. His eyes seemed to start out from his face. 'You seek-a- princess?' he gasped.

'That's what I said.'

'Do you expect to find one in a place like this?'

Bertie shrugged. 'Who knows? After al , you are at Castil on, and I didn't expect to find you here.'

'What has that to do with the princess?'

'You kil ed a man who betrayed a princess, amico amico, so would it be so strange if you knew her?'

'So,' breathed Mario, 'that is why you came? To find a princess.'

'That is one reason. Can you help me?'

'Yes,' snapped Mario viciously. 'I can show you one.'

'Now you're talking,' declared Bertie. 'Where is she?'

'Look behind you.'

Half expecting a trick, Bertie glanced behind him and then sprang to his feet in comical surprise. For there, standing within a few paces of him, silhouetted against the sunset, covering him with an automatic, was the girl in the blue shawl. Feeling rather foolish, he raised his hat.

' Bon soir Bon soir,' he stammered. Then he added, taking her to be Italian, 'Or should I say buona sera buona sera*3?'

The girl answered in French, with a slight Italian accent. 'Did I hear you say you came here to find a princess?'

'That is correct,' Bertie a.s.sured her.

'Why?'

'Because only a princess can tel me what has become of my best friend.'

'You are English, I think?'

'Very, very English,' answered Bertie.

'Ah.' The girl drew a deep breath that might have been relief. 'Do you know the name of this princess?'

'No.'

'Was it the Principessa Marietta Loretto de Palma?'

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