The Timid Traitor (A Nick Williams Mystery Book 10)

by Frank W. Butterfield

  Eventually, I came to a corner cafe that appeared promising. I looked inside. A middle-aged man with a large white apron wrapped around his waist was standing near the door. He bowed slightly and said, "Hello, sir. We are still serving lunch if you would like."

  I laughed. "I would."

  "Please follow me this way." He led me inside to a small booth by the window and invited me to have a seat. I did just that.

  He walked over to a long counter and then disappeared through a door. I had a look around the place. There were a few other diners, including a couple of men sitting at the counter together. It was basic and reminded me, in a way, of Mildred's. There were lots of ads for beers I'd never heard of. The radio was playing some song in French by a lady singer. It had a soulful sound to it. I couldn't understand the words, but somehow I knew it was about love.

  I'd begun to notice that, even on a chilly and cloudy January day, the city was full of love. I'd seen a number of couples walking along the sidewalks holding hands. For a Tuesday, a workday, I was surprised. It was certainly more affection that I'd ever seen in San Francisco.

  Before long, the waiter was back. He put a small loaf of bread on the table next to a dish of butter. He placed a napkin on the table along with a fork, a spoon, and a knife. He also set a small carafe of water on the table with a small glass next to it.

  He offered the menu but I just shrugged. "What do you recommend?"

  He smiled briefly. "May I suggest the roast pork? We have some nice carrots in butter and roasted potatoes. Then we have a simple salad dressed with mayonnaise and dill."

  I nodded. "That sounds good."

  "Would you like wine or beer with your lunch?"

  "Beer, please."

  "Dark or pilsner?"

  "Dark."

  "Very good." With that, he was off and calling into the kitchen.

  . . .

  Lunch was basic but good. It wasn't as good as what we'd been accustomed to thanks to Mrs. Strakova, or La ZaZa as I thought of her while walking in Paris. But it was good. The only thing strange was having the salad after the main course. But it was all tasty, nonetheless.

  Dessert had been a small cup of custard and a small cup of dark coffee that was bitter and needed sugar for my taste.

  The bill came to a little over nine francs. I put a single bill of ten francs on the little tray. He scooped that up and walked over to the older orange-haired woman cashier at the counter while I waited for the change. I had already been informed by the concierge at the hotel about how excessive tipping was considered rude, so I tried to keep myself under control in that area.

  When he brought the change, he put it on the table and then leaned casually against the side of the booth. With a smile, he asked, "Did you enjoy your meal?"

  I nodded. "It was very good."

  He reached into his apron pocket and pulled out the same newspaper that Sam had shown us earlier that morning. Pointing to my photo, he asked, "This is you, non?"

  I smiled and nodded. "That's me."

  Offering his hand, he said, "It is a great honor to serve you today, Mr. Williams."

  I shook in return and replied, "Thank you. I'm not sure—"

  The man said something to the cashier at the counter. She said something excited in reply. The two men turned, jumped off their stools, and walked over. The cashier ran around them, shooing them back, and walked over to the table. As she did, I stood up. I was surprised that they knew who I was.

  The woman, who was well in her 60s from the look of things, took me by the hand then pulled me forward to give me a three-cheek kiss. She pinched my nose and said something that made everyone else laugh. I looked around and noticed that all the diners had stopped and were staring. Everyone but two looked very friendly. The two unfriendly ones were glaring at me. As I watched, they stood up. The woman grabbed her purse, and the man pulled on his coat. They stormed out, shaking their fists in the direction of the gathering crowd. The others laughed as they fled.

  People crowded around me and offered their hands. The two men at the counter gave me kisses, just like the cashier had.

  I looked over at the waiter with a questioning look.

  He smiled. "You are famous here in this neighborhood since this morning. This was where Anne-Marie Laframboise lived." He pointed out the window. "It was two streets that direction. She called herself Deladier, but we knew who she was. And we reminded her after the liberation."

  I blinked several times and looked around the room. The people who were celebrating and offering me handshakes and kisses were happy because they believed I'd had something to so with bringing Annie to justice. They might have even thought I had something to do with her death. They were the ones who had beat her senseless and left her for dead.

  I smiled weakly at the waiter and said, "Well, please thank them. I have to go now. Where can I get a cab?"

  He smiled and said, "I will call one to come pick you up."

  I nodded and sat down amid all the uproar and tried hard to keep from losing my lunch.

  . . .

  Once I got back to our hotel suite, I did lose my lunch. I took a long, hot shower and crawled into bed after pulling all the curtains closed. After a while, I fell asleep and stayed that way until Carter walked into the bedroom from the front sitting room.

  "Hey," he said.

  I sat up. "How was the gym?"

  "Oh. It was interesting. Ernest kept trying to train me. His heart was in the right place, but he had all these fad things he wanted me to do. It was kind of disappointing. I didn't know who he was until today, but I'd always wanted to meet someone like him. But he was like all the other ones who go a little crazy. Sam finally pulled me out of there once he saw what was going on and we walked back. It was a long ways away so we've been walking for the last couple of hours. But it was good. We talked about Ike. And—" He suddenly looked around the room. "Why are the curtains closed?"

  I blinked a couple of times, but the tears came anyway. He moved closer and pulled me into a hot, sweaty hug which, for some reason, made me feel instantly better.

  "What happened?"

  I told him about the restaurant and the diners. He sighed and ran his hand through my hair. "I'm sorry that happened, Nick. It sounds awful."

  I nodded. "It was. And it was so strange. It was like suddenly seeing what had happened to all those people during the war. I can't imagine what it would have been like to have lived in a city like this when it was occupied." I took in a deep breath. "And, at the same time, they were celebrating her death. And thanking me for it, I guess."

  He gently kissed me on the cheek. "War is hell."

  "It sure the fuck is."

  . . .

  That night, Sam took us to a restaurant at the Eiffel Tower. That was his gift to me. And it would have been a wonderful evening if not for what had happened at lunch.

  It was a foggy and drizzly night. The view was beautiful, but nothing like the Top of the Mark. And, while the food was good, I just didn't have the heart for much of anything. We left not long after dessert and headed back to the hotel in a cab instead of walking. When we left Sam at his hotel room door, I could see that he was disappointed. We didn't tell him anything because I wasn't ready to talk about it. I figured it would affect him as much as it had me. I wanted to wait until I was back to myself before telling him.

  Once we were back in the suite, Carter undressed me and put me to bed, like he did on the rare times when I had a cold. We didn't make love that night. He just held me and let me cry, which I did until I fell asleep.

  Chapter 20

  Hôtel de Crillon

  Wednesday, January 26, 1955

  Mid-morning

  I slept through breakfast. Around 10, Carter sat down on the bed and asked, "Do you want me to call the embassy and reschedule?"

  I sat up. I'd forgotten we were supposed to go in for an interview that afternoon. Some kid from the Justice Department had called on Saturday morning. He'd said he wan
ted to talk to us about what the F.B.I. had been up to. He'd asked if we could come in on Wednesday. I'd agreed because the French police had told us that they were holding the plane as material evidence and that they would probably release it by the end of the week. They'd also said we were free to leave if we wanted, but Carter and I had both decided to stay.

  Captain Morris and Christine had decided to go to England on Sunday. She had family outside of London they wanted to visit.

  Captain Obregon was bunking at a different hotel in another part of the city. He'd insisted on staying somewhere less expensive. I just figured he was planning on sowing some wild oats and didn't want to run into his homosexual employers with some French gal on his arm. I didn't blame him.

  I shook my head. "No." I was a little groggy. "Any chance of getting some coffee?"

  Carter smiled. "Sure thing, Boss. How about some of those pastries, too?"

  I nodded. "Thanks, Chief."

  He leaned over and kissed me.

  . . .

  The American Embassy was next door to the hotel. But, according to the hotel concierge, we would be meeting in the Talleyrand Building a couple of blocks away. We walked over and were met in the front courtyard by a young man of about 25 who was wearing a trench coat over a dark brown three-piece suit. He wore round metal-frame glasses, stood about 5'7", and couldn't have weighed more than a hundred and twenty pounds at the most.

  "Mr. Williams?" His voice was shaking a little and he looked cold. It was a damp, cloudy afternoon and a light mist was falling.

  I nodded and offered my hand. He shook it limply and said, "My name is Jacob Robinson. I'm a lawyer for the Justice Department." He had a slight Southern accent.

  I smiled. "Nice to meet you, Mr. Robinson. This is my friend, Carter Jones."

  Carter offered his hand, and the man shook it. As he got a good look at my husband, I noticed that he was somewhat in awe. Carter often had that effect on people.

  "Thank you for meeting with me. Let's get inside out of this cold."

  "Lead the way."

  He smiled nervously at me and then did just that.

  We walked into a busy foyer. Men and women were walking to and fro, some talking and some obviously on a mission. There seemed to be a lot going on.

  "Is this part of the embassy?" I asked as we climbed a regal set of marble stairs.

  "Not really. It's been the headquarters for the Marshall Plan. But they're wrapping things up. The consulate has moved in and several US government agencies have offices, as well."

  Once we got to the second floor, Mr. Robinson led us to the left and down a broad hallway. We stopped at a tall door with a sign hanging from the handle that read, "Justice Department (Europe)."

  Mr. Robinson opened the door. He led us past a small battery of secretaries, all of whom were typing furiously and none of whom were talking. Past the front office was a long hallway with a series of tall doors on the right.

  About halfway down the hall, he opened one of the doors without any sign on it. It led into a small room with a round table and four chairs. The furniture was old. The cushions were a little threadbare, and the table had seen better days. The one tall window looked out onto a courtyard and other parts of the building. The wood floor was worn and scuffed. A small rug was laid out under the table and chairs stood. The walls were bare except for one that had a slightly sagging metal bookshelf packed with what appeared to be law books.

  "This is what passes for a law library. It's also the draftiest room in the building, from what I can tell. Can I bring you gentlemen some coffee?"

  We both nodded.

  "Have a seat and I'll be back in a minute."

  We did so as he walked out and closed the door behind him.

  Carter reached out and took my hand without saying anything. As we sat there, it began to rain in earnest. I could feel a little bit of a breeze running over the back of my neck. I let go of Carter's hand so I could turn my coat collar up. But then I took it again. He squeezed my hand as I did.

  After a couple of minutes, the man walked in with three mismatched cups of coffee, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a creamer on a tarnished silver tray.

  One of the cups was an old piece of gold-rimmed china with a scene of hills and a Greek temple painted around the side. The other two were more modern and just white. One was tall and slim. The other was fat and short. Mr. Robinson took the china one.

  "Help yourselves to sugar and cream."

  I took the tall cup and held it in my hands for the warmth. Carter did the same with the short one.

  Mr. Robinson took a sip of his coffee, made a clicking sound with his tongue, and quickly put the cup down. "Excuse me." He stood up and left the room.

  "Nice kid," I said.

  "Seems a little scattered."

  "How old do you think he is?"

  "Maybe 25. Must be just out of law school."

  I nodded. "Yeah." I looked around the room. "Not a bad post."

  Carter nodded and took my hand again. It was a brazen move and I wondered about that.

  Right then, Mr. Robinson burst back into the room, closed the door, and sat down at the table with a stack of telegrams and letters along with a notepad and a fountain pen.

  As he unscrewed the cap on his pen, he looked at me with half a grin. "Sorry about that. I'd lose my head if it wasn't connected."

  I smiled and felt Carter squeeze my hand. Mr. Robinson glanced and noticed we were holding hands on the table. He coughed and then cleared his throat.

  "Now, the reason I asked you here was to see if we can figure out what's been going on in San Francisco." He looked up at the ceiling and turned slightly red. "As you know, the federal government has no jurisdiction over sodomy, apart from the military and the District of Columbia, since it's a state matter. So, this isn't about anything like that." He swallowed and kept his eyes on the ceiling. "It's about the F.B.I."

  I asked, "Who's asking?"

  Looking at me in surprise, Mr. Robinson replied, "I'm not sure what you mean, Mr. Williams."

  I shrugged. "Is this an official interview?"

  He smiled slightly. "No. This is more in the nature of an informational inquiry. I went to law school at Virginia with Robert Kennedy. He's the one who suggested I contact you."

  I sat back and smiled. "Really?"

  Pushing his glasses up, Mr. Robinson nodded. "Yes. He told me about the interview he had with you when he was working for Senator McCarthy—"

  Carter laughed.

  Mr. Robinson turned and looked up at him. "Bobby's always been a pistol. He told me he was ready to take you on, Mr. Jones."

  Carter and I both laughed at that.

  "But, don't underestimate him," cautioned Mr. Robinson. "He's a loyal friend, but you don't want to get on his bad side."

  I nodded. "He's definitely going places. Plus, he's smart as a whip."

  The other man smiled. "That he is. And he's got what my granny always called, 'common sense.'"

  Carter nodded at that. "Yes, he does."

  Mr. Robinson shifted in his seat. "He told me you'd be able to help me figure out what's been going on with the Bureau office in San Francisco. You both have files, as you can imagine, but there's no instruction for monitoring or surveillance other than what was requested in 1953 to serve you with a subpoena to appear before Senator McCarthy's subcommittee. That still strikes me as an odd use of Bureau resources. Usually, the U.S. Marshall should do that." He thought for a moment and then looked directly at Carter's hand holding mine. "In any event, you don't seem to be hiding anything."

  "Where do you wanna start?" I asked.

  He nodded and began to write something on his pad. "Tell me about Halloween of 1953."

  "It was pretty simple. My employee, Robert Evans, was lured into a relationship with a man in the hopes of being able to entrap us."

  "Yes. I have the name of the informant here. How was the entrapment to have worked?"

  "Robert and this man—" I turned t
o Carter. "What was his name?"

  Mr. Robinson answered for me. "Joseph Miccelli."

  I nodded. "Right. Joe." I shook my head as I remembered everything that had happened. "Robert and Joe asked us to host a Halloween party. They built an elaborate haunted house in our basement. When I got to a point in the haunted house, I was supposed to have been tied up and then accosted by one of the men working for Joe. He'd hidden a camera that was supposed to take a photo of that. The idea was that it was blackmail material for future use. That's as much as I know."

  While I'd been talking, Mr. Robinson's pen had been flying across the page. "Thank you. None of that, by the way, is recorded in the Bureau files but it was in the S.F.P.D. police report."

  I nodded. "They got involved once I realized that Joe had an accomplice, a gal by the name of Roberta. Together they decided to use the haunted house as a drug distribution point."

  Mr. Robinson nodded. "Yes. I saw all that. Now, did you have any contact with the Bureau from October of 1953 until the beginning of this year?"

  I shook my head. "None that I know of."

  Carter asked, "Do you know if they were keeping tabs on us?

  The lawyer shook his head. "Not that I've been able to find. Not officially, in any event."

  "That's the whole point, isn't it?" That was Carter.

  Mr. Robinson nodded. "Precisely." I realized that, at some point, he'd lost his nervousness and had become focused on the task at hand. I also noticed that he'd stopped making any notes. I wondered about that.

  Looking up at me, he said, "I've read the statement you gave the French police when you arrived at Le Bourget."

  I nodded.

  "How did you figure out that Mrs. Laframboise was working with Bureau agents?"

  I shrugged. "It was the only thing that made sense. It was possible that our phones had been tapped. But, once we were in Mexico, it was obvious that it had to be more than that."

  Robinson nodded. "One of the most disturbing parts of this story is that these agents knew she was a collaborator during the occupation."