Bertie Loses Out
Bertie followed the young Monégasque girl through the narrow streets. He was intrigued, but could not ask her any questions without drawing attention to himself.
As he climbed the steep, winding alleys to the square in front of the Palace, Bertie wondered what he would find when he reached his destination. The girl disappeared down a narrow street and came to a halt in front of the door of a house. She opened it and went inside, waiting for him just inside the entrance.
Bertie hesitated. He was wary of a trap, but the girl had seemed modest and he felt he could trust her. Perhaps she was not a fille de joie, intent on robbing him. "Enter, monsieur," she told him quietly in a soft, sweet voice. "A friend awaits you." Bertie hesitated again. A friend? What friend? Could this be where Biggles was hiding? With some trepidation, he entered the hall. The girl closed the door behind him and said to him in a low voice, "This way, Monsieur."
She led him up a narrow staircase to a room at the back of the house. She opened a door, flooding the corridor with bright sunlight. Bertie stepped forward and looked in. There, in a high four-poster bed, his face nearly as pale as the counterpane, but smiling, lay Ginger.
Bertie's heart skipped a beat. He took in Ginger's pallor and exhaustion and his heart was wrung.
"Good Lord!" exclaimed Bertie. He wanted to rush forward, but the habits of a lifetime held him back, hovering uncertainly on the threshold.
Ginger's smile broadened. "Come in," he invited.
A voice at Bertie's elbow said quietly, "The patient is a little weak from loss of blood, that's all. He wanted to get up, but we thought it better that he should rest for a while. You will be quite safe here, monsieur." The girl went out and closed the door.
'Loss of blood?' thought Bertie. What on earth had happened to the lad? He looked at Ginger keenly. There was no sign of a wound. The boy lay back against the pillows, no signs of bandages on his smooth, hairless chest.
"Isn't she a wizard?" were Ginger's first words, rich with enthusiasm.
Bertie stared at him trying not to look aghast. Ginger was clearly smitten with this girl, whoever she was. Bertie felt the first pang of jealousy, sharp as a needle.
"Who?" he demanded, more harshly than he intended, but Ginger did not seem to notice, so besotted was he.
"Jeanette," stated Ginger as if that answered everything.
Bertie's head reeled. He had barely recovered from his fall down the escalier and was still recovering from the shock of seeing Ginger showing the effects of what had clearly been a bad wound. The girl had mentioned losing a lot of blood and Ginger certainly looked pale and weak. Now the boy was babbling about some girl – no, Bertie corrected himself, some young woman – he'd never heard of.
"Just a minute, old boy," he protested, trying to get his emotions under control. "What is this? Where are we? What's going on?"
Ginger raised his eyebrows, unable to comprehend that Bertie hadn't recognised Jeanette immediately. "Do you mean to say, you don't know whose house you're in?" he asked, striving to keep the incredulity out of his voice.
Bertie sat on the edge of the bed and gazed at Ginger concernedly, but Ginger's attention was far away. "How should I know?" he asked, not unreasonably. He was very aware of Ginger's physical proximity, but he felt the lad's mind was elsewhere.
"I thought Jeanette would tell you. I asked her to go to the Quai de Plaisance to see if you were there – a thin bloke with a guitar."
Bertie felt he would scream if he heard the name "Jeanette" on Ginger's lips one more time. A strange look came over Ginger's face when he said the wretched female's name. "But who is this damsel?" he demanded, torn between gratitude for her for looking after Ginger when he was hurt and hatred of her for stealing the young man's heart.
"Jeanette Ducoste – Henri's sister," explained Ginger, his eyes softening. "He called her his little sister, but I reckon she's grown a bit since he went off to war."
Bertie digested this information in silence. Ginger was clearly fully aware that Jeanette had indeed grown up. She possessed a woman's body and a gentle alluring manner that had obviously charmed Ginger. The boy was innocent, thought Bertie bitterly. Why did he have to fall for this French minx?
Unaware of Bertie's thoughts, Ginger concluded, "This is number six, rue Marinière."
Bertie exploded, "Well I'm dashed!" And so are my hopes, he acknowledged to himself, seeing the look in Ginger's eyes when he spoke about that woman. In his heart, he knew that his relationship with Ginger had no future, but to see it so cruelly dashed made him want to weep. "How did you get here?"
"That," answered Ginger, "is a longish story. I did a spot of housebreaking and got plugged in the leg – I'm alright now, though;" he hastened to add as Bertie went white, "just a bit weak, that's all. I thought it was about time we compared notes."
"I've got a few things to tell you, my lad," declared Bertie. "I'm not so bright myself. An Italian waiter walloped me on the boko last night and the old skull still rocks a bit." Not just my skull, he thought, sadly. Finding you've fallen head over heels in love with some girl has been a bit of a facer as well.
Before Ginger could answer there came a sharp knock on the door below. Up the stairs came the sound of voices. A moment later the bedroom door was opened quietly and Jeanette entered. Her face was pale.
"What is it, Jeanette?" asked Ginger quickly.
Bertie looked at him sourly. Concern for this girl was written all over his face.
Jeanette moistened her lips. Ginger felt she had never looked more attractive. His body's instant response took him by surprise. Embarrassed and fearful that Jeanette might notice, he bent his good leg to raise the bedclothes and hide his reaction. Bertie, however, saw the movement and understood the reason only too well. He could have cried out in rage, frustration and jealousy. The suspicion that Ginger was naked beneath the bedclothes sharpened his pain.
"It is the police," she whispered. "Mama is talking to them at the door."
Ginger went even whiter. Like Bertie, he assumed they had been traced. Bertie went across to the window – if it had been possible he would have made his escape, but the long drop onto jagged rocks ruled that out.
Ginger, even if he had been well enough, knew he would never have abandoned Jeanette. All he could think of was her.
"I'm sorry about this Jeanette," he said bitterly, taking her hand. She returned his grip and he felt a thrill of excitement at her touch he had never experienced before. "I should not have come here," he berated himself. "Nor should I have asked you to find my friend and bring him here."
Bertie, watching bitterly from the window, thought that Ginger was right; he should never have come to number six. Then he would not have met this girl and fallen for her. If he hadn't, he, Bertie, might have had a chance for some happiness again. Not in consummation, he knew; if he had needed proof that Ginger was not of his persuasion his reaction to Jeanette had made that abundantly clear, but at least he would not have had to watch Ginger in the arms of another. He longed to rush forward and part them.
"You did quite right to come here, monsieur," said Jeanette softly. She gazed into his eyes and was lost. Even if the police took her away now and shot her, she reflected, it would have been worth it to have met him. Her heart was beating so loudly that she thought he must be able to hear it.
During this brief interval, voices could be heard at the door, but the actual words could not be distinguished. The voices ended abruptly. A door was closed. Footsteps could be heard slowly ascending the stairs. Jeanette ran out into the corridor, looked out and came back.
"It is Mama," she said. "The police have gone."
Ginger could hardly believe his ears. He had quite made up his mind that the house was about to be searched.
Madame Ducoste came slowly into the room. Nobody spoke. All eyes were on her face, which was as pale as death.
"Messieurs," she said in a low voice, "It is tragic news."
"You mean - they know I came here?" said Ginger, afraid for their safety.
"No. The visit had nothing to do with you, it concerned Henri."
"Henri?" cried Bertie incredulously.
"Oui, monsieur. He has been caught. It seems that the night before last he flew to these parts, doubtless to look again on his home; but in returning his engine failed, and he crashed."
Ginger glanced at Bertie. "Where did this happen, madame?"
"Just beyond Peille. Between Peille and Baudon."
"Was he hurt?" Ginger wanted to know. He could scarcely look at Jeanette. He could feel her fear for her brother. He longed to hold her in his arms and reassure her that everything would be alright.
"Yes, but not badly," replied Madame Ducoste, looking at the young Englishman who had so affected her daughter. "His head was cut, and for a time he was unconscious. They carried him to Peille, where a doctor attended him and where he will remain until he is well enough for the police to take him to Nice."
"And then, madame?" queried Ginger, half afraid of what she would say.
"He will be tried as a traitor," responded Madame Ducoste dully.
"This is what the police told you?" questioned Bertie, glancing at Ginger whose sympathetic gaze had returned to Jeanette. She, in turn, sought reassurance from him. A surge of jealousy tore through Bertie's chest. In anguish, he tore his eyes away from the pair and looked at Madame Ducoste.
"Oui, monsieur. They came to inform me officially of his arrest and to ask me if he had been here."
"You told them no?"
"I told them the truth," stated Madame Ducoste simply. "He has not been here."
"Yes, we know that, madame," said Ginger quietly, dropping his gaze.
"You know?" echoed Madame Ducoste. "How do you know this?"
"Because we know the errand that brought him here," explained Ginger. "It was he who brought us to Monaco. His engine must have gone wrong soon after he started back for England. I'm sorry now that I did not tell you this before, but it seemed cruel to burden you with anxiety." His eyes held Jeanette's again as he continued. "I thought it was better that you should not know that it was he who brought us here in case by any chance you were questioned by the police. Then you could tell the truth, saying that you knew nothing of him." Ginger looked at Bertie. "I told madame that we knew Henri as a pilot of the Fighting French," he explained. "I did not tell her he had brought us here."
Bertie regarded him steadily. He thought Ginger had never looked so handsome. Falling in love with this Jeanette creature had changed the lad, he observed. Despite his injury and the terrible news he had just heard, he seemed radiant. The presence of his loved one lifted his heart and inspired him. Bertie could identify with that. His heart lifted whenever Ginger walked into the room. The sound of his voice was music to his ears and he was never happier than when he was with him. Part of him wanted Ginger's happiness while the selfish part of him wished that neither of them had ever set eyes on the woman.
Madame Ducoste sank into a chair, tragedy written on her face. "They will shoot Henri," she said in a dull voice.
Bertie spoke. "Do you know where he is in Peille, madame?"
"In the sanatorium," came the reply.
"Is there a guard?" pursued Bertie.
"A gendarme remains always with him," supplied Madame Ducoste.
Bertie looked at Ginger. "I've been to this place, Peille. It's about six miles from La Turbie, as the crow flies, at the far end of the valley in which we landed. It sits on a ledge, in the mountains. The sanatorium is just this side of the village." To madame he said, putting his hand on her shoulder, "Don't give up hope. There is still time for us to do something." Ginger had never seen him so serious.
"But what can you do?" asked Madame Ducoste, helplessly.
"Leave the matter in our hands," answered Bertie. "It is rash to make promises, but we do not desert our friends."
"I am sure of that," breathed Jeanette, looking into Ginger's eyes. He felt his heart lurch.
"Confound this wound in my leg …" began Ginger, trying to sit up. Jeanette sat on the bed beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. He relaxed against the pillows, but Jeanette did not remove her hand.
"How long is it going to take to get right?" asked Bertie, watching in pain as Jeanette smoothed the blankets tenderly over Ginger.
"I think I could get about," returned Ginger. "I'm a bit weak, that's all. It was madame's suggestion that I should rest for a day or two, and until this happened I was prepared to take her advice." He smiled at Jeanette, thinking that the longer he stayed to recuperate the better he'd feel. She blushed prettily, reading his thoughts.
Bertie was consumed with envy. His jaw was clenched so tightly to stop his teeth grinding it hurt. He welcomed the physical pain to take his mind off his mental anguish.
"I will make some soup," said madame and went down to the kitchen.
"You had better go down, too, mademoiselle," suggested Bertie pointedly when Jeanette made no move to follow. "We would like to talk things over."
Reluctantly, Jeanette stood up. Her eyes smiled at Ginger and she followed her mother down the stairs.
"Now that's my idea of a girl," declared Ginger . "I'm absolutely crazy about her. She's the most marvellous thing …"
Bertie could stand no more. "Here, I say, just a minute, old boy," he reproved, seething. "Keep your hand on the jolly old throttle or you'll be out of control before you know where you are." All the hurt he felt poured out as he told Ginger scathingly, "Things are complicated enough as it is; if you're going to start ordering bouquets and writing poetry…"
"Okay – okay," broke in Ginger, stung by the vehemence of Bertie's reaction. He tried to defend his feelings for Jeanette by adding, "She speaks English jolly well, too. Before the war, madame used to let apartments to English visitors."
Bertie took out his monocle and turned a cold eye on his companion. Ginger looked hurt that Bertie did not share his enthusiasm for Jeanette, but Bertie was past caring. His hopes and dreams had been annihilated by this young woman and he was not disposed to feel kindly towards her, no matter what Ginger's emotions might be – and that he felt strongly about her was obvious for all to see. "I don't care if she speaks Greek, Arabic, Hindustani and Urdu," he declared. "Is this a romance or a rescue? What I'm waiting to hear is how did you come to get in this mess."
As he said it, Bertie acknowledged that the mess included more than Ginger just being wounded and losing a lot of blood. He also wanted to know what had happened to make Ginger fall in love with Jeanette. What had she done to enslave him? How could he? Jealously he wondered what had been happening when they were alone together.
In a few words Ginger told him what had happened, but he left out what Bertie really wanted to know. "I don't know where this waiter Mario comes in," he concluded, "but he's in the party. Biggles must have gone to the Chez Rossi. Mario, of the Chez Rossi, kills the man who double-crossed the princess. That isn't coincidence. I followed him to the Villa Valdora and got landed with the murder. I was all in when I got here, and passed out on the floor. Jeanette and her mother were marvellous …"
"You've said that before," pointed out Bertie sourly.
"I shall probably say it again," declared Ginger defiantly. "They looked after me as if I were their own son," he continued.
'I bet they did!' thought Bertie angrily as he gazed at Ginger, trying to mask the hurt in his eyes. 'More like a son-in-law! Madame already thinks of you as one of the family.'
"When I came round I told them as much as I dare – said I was an Englishman looking for a friend who had got stuck down here. I didn't say anything about Henri flying us down for reasons which you heard me explain. Anyway, if I had, one thing would have led to another and I didn't want to say too much."
Bertie thought bitterly that Ginger must have said more than enough when he had been alone with Jeanette judging by the way she looked at him.
"Naturally, I wanted to let you know what had happened .."
'Naturally', thought Bertie sarcastically. 'I bet you wanted to shout your love from the rooftops and tell me all about this trollop.'
"… so I asked Jeanette to go down to the Quai de Plaisance to look for a bloke with a guitar. She found you and brought you along. What have you been doing?"
Ginger's face was a picture while Bertie told his story, which, of course, explained the mystery of his being followed by the boatman, François. "There's no doubt that it was Mario who stuck the stiletto into Zabani," continued Bertie. "As you say, somehow he is mixed up in this; the way he hid the Pernod card and bumped me on the boko when I tried to have a dekko at it proves that. He's a nasty piece of work. I'll resume the argument with him when I have time. Meanwhile this is a bad business about Henri. Even if we could get him away, it looks at though we're stuck on the Riviera for the duration."
"Looks like it," agreed Ginger moodily, although privately he found the prospect of spending more time with Jeanette not exactly unpleasant. "We don't seem to have done much towards settling the mystery of Biggles, either," he conceded gloomily. "We still don't know whether he's dead or alive. I wonder what Algy's up to. You say he went to Nice?"
"That was the idea," confirmed Bertie, surprised that Ginger seemed to be taking the uncertainty about Biggles' fate with such equanimity. Given what he'd heard of their close relationship before the war, he expected more animation in Ginger's voice when he contemplated the prospect of Biggles' death. Now Ginger had found Jeanette, thought Bertie acidly, she seemed to have supplanted his affection for his mentor. Then he thought back to the way he had felt when he found love for a brief time and acknowledged that perhaps that was somewhat harsh. He remembered how the sun had shone, the birds sang and everything was eclipsed. It made the pain of his loss even deeper.
"Then all I can think is there must have been some writing on the wall at Jock's Bar to keep him there, or he would have been back by now," opined Ginger.
While he was speaking, Jeanette came back into the room with a tray. She glanced at Ginger. "Did I hear you speak about writing on a wall, monsieur?" she inquired.
"Why, yes, mademoiselle," replied Bertie, looking surprised, before Ginger had the chance to speak. "Do you know anything about it?"
"Only that I have seen writing on a wall," replied Jeanette, smiling at Ginger.
"Where?" demanded Bertie.
"By the Quai de Plaisance," replied Jeanette casually.
Ginger flashed a glance at Bertie, then looked back at Jeanette. "When?" he asked breathlessly.
"This morning, when I waited for monsieur of the guitar," responded Jeanette.
Bertie turned to Ginger. "Did you say anything to Jeanette about the writing on the wall?"
"Not a word," declared Ginger. "Tell me, Jeanette," he encouraged. "What did you see?"
Jeanette shrugged a shoulder. Ginger thought the gesture endearing. It set up a movement in her bosom that made him gasp and hold the blanket over his knee. Bertie sighed impatiently, willing Ginger to raise his eyes from Jeanette's breasts.
"I saw writing," stated Jeanette.
"But how?" asked Ginger, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the fascinating objects of his interest. "I mean," he clarified, "did you know it was there?"
"But no. What happens was this," explained Jeanette. As I walk down the hill this morning at the early hour to seek monsieur of the guitar –"
"Call him Bertie – it's shorter," urged Ginger with a smile.
"Oui, monsieur," acknowledged Jeanette demurely. "As I go to find Bertie I see a girl with a shawl blue. She does something to the wall. I think what can a girl do so early with a wall, so as I walk, I watch. A man, he comes. He goes near. Voilà! Mademoiselle of the shawl blue runs up the Escalier du Port. Monsieur, he runs to the place where she does something to the wall. He is agitated. He runs up the escalier. He runs back tout de suite. He speaks with Monsieur Budette, he of the one eye. Monsieur Budette, he goes home. What is this, I think. Everyone is going somewhere. While I wait for Monsieur Bertie I go to the wall to see what happens that makes everyone run. I see writing. C'est tout."
"In blue pencil?" offered Ginger.
"But yes," exclaimed Jeanette, looking at him in surprise. "How did you know?"
"And it said, 'Chez Rossi. Pernod'," stated Ginger confidently.
"But no," contradicted Jeanette calmly.
Ginger stared. "But yes!" he protested. "I saw it myself."
"Then you do not see what I see," returned Jeanette definitely. "First there is a place where someone has wrote. It is covered with much scribbling. Then there is writing. It says - " Jeanette wrinkled her forehead in an effort to remember. From the look on his face, Ginger clearly thought she looked adorable. Bertie could have slapped him. "Oh yes. It says, 'Castillon. A la bonne cuisine. Then there is a word I do not know. The day of May. No, May Day."
Ginger stared. "Wait a minute," he said slowly, "are you sure about this?"
Jeanette blushed prettily under his intense gaze. "But certainly," she asserted.
Ginger turned an amazed face to Bertie. "Now, what do you make of that?" he breathed incredulously.
"Looks as though fresh writing has been put on the wall since we were there," Bertie opined. He turned to Jeanette. "This girl in the blue shawl – have you seen her before?" he wanted to know.
"I am so far away I do not know," replied Jeanette honestly, "but I think no."
"Was there a mark after the writing – a triangle?" asked Ginger.
Jeanette shook her head. "I see no triangles," she averred.
"And the man who ran up the steps - what did he look like?" Ginger wanted to know.
"Ah, I see him clearer." Jeanette gave a brief description.
"Algy, by thunder!" cried Ginger. "He must have been on the spot, probably waiting for us, and actually saw the girl writing. I wonder where he went," he mused.
Jeanette smiled. "He has gone, monsieur, to Castillon."
Ginger asked, surprised, "You spoke to him?"
"Non – I do not speak with strange men," she reassured him. Her words made Ginger suddenly aware of what Jeanette had been prepared to do for him when she offered to fetch Bertie. He felt humbled.
"Then how do you know where he went?" he queried.
"I told you he went to speak with Monsieur Budette who watches always the little boat that belongs once to his English milord. I, too, speak with Monsieur Budette. He has a joke the most comical. A man, he says, has asked him the way to Castillon."
"That's the name you said was written on the wall," pointed out Ginger.
"Of course," acknowledged Jeanette.
"What is this word, Castillon?" Ginger wanted to know.
"Castillon is a village, monsieur," she told him. "That is what is so droll," Jeanette smiled again.
"What's funny about it?" asked Ginger curiously.
"No one is there, except cats, and, it is said, the ghosts." She giggled.
"Jeanette, please be serious," pleaded Ginger, taking her hand. "This is very important."
"Pardon, monsieur," Jeanette pouted, but did not take her hand away. "but I speak the truth."
"Tell me about Castillon," he insisted.
"It is a village deserted, monsieur, in the mountains behind Mentone, fifteen kilometres, perhaps, from Monaco. I walk there once, with my brother Henri for a pique-nique. It sits in a col – how you say? A gorge the most steep, like a cut in the mountains. It is, to look at, like a heap of grey bones. You see, monsieur, one day long ago, when my father is a young man, there was an earthquake, and many of the houses fall down. The people are so afraid they run, they run all the time; they do not stop running until they come to Mentone. They do not go back – never. So the village it remains as it was left. Only the cats stay, many cats, which makes it the more desolate. That is why Monsieur Budette thinks it is a great joke for a man to go there."
Ginger had been gazing at Jeanette as she told the story. He loved her gestures and the animated way she gave the explanation. "Thank you, Jeanette," he breathed. He looked at Bertie, who had watched the proceedings with a heavy heart. "Now we're getting somewhere," he enthused. If the message is to be believed, someone is in need of help at this quaint village. It might be Biggles," he added with hope in his voice.
"But who is this girl in the blue shawl?" asked Bertie plaintively, thinking there were far too many females involved already.
"How do I know?" retorted Ginger in a voice that plainly said he didn't care, either. "We'll find out. Let's get along. Algy is already on his way."
"But you're in no case to go climbing about mountains," Bertie told him, concerned.
"There must be a path," insisted Ginger. "Is there a path, Jeanette?" he asked.
She looked at him doubtfully, but replied, "yes, monsieur."
Anxiously Bertie broke in. "But you're not fit enough – "
"I'm feeling fine," declared Ginger firmly. "A bit weak, that's all. I can't lie here with all this going on."
"What about Henri?" Bertie reminded him
"We shall have to do something about that, too," acknowledged Ginger, smiling reassuringly at Jeanette.
"Your soup will be cold, messieurs," reminded Jeanette.
"All right. We'll eat it and talk things over," smiled Ginger. Reluctantly he suggested, "you'd better go back to your mother, Jeanette."
"If you say, monsieur," replied Jeanette obediently, her eyes downcast. She went out.
"Now let's try to fix a definite plan," went on Ginger.
"What do you suggest?"
"We've got two angles to cover," Ginger pointed out. "First, someone ought to follow Algy to Castillon, to make contact with him and let him know what has happened here, and to find out what he knows. Two, someone will have to go to Peille to rescue Henri."
"That sounds a tall order," observed Bertie.
"We can't just abandon him," exclaimed Ginger, aghast at the thought.
"No, by Jove, that's right enough," agreed Bertie. Henri was a comrade, after all, he reasoned. Even if Jeanette was his sister.
"I'll tell you what," suggested Ginger. "You push off right away to Castillon and try to get hold of Algy – assuming he's there. Tell him about Henri and say I've gone to Peille in the hope of getting him out. When I've got him, I'll join you at Castillon. If, for any reason, you have to leave the place, come back to the Quai de Plaisance. We'd better keep that the permanent rendezvous."
"That's all right," admitted Bertie, looking at Ginger concerned, "but do you think you could manage to get to Peille?"
"I'm jolly well going to try it," averred Ginger determinedly. "After all, Henri is Jeanette's brother."
Bertie finished his soup and put his eyeglass in his pocket. "And you're the Bold Sir Galahad?" he sneered. He had not meant to sound so bitter, but he was anxious for Ginger on account of his injury and worried that he was taking on a dangerous mission for the sake of his love for this girl. Aware of the torment in his soul, but unable to help himself, he carried on irritably, "Well, don't let this damsel-in-distress stuff –"
"What are you talking about?" broke in Ginger angrily, wondering why Bertie was being so hostile. It was almost as though he was jealous of his feelings for Jeanette. "I should have gone after Henri, anyway."
Bertie realised that he was over-reacting. "Of course – of course – absolutely, old boy," he agreed soothingly.
Bertie rose and picked up his guitar. "Well, if you're satisfied with the arrangement I'll toddle along and visit the cats of Castillon." He looked at Ginger compassionately. "I'll give you one tip," he said. "You can trust François Budette. If things get really hot, go to him for advice. Tell him who you are and all that sort of thing. If, for any reason, I don't show up again, go to him. At a pinch, I may be able to get a message through to him."
"Good enough," agreed Ginger, relieved that Bertie's good humour seemed to be restored now he was about to leave.
Bertie put what was left of the bread in his pocket and went to the door, but he could not resist one last taunt. "Don't let those dark eyes of Jeanette take you too far off your course – if you get my meaning," he advised.
"You go to – Castillon," snarled Ginger.
Bertie chuckled, thinking Ginger in a rage was even more desirable than usual, and departed on his mission.
As soon as he was gone, Ginger got out of bed and started to dress. His leg was stiff and he had a moment of giddiness that made him clutch the bedpost; but the spasm soon passed, and apart from a feeling of lassitude, which he put down to loss of blood, he felt fairly normal. When Jeanette came up a few minutes later to collect the dishes she found him fully dressed.
She uttered a cry of surprise. "Why this you do, monsieur?" she scolded.
"Because, mademoiselle, I have work to do," answered Ginger with determination.
"But where are you going?" Jeanette demanded anxiously.
"To Peille, to see Henri," Ginger told her. "We can't leave him there. Once the police get him to Nice it will be more difficult to save him. I am going at once, hoping to be in Peille before he leaves."
"But where is Monsieur Bertie?" asked Jeanette, clearly thinking that it would be better if he had gone after her brother and left Ginger to recover with her.
"He has other work to do, in Castillon," replied Ginger.
"But you cannot do this, monsieur," protested Jeanette, exasperated by his dogged determination.
"Why not?" asked Ginger.
"Because in the first place, you are wounded and it is many kilometres to Peille," Jeanette told him, although in her heart she knew the real answer was, 'because I want you here, with me, safe, getting well.' "And secondly," she continued, "because the police they look for you. You have no chance of getting out of the principality."
Keen as he was to go, Ginger perceived the truth of these arguments. "Let us deal with these things one at a time," he said. "Is it possible to get a vehicle to take me – at least up the hill as far as La Turbie?"
"Vehicle? What is this?"
"A taxi."
"There are no taxis now in Monaco," Jeanette informed him.
"A horse and cart, then?"
"What few horses there are are weak from lack of food. They are rarely seen out. By taking one you would draw attention to yourself. It might be possible to get a donkey."
Ginger blinked. "A donkey?"
"But yes," smiled Jeanette. "Many people here use donkeys to fetch the wood, the coal, to carry the fish and vegetables in the basket. My aunt has such a one."
Ginger began to see the possibilities. "Will she sell it, or hire it to me?" he enquired.
"I will ask Mama to speak to her about it," promised Jeanette.
"Would this donkey carry me, do you think?" asked Ginger.
"Surely," replied Jeanette, looking at his slim figure. "The donkey is a good little beast, better than a horse on the mountain roads, which is why we use him. He is used to carrying people. I will ask Mama of this."
Jeanette called her mother, who came in looking as though she had been crying. If Madame Ducoste was surprised to see the young Englishman out of bed and fully clothed she gave no sign. The matter was explained to her. The expedition, she opined, was fantastique, but she would ask about the donkey.
Ginger pulled out a wad of notes that made her gasp. She looked at him in astonishment. She had had no idea he was so rich. "Take as much money as you think will be necessary, madame," urged Ginger, "and say that if the expedition is successful I may be able to bring the donkey back, but this, of course, I cannot promise."
At first, Madame Ducoste refused to take any money, but Ginger pressed some on her and she departed on her errand.
"Now what can I do about myself so that the police will not recognise me?" asked Ginger.
"We must make you into a Monégasque," declared Jeanette, smiling. "For clothes there is no trouble, for you may have those of Henri. They are old, but that is all the better. But your face is too white and your hair is too red," she said, thinking that they may be too pale for a native Monégasque, but they were extremely attractive. "For your face I have the very thing – and perhaps for your hair. Wait."
Jeanette went out and returned with a bottle and a small jar. "These were left here by our last English lady," she explained. "This oil in the bottle is for to make the skin brown, to prevent the burning when one bathes in the sun. The visitors here all use it to make themselves brown. Voilà! monsieur."
"What's that in the jar?" asked Ginger suspiciously.
"Mascara, monsieur," replied Jeanette. "Some girls use it to make their eyebrows black. For me, it is not necessary."
'No,' thought Ginger, taking in the fine arch of her eyebrows and the sweep of her jet black hair, like a raven's wing, 'you need no embellishments to make you more beautiful.'
Jeanette intercepted his gaze and blushed. "Perhaps it will make your hair black," she suggested. You may try while I fetch the clothes of Henri."
When Jeanette left on her errand, Ginger sat down at the dressing table and began to apply the suntan oil. He was surprised by the change that a tan made to his features. When he put on the mascara he scarcely recognised himself.
Jeanette returned with a bundle of Henri's clothes and gasped at the transformation. She blushed as she handed him the clothes. "I will wait outside," she told him.
Ginger waited until the door closed behind her and then stripped quickly. It was the work of a moment to put on Henri's trousers, shirt, waistcoat and beret. Jeanette tapped gently on the door and asked if she might come in.
"I'm decent," Ginger told her, with a laugh in his voice. With Henri's clothes, the sun-bronze oil, and the mascara, Ginger so altered his appearance that when he looked in the mirror it gave him a shock. They were laughing about it when the clatter of hooves announced the arrival of madame with the donkey. Jeanette giggled and brushed a piece of lint from his shoulder. "You are a vrai Monégasque," she told him softly. Ginger put his hand gently on hers for a moment and they exchanged a glance. They did not need words; they both knew that something in their relationship had changed.
They went down to the door to see the animal and found it already saddled, with panniers, attached to the saddle, on each side. Its name, Ginger learned, was Lucille.
"If you are questioned, for what purpose are you going to Peille?" asked madame, shrewdly. "It would be a good thing to know."
Ginger hadn't thought of that. "What can I fetch?" he asked.
"You could be fetching olive oil or wine from Monsieur Bonifacio who is a seller of such things in Peille," suggested madame.
"I'll remember it," promised Ginger, feeling in his pockets to make sure he had transferred everything from his own clothes.
Madame went through to the kitchen and returned with a parcel which she thrust in one of the panniers. "You will need food," she explained.
Ginger took the bridle and held out his hands. "Au revoir, madame," he said with sincerity. "I shall always remember your kindness."
Madame Ducoste held his hands and looked into his eyes. "Adieu, monsieur," she murmured. "Give my love to Henri if you see him."
Ginger turned to Jeanette and took her hands. Now that the moment of parting had come, he did not want to leave. "Au revoir, Jeanette," he said softly.
"You will come back, monsieur?" she whispered, holding his hands tightly.
Ginger felt his emotions would overwhelm him. He wanted to crush her in his arms and never let her go, but he was afraid of frightening her with the strength of his passion. "Not all the Axis armies shall keep me from you," he swore fervently, and moved by an impulse that he could not control, he kissed her on the forehead.
Jeanette broke away and ran into the house.
Mortified, Ginger turned to her mother. "Have I done wrong?" he asked in a hurt voice.
Madame smiled a knowing smile. She had watched her daughter and the young man together and there was no doubt in her mind that Jeanette was in love with him. "I ran away from my husband just so," she answered. "Women are like that," she added vaguely. "I'll take care of her. Go with God, monsieur. We shall pray for you." She felt sure that He would keep the young man safe. Nothing would overcome a love like theirs, she was certain.
Ginger raised his faded beret. "Thank you, madame. Au revoir."
He turned to the donkey who was watching these proceedings with big brown eyes. "Come on, Lucille," he said. "Let's go."
Holding the reins, followed by Lucille, he set off down the narrow street. From a balcony high up, Jeanette watched him go and wept.