They rode past endless rows of low sandstone buildings.
"The son-of-a-bitch," Trafford said, angrily, breaking the silence. "We're going south of the city. We'll be miles out of Casablanca. Damn it all, I've a good mind to make the driver take me back into town. Want to come back with me, Marratt? We'll find a place to flop. We've got a day's layover before the A.T.C. picks us up. No damned sense in staying in some shit house."
Yale shrugged his acquiescence. If Trafford thought he could get away with it and break out of the official rut of following orders, why should he worry? Yale knew, even before they arrived, that Duchane, like most Air Transport Command transient officers' quarters, would simply be a roof over a row of cots, accompanied by poorly cooked meals available at a sloppy dining room. If Trafford thought he could use his rank to get something better, Yale was agreeable.
The Arab driver turned off the road into a bumpy driveway. He brought the bus to a creaking halt. Opening the door with a grin, he pointed cheerily to a group of buildings. A staff sergeant greeted the passengers as they gingerly dismounted, directing them to one of the buildings.
Trafford sat in his place with Yale beside him. Neither of them moved. Except for them the bus was finally empty. The sergeant poked his head in the door. "Are you guys disembarking or are you sleeping on board?" He suddenly noticed Trafford's rank.
"Anything wrong, Major? This is Duchane."
"It looks like a crap house to me," Trafford said nastily. "Well, it ain't state-side," the sergeant apologized. "Pretty fair meals, though."
"The lieutenant and I are going in town. How far is it?" Trafford asked.
The sergeant told him it was about five miles. He pointed out that there was nothing in Casa. The Atlantic Hotel was filled up. It was a dangerous place to just drift around. The Arabs preferred the Germans to Americans. Since the Allied Forces had occupied Casablanca the Arabs hadn't been noticeably cooperative.
"They found a G.I. in the gutter last week, naked. His throat was slit. His balls were hacked off. No one knows what he did. It's easy to offend the heathen bastards. They hate Christians anyway." The sergeant shivered. "If I were you, Major, I'd just bunk down right here. Your plane may be going out sooner than you think. If you're wandering around you'll miss your flight. Then there'll be hell to pay. Anyway, there ain't any transportation into Casa until morning."
Trafford looked at his watch. It was six thirty. "Listen, sergeant, as far as I'm concerned it's morning. The sun just ain't up, that's all. You tell this wog to drive us in."
Dubiously the sergeant spoke pidgin English to the Arab driver who shook his head vehemently. "He says it is his last trip today from Cazes," the sergeant said. His tone was surly, probably deliberating whether he should insist that the Major stay at Duchane.
Yale reached in his pocket, found a couple of dollar bills, and waved them in the direction of the driver. The Arab saw the money. His anger faded, revealing a smile of decayed teeth.
"Money talks," the sergeant said, sighing. "Good luck to you, it's no skin off my ass!"
The Arab drove the bus furiously, lurching and skidding it through narrow cobblestone streets. He swerved it around corners so rapidly that Yale and Trafford had to hang on desperately to the seats to prevent themselves from being pitched in the aisle.
They finally clattered into the city. Yale noticed a sign they passed that said Boulevard du Gare. The Arab stopped the bus. Opening the door, he looked at them with a blank smile. "This is the end of the line, I guess," Yale said.
"Where are we?" Trafford demanded. The Arab grinned at him. He kept shaking his head to show he didn't understand. "Hotel! Hotel!" Trafford said, repeating it until the driver pointed vaguely up the Street.
They walked in the direction he had indicated. The city smelled of dried dung and moist fertile earth. The streets and sidewalks were crowded with Arabs. Among the faces passing them, Yale recognized a fusion of French, Arab and Spanish characteristics. They were glared at by prosperous appearing Arabs, and followed by processions of poorer ones who exhorted them to buy everything from wicked looking knives to leather billfolds. When they refused they were spit on and called American sons-of-bitches.
"I wonder where you get these money deals," Trafford mused.
Yale shook his head. "I think we should locate a hotel before we suddenly find a knife sticking out of our shoulder blades. I haven't seen a G.I. since we got off the bus."
"The only G.I.'s in Casablanca now are the big brass. The rest are in Italy getting their asses shot off."
Trafford grabbed the arm of one of the Arabs following them. "Want to buy some American dollars, my swarthy friend." To Yale he said, "Listen, stop worrying, I came through here a year ago. I'll get us a place to sleep tonight and some French ass to warm your belly. It's early. First, let's see what we can do with these dollars."
Yale wondered if Trafford understood the problem. It was one thing to buy francs. It was something else again to convert them back to dollars. To Yale the twenty thousand dollars in his money belt had no actuality. It didn't represent a particular goal. It was just money. What interested him was the game and the gamble. If he managed to convert it into francs, could he then switch it back to dollars? He knew full well that speculating in the money markets was against the Finance Department regulations, but he conceived the regulations in terms of necessity. The government had to protect itself against unscrupulous officers who might pilfer government money. Yale had no intention of doing that. The twenty thousand dollars was his own money. As he tried to recall his original reasons for accumulating the money, with Agatha Latham's help, he realized that if he had any motive at all it was to prove to himself that he wasn't dependent on Pat Marratt. If he lost his twenty thousand . . . if the war ended . . . if he were alive . . . multiple "if's" that had no meaning . . . then he might go back to Midhaven ensnared, finally, by the Marratt Corporation and Patrick Marratt.
As they followed a beak-nosed Arab who had evidently understood Trafford's request, Yale recalled that he had hooked his trench knife on his belt. It seemed dramatic when he did it, taking it out of his barrack bag at the airport. Then, he had thought it might simply come in handy if he got in a tight spot. Now, as the Arab led them into narrow alleys, through crowds of his sweating, gesticulating Moslem brothers, the knife gave Yale a feeling of assurance.
"I hope you know what in hell you're doing!" Yale said edgily.
"For Christ's sake, stop worrying, Marratt." Trafford smirked at him. "I'm wearing a Colt revolver. I was supposed to turn it in, but I figure this one is my baby. It has a couple of notches on it, already."
Yale looked at him, astonished.
"I shot a couple of Japs in Burma last year," Trafford explained casually.
The Arab led them into a small shop hung with goat hides. They waited while the Arab disappeared behind a curtain.
"Jesus!" Trafford held his nose. "What do they cure this stuff with? It smells as if it had been buried in shit."
"I think they use the animal urine," Yale said.
A man came from behind the curtain. Yale guessed that he was probably French. At least he wasn't wearing the typical Arab burnous. "That is right, and sometimes they use human urine," he said, smoothly. "It makes the leather very soft." He looked at them querulously. "You came to buy leather goods? We make fine Moroccan billfolds and briefcases here. All hand made. My name is Bronson. Max Bronson."
"You speak English pretty damned well," Trafford said, cautiously.
Bronson smiled. "I speak French, Arabic, German very well also, but your American language I learned particularly well. I lived in the United States for twenty years."
"Why did you ever come back to this ass-hole of the universe?" Trafford asked.
"I am a German," Bronson said, with a clipped military accent. Yale stared at him. "Not a Heil-Hitler German." Bronson laughed. "Although I have had some interesting contacts. Since you didn't come to buy leather novelties, you have some inte
rest in, let us say, currency? The rate on the black market today is forty-two francs for a dollar. How many francs do you wish to buy?"
Trafford hesitated.
Like him, Yale felt that Max Bronson was just a little too suave.
"Why does anyone want dollars so badly?" Trafford asked.
"The fortunes of war." Bronson offered them thin black cigars. When they refused, he lighted one himself. "Things do not go so well with the Germans. There are people in the Axis countries who even believe that you will win this war. So you see an Italian with his money in lire, or a German with marks, would gladly exchange them for dollars. Fewer dollars, to be sure, but still able to purchase something. Such dollars are better than many marks or lire that will buy nothing."
"It's good to know there are some rats in Germany," Trafford said.
"Just as there are rats in your country." Bronson smiled at him ambiguously. He blew smoke at Trafford. "How many dollars do you have?"
When Trafford told him that he had three hundred dollars, Yale noticed the disappointment on Bronson's face. He excused himself, went into the back room and came back with a handful of francs. He counted out twelve thousand six hundred, mostly in thousand-franc notes.
Trafford passed the bills to Yale. "Are these real or phony?" Yale examined them. He shook his head. "They look okay to me. But just remember it's your red wagon. Even if they are genuine I don't know how you are going to convert them back to dollars."
Bronson took Trafford's three hundred dollars. He asked Yale if he wished to exchange any money. Yale shook his head. If there were any possibility of further dealings with Bronson, he wasn't going to do it with Trafford watching.
"I suppose you handle large sums?" Yale asked with what he hoped was a disinterested tone. Bronson looked at him intently. "Any sum," he said coolly. "I have handled several million dollars in the past month."
Trafford shoved the francs in his pocket. "Well, let me warn you, friend, these francs better be for real, or I'll be back, and there'll be one less German to worry about. Nazi or not."
"I speculate, but there is a limit to speculation," Bronson said, looking at Trafford as if he thought the Major was slightly stupid. "Perhaps when you get paid you will be back with a few more dollars, Major?" His tone was ironic.
Trafford ignored the sarcasm. He asked Bronson how to get to the Rue de Gallieni.
"You are looking to spend your hard-earned money, so soon?" Bronson asked, amused. "If you will permit me, I will take you to a famous place. Very nice, how do you say it. . . stuff!"
Yale protested that he wanted to find a hotel room.
"You can sleep in your grave, Marratt," Trafford said. "Come on. French pussy is the best. It's only eight o'clock. We've got all night."
They followed Bronson who pointed out various sights to them. "This is a French establishment," he said, suddenly directing them into a small, dimly lighted bar. Bronson spoke to the bartender in French.
"Non. Demain," the bartender answered. "C'est une heure avancée. Les filles sont occupées."
Bronson continued to ply him with fluent French. He spoke so rapidly that Yale lost the conversation. Finally, the bartender shrugged. He beckoned them to follow him, and led them downstairs into a smoke-filled cellar. The place was crowded. Men and girls, sitting around tables, stared at them as they passed. The bartender found them a table in a corner.
"Here you are. Women. Help yourself," Bronson said, pointing generally around the room.
Trafford told him to tell the bartender to bring them a bottle. . . .
"These babes are all occupied," Trafford complained looking at the girls who did all seem to have male escorts.
Bronson shrugged. "It is late. But you wait. You are American. You have an advantage." He had scarcely spoken when a girl wearing a black dress splashed with red and yellow flowers walked over to their table. She stood near Yale, and smiled at him beguilingly.
Bronson got up. "Well, gentlemen. You are on your way. I'll say good night."
Yale watched him go. Trailord had started to drink straight whiskeys.
The girl sat down. Yale pointed at TrafFord. "Him. He wants you! Not me."
Trafford slid his hand under the girl's skirt. She looked at Yale and shrugged. "My friend is a eunuch." Trafford nodded at Yale. "He can screw but he doesn't enjoy it."
In a few minutes Trafford was playing with the girl's breasts, and she was murmuring at him in French. "Get yourself a mamselle, Marratt! I can't understand a damn thing this one's saying . . . but she feels like a hot cookie." He grabbed Yale's hand. Before Yale realized what Trafford was doing he shoved Yale's hand under the girl's skirt and between her legs. "What did I tell you?" He grinned obscenely. "She's ready to be laid."
"You take her and lay her. Leave me alone!" Yale said angrily. The girl got up and tugged at Trafford's arm. "Okay, chum, you're on your own," Trafford said. He grabbed the bottle and followed the girl in a wavering path between the crowded tables. In a few minutes he was back. "Listen, you bastard. She's got another girl. I don't want to go alone. Come on, don't be such a prick."
Yale told him to go to hell. "You're a sucker," he said. "She'll probably have some Arab buck ready to roll you as soon as you get your pants off."
"You're a shit," Trafford sneered at Yale, leaving the table again. "Some day, maybe I won't be able to do you a favor, I hope."
Yale ordered a drink. He listened as a pianist played "Some One of These Days," and sang it in French. Yale pulled out his billfold to pay the waiter, and noticed a picture of Cynthia that he still carried. Behind the yellowed celluloid compartment, it had faded like a travesty of some picture taken in the early days of photography. He lifted it out of his billfold. Cindar, standing in front of her dormitory, self-conscious, a smile on her face. 1939 . . . another world. It was ridiculous for him to keep living in the past. For him Cynthia was dead. The past was dead. How much sadness can a man hold, he wondered? Do we ever reach a pinnacle where we can say I am all . . . I am to myself sufficient . . . or do the strains of some timeless sadness keep crowding in, forever separating one individual from another? He drank his drink, trying to assuage his loneliness. His head in his hands he stared at the cracked varnish on the table, and he hated the place and he hated the people, and their unintelligible conversations, but most of all he hated himself for not being the person he once was. Drunkenly, he murmured aloud, "There was a time, when meadow, grove and stream, the earth, and every common sight to me did seem apparelled in a celestial light." He couldn't remember the rest, and looked up startled as he heard a voice continuing. "It is not now as it hath been of yore; -- Turn whereso'er I may, by night or day, the things which I have seen I now can see no more. . . ." It was Max Bronson who had silently returned. He smiled at Yale and sucked on an unlighted cigar. "Wordsworth? A bit sentimental tonight?" he asked, smiling.
"My underwear is showing," Yale said, and pushed the bottle at him. "Have a drink." He crumpled the picture of Cynthia into a tiny wad, and rolled it around in his hand.
Bronson told the waiter to bring a glass for him. He poured it half-full of whiskey. "Your friend, the Major, . . . he likes feminine company?" Bronson's eyes twinkled. "He went off with not one but two of the girls."
"He's probably got a two-headed prick," Yale said sourly.
"You . . . you don't care for women?"
"I prefer quality to quantity." Yale shook his head when it appeared that Bronson would be glad to find him "quality."
"Sorry, I'm too damned tired."
"I was under the impression," Bronson said, "that you might be interested in somewhat larger financial transactions than that of the Major." Yale stared at him, wondering if he were playing the odds too far. Here he was in a joint where for all he knew he might end his days. This Max Bronson with his closely clipped hair and jowly face looked like a Hollywood casting man's idea of the perfect Nazi. What the hell, Yale thought, the plane to Cairo may crash, too. The multiple if's would nag you
to death if you let them.
"If I am interested, it will be at a better rate than forty-two francs for a dollar," Yale said. "I'd prefer to think in terms of say, sixty."
Bronson looked at him calmly. He lighted his cigar. "How many francs are you interested in buying?"
"About a million or so at sixty for a dollar."
Bronson puffed his cigar reflectively, showing no surprise. "I see you wear the diamond insignia of a paying officer."
"Don't worry. Any negotiations will be with my own money," Yale said sharply. "The U.S. Army won't be involved. What's more, it will have to be accomplished within twenty-four hours. I'm on orders to India."
"Do you have the dollars with you?"
Yale looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Do I look stupid?" He could feel the money belt tight against his middle. He had an odd sensation that Bronson was looking right through his shirt. It was stupid, he thought, and Bronson knows it, to take a chance like this . . . to even discuss such a large sum with a stranger. He looked around, uneasily, thinking that probably at a nod of Max's head, the life of Yale Marratt would end. He wondered how the Army would report his disappearance.
"Do you know," Bronson said, laughing, "I have the impression that you feel you have fallen among thieves. I saw a movie sometime ago about Casablanca with your famous star Bogart . . . filled with very sinister characters . . . a typically American idea of a foreign land." He looked at Yale mockingly. "Call me Max, please. I am a friend. I like Americans!"
"You mean you like their dollars."
Max shrugged. "Really, I enjoy Americans. They have incredibly flexible moral standards. They should understand the German mentality better. Take you, for instance. You obviously have eighteen or twenty thousand dollars. You are hoping to pull a fast coup and double it. You tell yourself this is your money. Maybe it is, but if you succeed in buying francs you are going to have to use U.S. Army funds to get out from under. Isn't that so?"
The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Page 29
