Something about the way she said it made him want to throw his money on the bar and walk out. No ulterior motives! She was far too trusting to be dragged into what might turn out to be a nasty mess. She seemed to be a nice person.
She said, “Charles, the bartender, is going to be quite astonished. I drop in here several times a week, and at least once each week he has to tell some ardent gentleman that I prefer not to be annoyed. I brush the others off myself. He’s going to look at you and wonder why I have dinner with you.”
Jan grinned and said, “Being a bartender, he can see that I’m a harmless type. Besides, I played on your sympathies.” As he spoke, he saw a man in the white coat of a waiter walk through the dining room. Some small gear clicked in his mind. Jean Charlebois.
The hunter raises one hand and cautiously spreads the brush that impedes his view. The cold blue barrel of the rifle points toward the clearing. The buck stands, nostrils quivering, head turning slowly in all directions. The hunter cradles his cheek against the smooth stock. He takes a deep breath and lets half of it out. His right hand tightens slowly, the trigger pressing against the pad of his right index finger. The sight bead is centered on a spot just behind the flat bone of the right shoulder of the buck. The right hand tightens …
“What on earth were you looking at then?” Jerry asked. “You looked quite frightening for a minute. Like a man looking at old ghosts.”
He glanced quickly at her, annoyed that he should have changed expression on seeing Charlebois. It was important to distract her attention.
He said, “That transparent? I was wondering about you. You seem like a person it would be easy to hurt. Obviously then, you have been. You could never grow to be as wise as you are without having been hurt. I was wondering what sort of person would do that to you.”
Emotionally, she withdrew. She was a girl sitting beside him, sipping a cocktail. Physically she was there. But her mind had gone back into the past, and the look of sensitivity about her mouth twisted into something scornful and not fitting to her.
She said, “You sound like you wanted to know. It’s all a bit dull. I may tell you sometime, and watch you trying not to yawn. Maybe there’s no one on this earth who is the least bit interested except me. And I’m only interested now because the net result of being hurt is that I’m down here alone, trying to do work I’m not suited for, trying to think of what I should do next—trying to make a plan for my life that’ll make sense. I don’t make sense to myself these days.” She turned toward him and grinned. “Do all the people you meet start weeping on your shoulder?”
For a moment he dropped the pretense. He said, “Maybe we’re both at a crossroads. I’m doing work I’m not suited for, and I don’t know why I continue. It’ll soon be over and I have no plans.”
They were both silent for a few moments. He said suddenly, “Before this turns into a wake, we better have another drink.”
So they talked of New Orleans, of the tourist-consciousness of the French Quarter, of the proper Vermouth for martinis—discovered a mutual liking for frog’s legs, hot weather, Mozart and Duke Ellington. They were gay, and surprisingly young, and some of the ghosts left his eyes and the basement room took another backward step into the past.
But while they were talking, Charlebois crossed beyond the grillwork door a dozen times, and the man’s habitual way of walking, the angle of his head, the slope of his shoulders, were all indexed, recorded—filed in a compartment of Jan’s mind which was as still and cold as a starlit night on the steppes. And he discovered which set of tables were served by Jean Charlebois.
He offered her another drink and she said, “Just one more. That’ll finish me. Then you can lead me to a table.”
“The blind leading the blind, Jerry.”
The Ancient Door had filled up, and it was difficult for Jan Dalquist to estimate the proper interval which would give him assurance of getting one of Charlebois’s tables. He managed it. The headwaiter held the door open with a flourish, and Dalquist followed Jerry Ellis into the dining room, unobtrusively guiding her over to a table served by Charlebois.
When Charlebois came with the menus, Dalquist glanced up at him and said casually, in clipped Parisian, “I assume that you speak French?”
“Yes, monsieur,” Charlebois said. “Monsieur speaks very well.”
Dalquist glanced at Jerry Ellis, ascertaining from her puzzled expression that she didn’t speak the language. He said rapidly, “It is very crowded in here, and the young lady has no French. Have you not a quiet place where we might eat alone? With you to serve us?”
“One moment, monsieur.” Charlebois hurried off.
Jan turned to Jerry and said, “I’m sorry, but I just happened to think of it when the waiter came to the table. I asked him if there was a place where we could dine alone. I always feel conspicuous when the tables are so close and people can see my hands. I forgot that you might consider such a suggestion a little bold.”
“Don’t be silly,” she said quickly. “I’d love it. I hate being nudged by the elbows of the people at the next table.”
Charlebois was back in a few moments. He nodded to Dalquist and said, “One of the private rooms has not been reserved, monsieur. And I can serve you if you wish. Please follow me.”
They followed him through the curtains and up the narrow stairway to the second floor. With a flourish, he opened the door to a small room. It overlooked the courtyard. The moon—newly risen—shone through the open french doors and silvered a table for two set just inside the room. An ornate balcony overhung the court. When they were both in the room, Charlebois shut the door, hurried over to the table and lighted the two tall white candles. He held the chair for Jerry.
Jan said, “May I order for you?”
“Please do.”
Charlebois departed with the order, and as soon as he had shut the door silently behind him, Jerry began to laugh. She said, “Look at this den of wickedness! I had no idea they had these rooms up here. Moonlight. Candlelight. Huge divan. Draperies. It looks like a set I’ve seen in about six movies. My husband, if I had a husband, breaks in while we’re drinking a toast in champagne to the evening. I scream and you leap off the balcony. Or you shoot him. Or I shoot him. Or you shoot the waiter by mistake and I jump off the balcony. Why is it that there is so much less drama in real life?”
Dalquist was acutely conscious of the weight of the gun in the shoulder holster. He said, “As a matter of fact, I did order champagne. Now, accuse me of having delusions of drama.”
“I accuse you of being a man who never did a dramatic thing in his life, Jan. That’s why I like you. I’m desperately tired of dramatic people.”
Due to Charlebois’s downstairs responsibilities, the service was slow, but neither of them minded it. The candles flickered in the warm, fresh breeze. They talked of her painting, and she told him her only talent was good draftsmanship, that she couldn’t translate her emotions onto the canvas. At best, she could become only an adequate illustrator.
Jan told her of his life in prewar Paris, of the great automotive plant in which he had been a very junior engineer. How, somehow, the war, the destruction of men and machines through the application of very expert and very deadly mechanical engineering techniques, had soured him on his chosen profession.
When she asked him what he was doing, he said, “I’m an investigator for French capitalists who wish to build up foreign investments. I’m down here bloodhounding a deal for them. When it’s over, I’ll be through.”
“Then what?”
He shrugged. “Probably become a bloodhound for somebody else. I don’t know. I daydream a bit now and then. Always seem to picture myself as some sort of farmer. Green stuff growing all around me. Silly idea. Never tried to grow anything in my life.”
“I’m a farm gal,” she said. “Take me along with you to pick out the land, and I’ll give you a short course.”
She said it lightly, but their eyes met as she said it and som
ething passed between the two of them—something frightening in its momentary intensity.
At that instant, Charlebois knocked on the door and entered on command.
Dalquist said rapidly, in French, “Bring us some brandy. Good brandy. And I suspect that the lady will leave me for a few moments. When she does, I wish to speak with you privately.”
“Oui, monsieur.” He brought back a tray with two glasses and a dusty, unopened bottle. He showed Dalquist the label, opened the bottle and poured the two glasses.
Jerry said, “Would you excuse me, please?”
Charlebois held the door for her and then came back into the room. He stood by the table and said, “Monsieur?”
Dalquist noticed the man staring at his hands. He moved them below the table level. “You have been very helpful. What is your name?”
“Pierre Duval, monsieur.”
“The young lady and I are very pleased. You impress me as being a man of tact and intelligence.” Charlebois made a small, self-effacing gesture. “I am unacquainted with New Orleans, Duval, and I desire to visit many interesting places with the young lady. You are doubtless well acquainted with the French Quarter. The young lady is a new acquaintance. You understand how such things are.” Dalquist chuckled in a man-to-man fashion. Charlebois laughed dutifully.
Dalquist continued. “At what time are you off duty here?”
“In two hours, monsieur. Eleven-thirty. Rather late, possibly.”
“If I were to come for you at that time, Duval, would you consent to guide us to some interesting places?” As Charlebois hesitated, Dalquist added, “I will pay you well.”
“If Monsieur will come to the top of these stairs, to the first room on the left in the outside hallway, anytime after eleven-thirty, I will be ready.” At that moment a sudden gust of wind blew out one of the candles. Charlebois hastened around the table to relight it. He stumbled on the rug and had to place his hand against Dalquist’s chest to keep from falling upon him. He backed off and apologized profusely. There was something in his eyes that vaguely alarmed Dalquist. He relighted the candle as Jerry Ellis came back into the room.
They lingered a half hour over the brandy, and at last Jan paid the check, leaving a liberal tip for Charlebois. They walked down the stairs and out onto the street, with Dalquist fighting against the spell of the night, the warmth of her laughter, the faint, clean scent of her hair. And that odd look in Charlebois’s eyes troubled him.
They went to three different places, listening to the music, the poor present-day ghost of the New Orleans jazz heritage. Dalquist arranged it so that they entered the third place a little after eleven. He also made certain that it was only a few hundred feet from the Ancient Door.
They sat, side by side, on a low bench along one wall of a large room. With practiced stealth, he unclasped her purse and dropped his silver lighter into it, forcing it down into a corner. At twenty-five after eleven he began to slap at his pockets and look worried.
Jerry said, “What’s the matter, Jan?”
“My lighter. Seems to be gone. I bet you I left it at that last place. If I go back right now, I may stand a chance of getting it back. You don’t mind waiting for me, do you? It’s only two blocks. If it isn’t there, I’ll try the first place. Just sit tight and order me a drink.”
The hunter acquires the habit of melting into the terrain, of blending himself with the brush and the movement of his passage is as unnoticeable as the stirring of a light breeze. His every step is sure, his movements deft. He is gone before you become conscious of his presence.
So it was with Dalquist. One couple sat in a far corner of the dining room of the Ancient Door. No waiter was about. He crossed the floor in his dull gray suit with his noiseless tread. They didn’t look up. He went up the stairs and knocked at the first door on the left of the passageway.
“Duval?” he called.
“Come in, monsieur.”
Dalquist walked into the room. Charlebois stood on the far side of the room. It was a small room, obviously used as a dressing room by the help. A row of hooks held wrinkled uniforms. Dalquist’s automatic was equipped with what is called a one-shot silencer, a small cartridge of metal containing compressed sponge rubber. It was screwed onto the threaded end of the barrel. Such a device is only effective for the first shot, muting it to about the decibel rating of a loud cough.
With the sixth sense of the hunter, Dalquist, as his hand flashed up toward the shoulder, felt the presence of someone else close behind him. He tried to dodge and turn, but as his fingertips touched the rough grip of the automatic, a stunning blow hit him just under the ear, dropping him heavily to his hands and knees. He shook his head and tried to fight away as he felt a hand slipping under his coat, snatching away the automatic. In a fog of semi-consciousness, he cursed himself for not entering with the weapon in his hand.
He was kicked heavily in the side and he fell over onto the floor, gasping for breath. The room swam around him as he sat up, narrowing his eyes to hasten focus. The door was kicked shut. A stranger, a bandy-legged man with a potbelly, small eyes and cropped black hair, stood grinning down at Dalquist, covering him with his own weapon.
Charlebois stood slightly behind him, also smiling, a slim knife in his right hand. He held it in the traditional knife fighter’s manner, the end of the handle against the heel of his hand, his thumb resting lightly on the cutting edge.
Charlebois said, “Crawl slowly over to that chair, monsieur, and sit. Cross your arms tightly and keep them crossed. René, lock the door.”
Dalquist did as he was told. He had learned, in the most difficult conceivable manner, that it is best not to speak when at a disadvantage.
After Dalquist was in the chair and René had locked the door, Charlebois said, “René, this is the cow I spoke about. An ex-member of the Gestapo. A man who betrayed hundreds of the brave patriots of France. It is up to us to kill him in the name of France.”
René’s stupid face twisted with hate. He said thickly, “My brother was one of those betrayed by such a man!”
Dalquist weighed the chances. He said quickly, “René, you are listening to one who is a traitor himself. Look at my hands. Would the Gestapo torture one of their own? Would any group other than the Gestapo do such a thing?”
He extended his hands, ignoring the hoarse exclamation of Charlebois. As René stared at the mutilated fingers, Dalquist said quickly, “And the man behind you is an infamous one named Jean Charlebois, who betrayed the Maquis. I was hired by the patriots of France to track him down.”
As René, confused, turned toward Charlebois, the traitor said, “Do not believe this pig, René! He is lying—”
“I want to know why this man you call a member of the Gestapo should come here for you, Duval,” René said heavily.
Dalquist felt his heart leap as he read the indecision in René’s face. The small eyes looked swiftly toward Dalquist’s hands and then into Dalquist’s eyes.
There was a sudden loud banging at the door. Charlebois hissed, “Shoot him quickly, fool!”
Wheeling ponderously, René said, “Maybe it is you that I should—”
With a grunting curse, Jean Charlebois took a quick step toward René and drove the ready knife into the man’s body. René staggered with the force of the blow and the gun hand sagged. As he tried to lift the gun, Charlebois chopped down with the edge of his hand on René’s wrist, snatching up the gun as it fell to the floor.
René did not fall. He hugged his belly and moaned hoarsely. His eyes were shut with the pain in his body. The flat metal handle of the knife glinted, protruding from between his hands. Dalquist sank back into the chair under the threat of the muzzle of his own gun, pointed at him once more.
With another curse, Charlebois snatched the handle of the knife and yanked it out of René’s middle. René’s life seemed to flow out with the blood that made a widening splotch on his clothes. He dropped to his knees, chin on chest, and then went over onto his face w
ith a damp noise in his throat that sickened Dalquist.
The pounding at the door continued. Charlebois called out, in accented English, “One moment, please.” The pounding ceased.
Charlebois said quickly, “Monsieur, you are of a stupidity most amazing. True, you were clever to find me, but before I left Mexico City, I told Pepita that she should unseal each letter from me with great care. I told her that she would find, stuck under the flap, a short single bit of my hair. If it was missing, she should tell me by telegraph immediately. It was missing on the last letter. The letter had been unsealed and read. Thus I knew someone was coming for me.
“I have used great care. You are the first one to have paid any attention to me. I saw your hands, monsieur. I am familiar with the work of the Gestapo. I stumbled against you, monsieur, and felt the bulk of your gun under my palm. You asked me to go out into the night with you, monsieur.
“It is indeed regrettable that you plunged a knife into René. He is indeed dead. I will open the door now, and your gun will be in this pocket. Do not speak.”
Charlebois held the knife delicately and rubbed the thin metal handle against the side of his trousers, careful not to spot himself with the blood that colored the blade. He stepped closer to Dalquist and flicked a few drops of blood from the wet blade. They spattered on the dull gray fabric of Dalquist’s suit.
He stepped to the door, unlocked it and swung it open. Jerry Ellis walked hesitantly in, her eyes wide, her underlip caught behind her teeth. Charlebois took a quick look into the hall and shut the door again.
He bowed to Jerry and said, “Mademoiselle, this is most regrettable, but this man—who was here with you earlier tonight—appears to be quite mad. That knife on the floor. With it he …” Charlebois waved a nervous hand toward the body of René.
Dalquist knew he could quickly protest his innocence to Jerry, and Charlebois would not dare use the gun. He needed Dalquist, alive, on whom he could pin the suspicions of the police so as to provide him sufficient time to get back across the border into Mexico before Dalquist could make his credentials known. It was a clever and daring plan. But some perverse instinct in Dalquist made him keep silent. He stared woodenly at Jerry, saw her features pale, saw her take a step backward away from the silent body.
More Good Old Stuff Page 7
