by John Roeburt
“Why?”
“From several indirect sources we have learned various groups have a sudden, renewed interest in the diary. It is rumored Rose Fedor was seen last night, with a beefy man. You could be easily called beefy, Monsieur Mouse.”
“I guess so. And so could about twenty thousand other guys within shouting distance,” I said. “I don’t get this bit about the various groups. Why should so many people want this diary?”
“I told you, the diary can prove a bombshell—or a dud. A great many people are interested in finding Rose Fedor—with the hope she will lead them to the diary.”
“Of course I still don’t know what this is all about, but—are you one of the people looking for this—what’s her name—Rose?”
“I am.”
“Do you, or they, think she killed her husband?”
“Oh, no. Fedor’s death is of no consequence, it is the diary we all seek. Of course, we are not positive she has it, but she must know more about it than anyone else. To get on, Monsieur Mouse, I am certain that this Mary you met was Fedor’s wife, Rose. No one else would know about Sowor and Melouza.”
“From what you’ve said, gangs of people know about them.”
Jock gave me a patient tiny smile. “Perhaps. Let me put it this way: no other American woman would know. Sound better?”
“Maybe,” I said cautiously. Having gone this far I wanted to pump him for all the info I could get. “We were only together for a week and crocked most of the time. But I did have an idea she was jumpy.”
“Did she have money?”
“Hard to say. We didn’t live big and I paid the tabs.”
“Did she ever mention what she was ‘jumpy’ about?”
“She gave me a cock and bull story about the rough time the police and some private dicks were giving her. I didn’t pay much attention, figured it was drunken chatter. I mean, the police don’t chase you if you haven’t broken the law and Mary didn’t act like a crook.”
He offered a pack of cigarettes around, then lit one himself, as he said, “I imagine she has been having a rough time of it at the hands of various law agencies.”
“But you just said they don’t want her for her husband’s murder? This stuff about cops chasing you for the hell of it…well, you know, that really doesn’t happen outside a bad movie,” I said, knowing I was doing a good job of playing the jerk.
Jock laughed politely. “Monsieur Mouse, you have the layman’s faith and naivete concerning the ‘law.’ There is such a thing as the unofficial law. A crude example; there isn’t any actual law stating a rich man’s house shall receive more police protection than a poor man’s shack. Yet we all know that without being ordered to, the police will keep an eye on the rich house, perhaps even look in on it several times a day. Another raw example: a policeman would hardly give a traffic ticket to a known politician. Yet I am certain there is actually nothing in any police manual the world over ordering this. Nor would the politician even have to suggest any possible consequences to the police officer. In brief, that is the unofficial law, and in various forms you will find this in all law agencies, no matter at what level. There are unofficial government…eh…moves, which would account for the ‘law’ harassing Fedor’s wife if…”
“Say, while I don’t know if Mary is the babe you’re talking about, I do recall that when she was gassing about being pushed around, she mentioned a Federal man pulling a gun on her. Of course, that’s so much hot air, but—well, it’s odd she mentioned it.”
“My dear chap, that may not be hot air—as you quaintly call it—at all, but the unofficial government I am attempting to explain. It works the same way in all countries. I believe Colette has told you I am in the French government, yet at this very second I am acting in a completely unofficial capacity.”
“But a Federal dick?”
Jock held up a hand. “Another simple example: you are a Federal agent and let us assume I am a high official in a friendly foreign embassy. We meet at a cocktail party. In the course of conversation I say my government is much interested in having a talk with a Rose Fedor. That is all. A harmless request. Oh, I might even butter up the request by saying it concerns an internal problem in my country. But you see, no official orders or requests are made, nothing on paper. If you are such a high law or police official, you will pass the word along, pick up Rose Fedor, and your men will do so without having the slightest idea of what it’s all about.”
“Look, Mr. Jock, take it easy. Sure, I can see you—or anybody else—buying off some local cop to do a favor. But isn’t it a little far-fetched to think of a big Washington official starting a manhunt merely because of some bar conversation?”
“On the contrary, only a national figure could do it, or would be in a position to meet a high foreign official! Nor did I say a manhunt was started. They would merely send out a routine check for the whereabouts of Rose Fedor.”
“Routine? With a gun?”
“I don’t believe the gun part,” Jock said, “Unless it would be used to frighten her. Remember, our high embassy man might have become friendly with an ordinary government law agent. He might even tell this policeman there’s an under-the-table reward of a few thousand dollars for finding Rose Fedor. Or the law agent will try very hard to find her—on his own time—because he feels a word from an embassy will help his promotion. I assure you the same thing would happen in my country if an American official talked to a French police officer. What you must understand is that the police officer is not necessarily delinquent in his duty. On the contrary, he may feel he is doing the ‘right thing.’”
I shook my head, said innocently, “That’s hard to swallow.”
“For you, yes. In fact you may be sure the imaginary police official we talk about will feel the same way. Being a layman he—and you—will never question why Rose Fedor is wanted, because in his own mind he can not conceive of a government doing anything ‘wrong.’ Unfortunately, ‘good’ or ‘bad,’ ‘right’ or ‘wrong,’ are by themselves actually meaningless words. But I am wandering from the subject. Yes, I am looking for Mrs. Fedor, although not with a gun. But certainly in addition to possible law agencies hunting for her, there are also the FLN and other Arab parties, and there probably are fanatics in most of the groups involved. Neither last nor least are the hired hunters, or investigators, the private police, in the pay of some oil companies.”
I was impressed: Jock knew his stuff, was giving me a rundown of what I’d been through. I said, “Geez, this is getting involved. What’s an oil company have to do with all this?”
Colette threw back her head and said something in French that could have been a couple of cuss words. Jock motioned for her to be still. “My dear Monsieur Mouse, you do seem to have been living in a hole. Do you never read the papers? In the Sahara desert, oil deposits have been found which may well surpass anything in the Middle East, by-pass Suez. And it fits. Again, let us suppose such a private detective informs the police he is working for one of the large oil companies, do you doubt the local police—without receiving any instructions or orders to do so—will heartily cooperate with the private investigator?”
“Could be,” I said, wanting to shout he was darn well right. “But, somehow, after all this time, Mrs. Fedor and the diary…I mean, why are they still important?”
Jock gave me that slightly annoying laugh of his. “The search for Rose Fedor has become an international, if unofficial, cause celibre. The diary will be of prime importance as long as Algeria remains unsettled, and that can be a matter of years. As I told you, the search had practically died down, until yesterday.”
I nodded and kept pumping. “About the importance of this book: are you saying the French army knocked off this village and are now trying to hush things up?”
“Jacques does not know,” Colette said, as if to keep in the conversation.
He shook his head. “Colette is correct, we have no proof of the killers’ identity. When you say ‘the French,’
or ‘the English,’ or ‘the American,’ by themselves the words are also without meaning. It is the same as saying the sky is blue, which it is not, for the sky is composed of many shades of color, even of blue. Democratic governments likewise are a mosaic of different shades of political opinions. While this is a ‘good’ thing, it may also result in some government official doing terrible things in the name of ‘righteousness,’ and without it being an official policy of the government. We live in complex times and ironically, as the power of weapons increases, in the same ratio so does the power of the individual, A lieutenant piloting a plane with a bomb can start a world war at his whim. For all we know, Budapest was the result of a trigger-happy Russian tank driver, or Korea caused by a frightened machine-gunner. It is frightening but true that a drunken officer at a guided missile base can set the world afire. The military mind is such, the world over, that they cannot admit an error, a mistake, and feel they must either back up or bury any such action of then-men. It is possible Sowor, Fedor, and the others wiped out Melouza in a moment of drunken rage. The idea may have been entirely their own. But for me, that is far too simple a view.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It is also possible, if they were involved in this horror at all, they were ordered to wipe out the village by a superior officer. What one must understand is: that such an officer, although doing a monstrous act, is not necessarily a monster. Indeed, he can be a sincere person convinced his act of terror is for the ‘good’ of his country. Do not smile, sir; in the history of your own country Indians were massacred and robbed, and not always by scoundrels. Some men, fine family men and upstanding citizens, felt that only by taking—stealing—the Indian lands could America win the West and grow powerful. Many Indian chiefs, far from villains, were just as certain the slaying of settlers and wagon trains was best for their tribe. In our complex world, nothing is all black or entirely white. Everything depends upon the point of view. A murder to one man can easily be a matter of necessity to another. Am I clarifying the picture or fogging it for you?”
“I’m kind of mixed up. Maybe because it’s hard to believe this cloak and dagger stuff, officially or unofficially. Do you think the Algerian rebels killed the people in Me-Lucy-ah?”
“We all have opinions on the subject, but no proof of anything, hence the importance of the diary. Let me try again to clear the air. Myself, I am a liberal in my politics, I respect all humanity. Now let us imagine I am an officer sent to Algeria, in command of an area. Regardless of my orders, I would make an unofficial effort, completely on my own, to understand the problems of the Algerians, perhaps seek out a compromise. I am not doing this for power, or glory, or greed, but with what is known as the best intentions. The net result may be success, the saving of many lives. Then again, I could also be making a tragic mistake. If my opposite number among the FLN is a brute, a fanatic, my act could cause the death of hundreds of my men. Reverse the coin. I am a rockbound reactionary, I am a colon raised in Algeria, fearing and hating the Arabs. To me, then, the Arabs seem to threaten the very life of my beloved France and thus the rebels are but rascals and savages to be given no quarter. Therefore, I might, on my own, and with the most sincere intentions, order the massacre of a village. All this is the consequence of individual action. History is full of men who did horrible acts in the guise of patriotism. No doubt many of Hitler’s concentration camp beasts felt they were doing a dirty job but one necessary for their Germany’s survival. Trusting one’s judgment can be a bad gamble for others.”
I sucked on my cigar; it was dead. Relighting it, I asked, “How did Sowor and Fedor get into the USA?”
“Perhaps as tourists, or they might have smuggled themselves across the border. Again, they may have been special guests.”
“Now what does that mean? Are you accusing Uncle Sam of playing potsy in this mess?” I asked.
Jock let me have another weary smile. “I am not insulting your country. The truth is, in my own way, I greatly admire the USA. What I meant is this: assuming the men were involved in this and whether their higher officers agreed with their action or not, if the army backed them, then it would be a simple exchange. I do you a favor and you do me one. These are dirty times with dirty wars and incidents going on all the time, involving every big power. Your CIA is authorized to bring in a hundred aliens per year into the USA, regardless of quotas or immigration rules. France has about the same set-up. So I, if I represented a high army department, might ask the USA to do us a favor and let two or three men into the country, no questions asked. In return, France allows several of your men to live in Paris—also no questions asked. In short, the USA knows nothing of what Fedor and Sowor might have done, and doesn’t ask. Mind you, this is merely a supposition on my part, I have no proof.”
I told him, “Suppose you find the diary and it says your country did the killing. What will you do with the book?” I wanted to get his “in”—his pitch.
“Whatever the diary may say is nothing. It must prove a Frenchman, or French policy, was responsible. If that should be the case, I assure you we moderates would use it as a weapon to oust the fascist element among the colons and the government. We would insist the guilty be punished. Naturally, in such a case, if the diary landed in the hands of the other side, they would be anxious to destroy it.”
“Suppose the Algerians got it?”
Jock shrugged. “Monsieur Mouse, the Algerians, like the French—and all peoples—are also made up of various political elements. It would again depend on what the diary proved and which faction possessed the book. As I have told you, no country is entirely good or bad. As for myself, we moderates, we haven’t any selfish motives in this. It is my belief that such a massacre, no matter how high or low the reason, was a terrible crime. Those guilty, whether French, Algerians, or men from the moon, must be exposed and punished. To prevent any other such killings.”
“And for that, for what the diary may say, all this cops and robbers stuff has been going on? After all, the massacre was years ago, who gives a damn now?”
Colette said, “You do not mean what you say, Mickey!”
Jock said sadly, “I trust you are not that cynical, Monsieur. Or so ignorant you do not understand the power this expose will have. The leveling of Lidice, another obscure little town, did as much toward the eventual defeat of the Nazis as did all the strategic bombing by the Allies. World opinion is a tremendous weapon. That is the great importance of the diary.”
“Then how come the oil companies are so hot after it? They’re not in politics.”
He waved the stub of his cigarette in the air, as if pointing out my nose to me. “Obviously, since they are interested in the oil concession, they must play all sides to insure ending up with the winner. They would use the diary to blackmail, if necessary. Even de Gaulle wants…”
As he talked on, I tried not to smile. Poor Rose. Poor me. Running all this time and carrying the hot potato with us in those “letters.” Like a mutt trying to escape the clatter of a tin can—tied to his tail. There was such an easy and simple solution. All Rose had to do was drop the letters—publicly—and we’d be safe.
Glancing at the clock on the desk, I stood up, cut Jock off with: “Well, if I ever see this Mary again and if she is Rose, and if she has the diary, I’ll try to…”
He gave me a sharp laugh. “Monsieur Mouse, do not be insulted when I say, frankly, I think you are a liar. I also think you know very well where Rose is. Here is my card. I want you to please…”
“I don’t give a damn what you think—I don’t know where she is, or that Mary is this Rose!”
He gave me a mock bow. “Let me put it this way: keep my card. If you should ever come across such a diary…well, I’ve tried to impress upon you its importance to the world—to the safety of mankind. All I ask is if you do come across it, bring or mail it to me. I am a true Frenchman, and what is more important, above all else I consider myself a true humanitarian—in the fullest civilized mea
ning of the word. If the diary proves anything, I swear to you, I will see justice done, in any case. You must trust me to do that. As we are strangers, you must take Colette’s word for my character, for my…”
“Save the pitch. I keep telling you I have no idea where Rose or such a diary can be.”
“All we ask is if you do see her,” Colette said, “to convince her to send the diary to us, to Jacques. It can save many lives and in the wrong hands result in much misery. Mickey, you must do that!”
Jock blew a cigarette ring and then a short puff of smoke through the center of the ring. He was good at it. He said, “There is one other thing you should know: the diary is worth $10,000 to me.”
“How come the price has gone down?” I asked.
He jumped to his feet. “So! You have the diary and have been offered more!”
“Relax, I know from nothing about any diary, or girl. You said before Sowor had once given $50,000 for it, so I made a wisecrack. That’s all.”
Jock made with the mock bow again. “If I ask you to believe me, of course I must also return such trust in you. Frankly, we are not as rich as the others. Ten thousand dollars is all we can gamble. Remember, the diary may be only hot air.”
I pocketed his card. “I’m not selling anything. I mean, I haven’t anything to sell. But as you said, if I should luck up on this gal you think is Rose, I’ll give her your card,” I said, sure of one thing: Jock and Colette were do-gooders out to save the world…and I was too. I wanted to save the little island world Rose and I had. The only way to do that was to mind our own business, and keep the boat and Ansel’s island our secret. “But as the horse players say, this is all very ‘iffy.’”
Jock shrugged. “We ask no more than that you try.”
There was a moment of silence all around. I picked up the bag of food and headed for the door. “Thanks for everything, Colette. You’ll have the money back in a few days.” I waved at Jock.
