“Charter Bank,” replied Miller. Taking a turn onto a smaller, less traveled side street, he drove about a half a mile before saying, “We’re not too far from Hamilton’s establishment. It’s just up there to the right.” He stopped the car and pointed to a two-story building across the street. The ground floor consisted of a couple of small shops. The street was void of activity, except for an Indian man sweeping the sidewalk. “Offices take up the top floor. The stairs are over there, just to the right. Traffic along here isn’t too bad during the day. So you shouldn’t have difficulty finding a place to park.” After giving Bunnel a chance to become acquainted with his destination, Miller shifted the car into first gear and commenced driving. “Lieutenant, mind if I ask you something?”
“First of all, I’m not a West Pointer,” Bunnel answered. “I joined up after Pearl, like everybody else. So call me Jimmy. I was going to play either football or baseball, depending upon who was paying the most, but the war came along and changed all that.” Bunnel laughed. “I ended up here in India because I have a working knowledge of Polish and the Slavic languages. What’s your question?”
“It’s about Captain Thompson. I know Colonel Wyman put her in charge and both you and Henri seem to respect her.”
“What you want to know is, is she capable?”
“There isn’t a more delicate way of asking, but, yes.”
“Vern, I can’t give you any particulars, but whatever happens, never, never underestimate her. She’s smart and pretty, but don’t let that innocent smile of hers fool you. She has the capacity to unleash a wrath that only God can reign in. To answer your question, she’s more than capable.”
In the afternoon, Miller drove Emma to the café where Captain Preston was to have had dinner on the evening of his death. “Here we are,” he said, pulling into a parking space. Emma could see a sign above the door across the street that simply read, Damini’s.
The cafe was small, consisting of only eight tables and a short counter. The kitchen was open to view behind the counter. Emma was pleased, as her decision to wait until lunch was over had paid off. There was no one else in the restaurant. The owner seemed to recognize Miller and told them to sit wherever they wanted. Rather than sit, they both remained standing.
“I’m sorry, we don’t want to eat. We’re hoping you can help us with some information,” Emma told her. When she saw the puzzled look on the woman’s face, Emma produced a small photograph of Captain Preston, dressed in civilian clothing, from her purse and gave it to the woman.
The woman looked at the photograph and again at Miller. “I told your friend that I have never seen him before. I am sorry, but I do not think I can help you,” she said in a tone both dismissing them and making it evident she didn’t want to become involved.
“Please, take another look at the picture,” Emma insisted.
“No, I have never seen him.”
Emma placed the photograph back in her purse and decided to try another tactic. “I was hoping you could help me. He was my fiancée,” she said with tiny tears appearing at the corners of her eyes. “With this war going on, it was difficult for me to get here. The red tape with my State Department and the British took a long time. Finally, when I get here, his friend tells me he was murdered. I was in transit and had no idea. You can imagine what a shock it’s been. We were going to start our life together here. Now he’s gone and I have nothing,” Emma continued, a distraught look on her face and larger tears welling up in her eyes. Her knees began to buckle and she was unsteady on her feet, barely able to keep her composure.
“Sit. Let me bring you some tea,” said the owner as she pulled out a chair for Emma, who collapsed into it and picked up a napkin off the table to dab the tears away from her eyes. Within seconds the owner of the café placed a steaming cup of tea before her. “Drink this, it will help,” said the woman as she sat down with Emma and Miller.
Emma’s hands trembled as she grasped the cup, brought it to her lips, and slowly took a sip. “I’m sorry, you have a business to run. We shouldn’t have come here and bothered you. It’s just, it’s just that nothing makes sense. We’ve talked to the police and they don’t know what happened, and they’re not very helpful. I don’t think they really care what happened to one American. If he had been English, I think it would be completely different with them. All I want to do is find out what happened to him. Then, maybe I can be at peace. The only thing we know is that the night he was killed he was on his way here for dinner.”
Seeing Emma in distress, the woman took pity on her and softened her attitude toward them. “As I told you, I never saw him. I am very sorry.”
Emma took another sip of the still-steaming tea.
The woman hesitated for a moment and then said, “The night he was supposed to come here … No, I should not tell you.”
Emma reached out and placed her hand on hers. “Anything you remember, no matter what it is, I’d like to hear. It may be of help.”
“The night your fiancée was supposed to come here, a woman came in and asked about him.”
“A woman, what woman?” asked Emma.
“I do not want to upset you, but a woman came in asking if an American had been here. She said she was supposed to meet him here. I told her no. She bought a drink from me and then left. I remember her because she was foreign and not English.”
“Tell me everything,” said Emma reassuringly.
“I found it odd. She did not seem too concerned that he was not here. It was almost as if she knew he would not be here. She was more concerned that the drink I sold her was not cold enough for her, and she was rather rude about it.”
“You say she was foreign?” asked Emma.
“She had an accent, but it was not English or American. More European, but from where I do not know.”
“What did she look like? It might have been someone he worked with.”
“She was slender and had long black hair.”
At that moment a customer came in. Emma looked at Miller then told the woman, “We should go. We’ve taken enough of your time. How much do we owe you for the tea?”
“Nothing. I am so sorry for your loss. I hope you find the answers you are looking for.”
“I do, too,” replied Emma in an almost inaudible voice.
Miller didn’t say a word until they were back in traffic and a couple of blocks away. “Captain, where in the world did you come up with the grieving fiancée story. That woman truly felt sorry for you. Hell, I was almost ready to cry myself. Especially when your hands were shaking. I thought you were going to spill that cup of tea all over yourself.”
“Vern, you can catch more flies with honey, or in this case, sympathy, than you can with vinegar. It’ll be interesting to know what Jimmy found out.”
Bunnel easily found a parking space a couple of blocks from the offices of Hamilton Trading. He took a deep breath before ascending the stairs. Entering the office, he was surprised at how clean the reception area was. It was elegantly decorated with Victorian furniture and on the walls hung oil paintings of sailing ships. The decorations made the offices look very proper and very British.
A young, attractive Indian woman wasted no time in greeting him. “May I help you, sir?” she asked.
“My name is James Ferguson. I’m with the United States War Department. If possible, I’d like to see Mister Jacques du Maurier. I’m sorry, but I don’t have an appointment.”
“Let me check and see if he is available. Would you care for a cup of tea?” she asked before walking to du Maurier’s office. A few moments later she escorted Bunnel down a long, brightly lit hallway to a large office.
Bunnel shook hands with du Maurier and introduced himself.
“What can I do for the United States War Department this afternoon?” du Maurier asked, motioning Bunnel to take a seat.
“Well, sir, first, I’m sorry I didn’t have an appointment. Thank you for seeing me.”
Du Maurier nodded. “You chos
e a good time, my calendar isn’t full this afternoon.”
“I’m hoping you can tell me anything you know about my friend Blaine Phillips. After he was murdered, I was assigned to replace him here in Calcutta. Back in Washington we were good friends, used to play tennis together. Anyway, since I’ve been here I’ve spoken to the local police and they haven’t been any help. His roommate told me he had plans to meet you for dinner the night he was killed. I’m just trying to find out what happened to him so I can write his wife back home and put her at ease.”
“Yes, a tragic and shocking thing. My wife and I were going to meet him at a café, but he never came. Due to my wife we were running late, and we thought we might have missed him. While I was parking the car, she went inside to check. He wasn’t there and hadn’t been there, either. We waited outside for a while, but he never showed, so we decided to eat somewhere else and left. I’m afraid that’s all I know.”
“Nothing else?” asked Bunnel.
“No, just what I’ve read in the papers, and that isn’t much.”
“I see. What was the name of the café?”
“Damini’s.” Du Maurier lit a cigarette. Bunnel noticed one burning in the ashtray but didn’t mention it.
“Was he meeting with you on business or was it pleasure?”
“Pleasure. Our firm doesn’t do any business with your government. Like you, we played tennis together and got along well. Since he was away from home and my wife and I are, too, we thought he might like a dinner out.”
“Where’s home, Mister du Maurier?”
“Indochine. I’m sorry, French Indochina. My wife and I were lucky to flee before the Japanese came to Saigon.”
Bunnel noticed a wedding picture on du Maurier’s desk and several others hanging on the wall. “Were these all taken in Indochina?” he asked.
Du Maurier handed Bunnel the photograph from his desk. “My wife and I were married in Notre Dame Cathedral in Saigon.”
Bunnel examined the photo closely and noticed the woman pictured had long, raven black hair. Pointing to a group photo of very determined-looking men and women on the wall, he asked, “Was that one taken in Saigon, too?”
“Those are friends. That picture was taken at the Citadel in Hanoi, a few months before we left. The rest of our friends were not as fortunate as we were in getting out of the country and are still there.”
Bunnel reflected for a moment. “Will you be going back after the war?”
“We hope to, as soon as possible.”
Bunnel changed the direction of the conversation. “I’m just curious, what exactly do you import?”
“Mainly food, raw materials, and machine parts, but with the war, machined goods are hard to come by.”
“How did you get to Calcutta?”
Pointing to another photograph on the wall, du Maurier said, “My family owns a rubber plantation. It was started by my grandfather. My friend and I exported the rubber we produced. That’s how I came to know Hamilton, who owns this firm. Before the Japanese came we were here on business, and he invited us to move. Of course we hated to leave our families and friends, but it was the right thing to do.”
“We?” asked Bunnel.
“My business partner, Zacharie Chevalier. He’s out of the office this afternoon, otherwise I would introduce him to you.”
Bunnel thought for a moment. “As you’re probably aware, the U.S. is building up a presence here. We’re going to need all kinds of things. Maybe I can be of assistance and drop some business your way. Like my friend, requisitions have to come through my desk for approval.”
“I will keep it in mind,” replied du Maurier.
“Are you sure you can’t remember anything else about the night my friend was killed?” asked Bunnel.
Du Maurier shook his head and frowned, “I’m very sorry, but no.”
Bunnel finished his tea, rose to his feet, and extended his hand. “Well, I think I’ve taken up enough of your time and should be going.”
“I’m sorry I wasn’t of any help to you. Calcutta can be a very dangerous city.”
From his office window, du Maurier watched Bunnel cross the street. Assured that he had left the building, du Maurier briskly walked to Zacharie Chevalier’s office, only to find him still out. He quickly returned to his own office and placed a telephone call home to his wife, Simone. There was no answer.
“Of all the days she has to go shopping, it has to be today,” du Maurier said to himself. Stunned at how his afternoon had suddenly turned, he nervously lit another cigarette and gazed out the window.
In the kitchen Emma talked with LaCroix and Miller as she began preparing dinner. They were all anxious to learn how Bunnel’s meeting with du Maurier had gone. Suddenly, LaCroix rose from the table. He quietly pulled the slide back on his .45 automatic, making sure a round was chambered. “I think I hear someone at the gate. I’ll be right back,” he said as he quickly left the room. A few minutes later he returned with a visibly shaken Bunnel.
“Jimmy, what happened? Are you alright?” asked Emma.
Bunnel grimaced. “I’m fine, but I just about got in an accident with the car. I’m okay, and the car’s okay, but it was close.”
“What happened?” asked Emma.
“I was just driving along when all of a sudden there was a cow in front of me. I swerved to miss it and almost hit one of those kids who are always coming up to the car begging for money. I missed both by just inches. It was an intense moment, as I’m so used to pulling to the right to the curb. Driving on the wrong side of the road made for some quick thinking. I stopped and made sure the boy was okay. If I would’ve hit him it would’ve been a disaster and maybe put the mission in jeopardy.”
“The important thing is you’re safe and no one was hurt. Vern’s been wanting to make us a drink. Would you care to join us?” asked Emma.
“I could use one. Whatever everyone’s having will be fine.”
“Gin and tonic. Of course all for medicinal purposes. The quinine in the tonic is supposed to help ward off malaria.” Miller measured out an ounce of Booth’s Gin in each glass and then added an extra splash.
Bunnel set his sport coat on the back of a chair and took a seat at the kitchen table. He knew Emma would want a full report of his meeting and, after taking a sip of his drink, recounted the details of his afternoon.
When he was finished Emma told him about the meeting at the café. She paused for a moment and mentally compared the two meetings. “So, we know for sure at least du Maurier’s wife was at the café the night he was murdered. The photograph you saw, Jimmy, confirms it. However, I keep thinking about something the owner told me. She said that the woman who came in and inquired about the American didn’t seem too concerned. How did she put it? That she expected he wouldn’t be there. I find that strange. How exactly was du Maurier? Did you notice anything odd about him?”
“On the outside he didn’t seem nervous. I mean, he wasn’t expecting a visit from me, but he didn’t try to avoid me or anything I asked him. But there was one thing. It’s probably minor and may not matter.”
“What was it? Anything might develop into a lead,” said Emma.
“After I came into his office, he lit a cigarette. In itself, that’s nothing, but he already had one going in the ashtray and didn’t even notice it.”
At nearly six that evening, Jacques du Maurier left his office and walked a couple of blocks to a nearby taxi stand. The taxi was old and had seen a lot better days, but it was a convertible and the top was down. He hesitated for a moment, then approached the driver and climbed into the back seat.
“Theatre Road.”
“Three Hundred Club, sir?”
Du Maurier gently patted the driver on the shoulder a couple of times and replied, “Yes, the Three Hundred Club.”
The Three Hundred Club had begun in response to the reprimand of a member of the Saturday Club who had failed to get permission before hosting a party for a group of touring actresses.
The member, Allan Lockhart, didn’t think the reprimand was in order and decided to take matters into his own hands. Rather than surrender to the wishes of the “Committee,” he started his own club. It differed from other Calcutta nightclubs in that it allowed Indians. Combined with the talents of a Russian head chef, it was an instant success. For locals it was the place to go. Both American and British military officers found it to be an oasis from the perils of war or the monotony of daily life.
Upon arriving, du Maurier was told by the maitre d’ that his party had already been seated, and he was escorted to a table in one of the alcoves. Seated there were his wife, Simone, Zacharie Chevalier, and Zacharie’s wife, Margaux. The alcove was removed from the dance floor, quiet and discreet.
“Have the waiter bring me an Old Parr on the rocks. And not the usual swill you serve to the ones who are too drunk to know the difference. Make it a double,” said du Maurier to the maitre d’.”
“Well, someone isn’t in too good of a mood this evening,” Simone remarked.
“Where were you today? I tried calling but you didn’t answer,” asked Jacques.
“I went to the dressmaker. Why?”
Before replying, Jacques waited until the waiter set his drink on the table and left. He then took a long swallow of the cold Scotch. “I had a visitor this afternoon in the office. A man named James Ferguson from the United States War Department. He said he was a friend of Blaine Phillips. Everyone remembers Blaine Phillips, don’t they,” said du Maurier sarcastically.
“What did he want?” asked Zacharie.
“What the hell do you think he wanted? He said he was a friend of Phillips’ and he’s trying to find out who killed him.”
Simone wanted to tell Jacques to calm down but knew it would only inflame him further. She flagged down their waiter and ordered him another drink.
“This is unexpected,” said Zacharie.
“It sure as hell is. We don’t need this now,” There was urgency in Jacques’ voice. He saw the waiter approaching the table and quickly finished the remainder of his drink. The Scotch was slowly starting to take effect. He lit a cigarette but was still seated on the edge of his chair.
Operation Blue Sapphire Page 10
