by James R Benn
When I told Kaz about my plan, he said it wasn't much as plans go. A guy who can't make heads or tails out of French really shouldn't expect to find a clue in a French army headquarters filled with paperwork. The only problem was I couldn't think of anything else, so although I had to admit he was right, I was determined to go ahead anyway. Kaz offered to come along, but his arm was hurting him, and I had no idea how he'd manage to dangle from a rope four stories up, over the heads of armed guards. Some things you don't want to find out the hard way. I told him to get his arm checked and go to bed, but he wanted to wait until I set out.
I looked at my watch. Half past two. Late enough that the night owls should be asleep and too soon for the early risers. I only had to worry about insomniacs and sentries. And falling.
The roof had a slope to it, but it wasn't steep. I crouched down and moved slowly, keeping my silhouette below the top of the roofline. I passed another open skylight and listened. Nothing. I stayed low and slow, easing myself around the angle where the eastern wing of the hotel began. This was Darlan's territory. I stopped and listened. I tried to breathe deeply a few times to quiet my heart. It still sounded like a bass drum banging in my ears. I strained to blank out everything else: the palm fronds rustling in the breeze, the sound of a faraway vehicle shifting gears, the little sounds you don't really listen to until they get in your way. I only wanted to hear footsteps, coughs, murmurs, and other telltale signs of bored guards on the graveyard shift.
I had one thing going for me. These guys were rookies at security. I had watched them all afternoon, just another dumb GI strolling around, gawking at the French sailors in their blue uniforms, standing at attention with rifles sporting shiny two-foot bayonets resting on their shoulders. They formed a good perimeter all right, but this wasn't a skirmish line. They had all the entrances covered, but only in one direction. Their mistake was that they all faced outward, ready to beat back an assault at ground level. No one was stationed above the first floor, and no one was watching inside the building.
Any good second-story man will tell you no one looks up. I've seen enough of them in cuffs and heard enough of their stories to know they only got caught when they ran into something unexpected inside and couldn't beat feet fast enough. I agree, people don't generally look up. They look around. But I didn't like taking chances with Mrs. Boyle's number one son, so I started off real cautious, every step a deliberate, conscious move. Nothing sudden, nothing to flicker at the edge of a guard's vision to make him curious about what was going on up here.
I passed yet another open skylight and stuck my head inside. It was dark and quiet. I stayed there a full minute, letting my eyes get used to the darkness, listening for the sound of footsteps. Nothing. It would have been easy to get inside through the skylight, but I couldn't drop down without waking the devil, and I couldn't leave a length of rope dangling from the skylight like a cat burglar's calling card.
I had fifty feet of Uncle Sam's finest hemp rope wrapped around me, pulled tight so it wouldn't catch on anything. I uncoiled one end and tied it off around the skylight hinges. I tugged at it to make sure it was secure and wouldn't make any noise when it took my weight. Now I was starting to sweat. It was warm, but it wasn't the heat that sent a trickle down my spine. I wondered if I was off my rocker to try this, and what might happen if I screwed up. It probably wouldn't be handcuffs and a night in the slammer. I had left my newly issued. 45 behind, so at least they couldn't shoot me with my own gun.
Thinking about Georgie just got me mad, and then thinking about Diana, somewhere out there with Villard, got me madder. Good. That took care of the sweats. When I got mad about somebody who did me wrong, I forgot to worry about the consequences. It wasn't my best character trait, or even one I'd recommend, but I hoped it might help keep Diana alive.
I let out some slack and slid to the edge of the roof. I knew there was a balcony right below this skylight, at the end of the east wing. I aimed myself toward the side of the balcony. I didn't want to come down smack in the middle of it, in case someone who couldn't sleep was looking out at the moonlight. At the edge of the roof, I let out a few feet of rope and eased over, lowering myself a couple of inches at a time. My arm muscles started to shake and I really wanted to slide down that rope before I fell. But I didn't. This was a dangerous spot to be in, a dark figure moving against a white wall. I had to go slowly, so slowly that even if somebody looked up for a second they wouldn't notice movement.
Finally, I was at the edge of the balcony. I swung one leg over the railing and pulled myself onto it, then squatted in the corner and let my breathing settle down. When it did, I listened, as hard as I could. I pressed my ear against the wall. It was quiet. I uncoiled the rest of the rope and tied up the slack in a loose knot. When I came out I could throw it over and climb down to the ground if I needed to, but that would only be if trouble were following me, since it would leave the rope hanging there for all to see. Otherwise I'd climb back onto the roof and pull the rope up after me. Much more desirable, since that meant Vichy guards weren't chasing me.
I peered over the balcony railing and saw a sentry below, standing at ease and looking bored. His head swiveled right as I picked up the sound of footsteps coming toward him. I froze, waiting for the other guy to show up, hopefully only a change of the guard. Instead, a French Army officer appeared out of the darkness. I couldn't make out his rank, but he seemed to be right for a captain or major, not an HQ desk jockey. His uniform was dirty and worn. He had been out in the field. Fighting us? Or rounding up rebels? I wondered which.
The sentry snapped to attention and the officer asked him something. Even if I understood French I wouldn't have picked it all up, but I did hear "Capitaine Bessette" toward the end.
"Oui, mon Capitaine," the sentry answered. At which point his captain breezed past him and went inside. I heard a door open and slam shut. Now I had trouble. A guy inside, looking for Bessette, the officer who had issued the orders for the convoy and who knew the password. Great. It meant I either had to retreat to the roof and give up, or get inside quick.
The way I figured it, if I could stay out of this guy's way, he might do me a favor and lead me to Bessette's office. I could hide out until he left. I didn't have time to think it through, so I went ahead. I pressed my face against the glass in the door leading inside from the balcony. I could see it was some sort of sitting room. No one was inside. I tried the door handle. It opened with a slight creak. I went in, made for a corner, and stood still, getting my bearings.
It was a small room, with a couple of couches facing each other and a long coffee table between them. On the wall to my right a door led to another room. I moved along the wall toward the door, listening. It was quiet, that dead of night quiet when the blood pounding through your veins sounds like a rushing river. Suddenly, a telephone rang; the shock nearly knocked me over. Looking around I saw the phone on the coffee table. I was ready to bolt out onto the balcony when it cut off in mid-ring. I heard a short, one-sided conversation in the next room, so I knew there was a bedroom extension. I ducked behind the couch when I heard footsteps, but they didn't head toward me. A door opened to the corridor, and the guy from the next room, sounding really pissed off, barked out harsh words. I went to the hallway door and cracked it open quietly, just enough so I could see through the narrow opening with my eye pressed up against it.
I saw the back of this fellow, as he yelled down a staircase at someone a few flights below. He was a short, gray-haired man wearing pale blue pajamas. I guess he didn't like being awakened in the middle of the night any more than I would. A voice answered him, and I recognized it as the captain who had entered the building. He let out a string of French that once again included "Bessette." This time he seemed angry. The gray-haired guy shouted "non" and by his tone, he meant it. He turned and I saw his face, the same face that I had seen in the papers and newsreels. Admiral Jean Darlan himself, the little Vichy collaborator who was giving us so much trouble. His fac
e was set in a frown as he passed by the door at which I stood. I could have opened it and grabbed him by the neck, he was so close. Maybe I should have, but I was here for my own reasons.
He went into his bedroom and I knew it was time to move on. Next door to the most powerful Frenchman in North Africa wasn't my idea of a good hiding place. Opening the door further I eased out into the empty corridor. I went down the staircase and listened for sounds to tell me which way the captain was going, as I wondered what his beef was.
He entered the hallway two flights below and I wasn't far behind. I flattened myself against the wall and peeked around the corner. The captain marched down the corridor and tried a door on the left. It opened and he looked inside. No one home. He went for the next one on his right, and I could hear him spit out the name "Bessette." No love lost there. He went in and I took my chance, sprinting down the hall to the empty room on the left. I slid into it and pulled the door almost shut behind me. It was a small office, stacked with boxes of files and rolled up maps. With the door cracked open I could see into the room across the hall. Two brass candlesticks on the corner of a desk illuminated the Army captain arguing with someone, Bessette probably, just out of my view. French was flying fast and furious, and I could tell that Bessette was trying to calm the other guy down, but he wasn't buying. Finally, the captain slowed down. It sounded like he was delivering an ultimatum. I picked up a few words I had heard on occasion from French-Canadians sitting in Boston PD jail cells.
Contrebandier… that was smuggling or smuggler, I was pretty sure.
Droguer… drugs, I knew that one.
Americain… well, that was me.
Bessette got up and moved into view, calling the captain "Pierre" like they were old chums. From the conversation so far I could guess he was trying to placate Pierre. I watched him as he shook his head "no" in response to a question. He was a fireplug of a guy, squat but full of muscle. His hair was close-cropped and starting to turn to gray. His nose looked like it had been broken years ago. Maybe he had been a prizefighter once, or a stevedore. His hands were thick and beefy. He turned away from the captain and as he did one of those big hands grabbed a candlestick, and turning faster than I'd have thought he could, brought it down with a powerful swing right to the top of the captain's head. One second they were talking, and the next second Bessette was standing there, flecks of blood on his face, smiling down at the twitching body of his late-night visitor. There were some gurgles and thrashing for a few seconds, and then the only sound was my heart pounding in my chest to beat the band.
I tried to get a grip on myself and figure out what was happening. Who the hell were these people? First Villard shoots Georgie and then Bessette smashes in Pierre's skull. They were doing more damage to each other than to the Germans. My main concern right now was that no damage be done to me, so I glanced around for a quick exit. I looked out the one window, and it wasn't a bad drop, except for the sentry right below. I looked back across the hall and saw Bessette leaning out his window, giving a command and gesturing to someone. Footsteps came clattering up the stairs. I was cornered.
I wanted to shut the door quietly and hide under the desk until things settled down. It would have been the smart thing to do, but if I knew when to do the smart thing I wouldn't have been shoeless and sweating bullets across the hall from a corpse, in the middle of a B 8c E.
I kept my foot jammed against the door and pulled the handle toward me, keeping a quarter inch opening that gave me a view of Pierre's feet and Bessette's desk Two enlisted men trotted down the hallway into the office. They were Army, not sailors like the others who were guarding the place. Bessette barked something at them and they rolled up Pierre in the carpet and hoisted him like two rug merchants. No surprise, no questions. As if they had done it before. They left, grunting under their load. Bessette went out after them, and as he did he looked straight at me. Instead of turning down the hall, he strode across it, and put his hand on the doorknob on his side. I released the knob on my side in the nick of time. He closed the door with a slam. Only inches had separated us and I was sure he had heard me breathe, until I realized I hadn't drawn a breath since I saw him heading for me. I waited until I heard him walk away, and then slowly exhaled. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea.
After counting to fifty, I opened the door again and stepped into silence. Bessette's office door was still open, the one remaining candle flickering. He'd probably return after they'd removed the body from the building. I went in, stepping around a puddle of blood that had soaked through the carpet. I gave myself two minutes in there, and started counting in my head, one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand… as I checked the wall-map of the Algerian coastline. Bone was circled, but so were six or seven other places. Eleven-one-thousand, twelve-one-thousand…
I inspected the top of Bessette's desk. Green blotter, pack of cigarettes, keys, a fountain pen, and some sealed envelopes that he must have been addressing. No open letters. I glanced at the envelopes. The top one was for Madame Mireille Bessette, Marseilles, stamped and ready to go. Another was to Jules Bessette, Blackpool, England, sealed but no stamp. Was there mail service between Vichy territory and England? So Bessette kept up with his relations and had, what, a brother or cousin in England? Twenty-eight-one-thousand, twenty- nine-one-thousand…
Damn it! I was looking for a password, not evidence that Bessette was a family man. I turned to the filing cabinet, and opened the top drawer. It was too dark to see clearly, but there were so many files, each with a tiny heading in French, I knew I'd never get through them all, much less understand what was in them. I looked in each of the four drawers; more of the same. The French Army runs on paperwork, like ours. I pulled out a few files from each drawer and flipped through them. Lots of reports, charts, numbers, carbon paper. Sixty-six-one- thousand, sixty-seven-one-thousand…
I put the files back, closed the drawers, and sat at the desk. I tried the drawers on the left and found the usual junk: paper clips, rubber bands, dust. The large bottom drawer held a bottle of cognac and a revolver. What a surprise. Eighty-four-one-thousand, eighty-five-one- thousand…
I urged myself to hurry! Were those footsteps?
I checked the middle drawer and rummaged through notepaper, an old newspaper, and a few receipts from a place called Le Bar Bleu. A blue matchbook from the same place. A street map of Algiers: I checked it for notes or marked locations, but there was nothing. Ninety-nine-one-thousand, one-hundred-one-thousand.
The right-hand drawers were all that remained. Blank paper in the first, nothing in the second. I pulled at the large bottom drawer. It was stuck. I pulled again. Locked! There had to be something in there. One-hundred-twenty-one-thousand…
I grabbed the keys and fumbled through them, looking for a small desk key. I found one and tried it. No go. There was another, and it worked. The drawer opened and I saw about a dozen thick file folders piled up. Why keep hundreds in the open file cabinet and lock up these? It had been so long since I saw a clue I almost didn't get it. One- hundred-thirty-five-one-thousand…
Damn! I wished I knew French! I couldn't make heads or tails out of this stuff. Then one file caught my eye. It was labeled "Ordres de d e placement." Deplacement? Did that mean travel? Travel orders? I put the file on the desk near the candle and looked through its contents. The forms looked familiar. These were all carbon copies, but they were duplicates of Villard's travel orders that we'd seen at the Gardes Mobiles headquarters. I couldn't make out the order they were filed in, so I just pawed through them. It was right at the bottom. Orders to Captain Luc Villard for the transport of twenty-five prisoners via the Bone supply depot, Captain Gauthier, commanding. Next to his name, there was one handwritten note. Le Carrefour. What was that, the name of a bar? Or the password? Wait a minute-I looked at the matchbook more closely. "Le Bar Bleu-Bone" was written on the back with a phone number. I stuffed the matchbook in my pocket along with the orders. One-hundred-sixty-one-thousand…
Ten minutes later I was up on the roof and headed back to friendly territory. The prospect of an army cot actually sounded good to me. Kaz and I didn't have a room, but they had given us beds at the end of a hall where we could sleep and stow our gear. It felt like home, and I was glad to still be in one piece to enjoy it.
Chapter Eight
Dawn wasn't far off and I was torn between getting a couple of hours of shut-eye and waking Kaz to tell him about the murder. There was enough light at our end of the hall for me to see that Kaz was already awake, sitting on his cot, leaning against the wall.
