by Nick Carter
It was an official communiqué direct from Field Headquarters — of the Thirteenth Chinese Army.
So. The big bosses to the North had word for him.
CQA 1104
MOVE WESTERN FLANK THREE MILES FURTHER NORTH. MAINTAIN POSITION HILLS ABOVE PLANTATION LA FARGE UNTIL INSTRUCTED FURTHER. REGARD NEW PLACEMENT AS POSSIBLE BREAKTHROUGH AREA BUT DO NOT REPEAT DO NOT TAKE ACTION SOUTH PRIOR TO NEW ORDERS. INSTEAD REGROUP FORCES FOLLOWING RECENT HEAVY CASUALTIES.
CQA1105
ENEMY AGENT ANDRE MOREAU ALIAS TON THIEN OANH ESCAPED HANOI VICINITY HEADING SOUTH WITH STOLEN LIST VITAL TO VIET MINH PEACE PLAN. MAKE EVERY EFFORT APPREHEND THIS MAN APPROXIMATELY FIVE SIX FRANCO-INDOCHINESE FEATURES SCARRED BACK FLUENT FRENCH ENGLISH VIETNAMESE. INTERROGATE VILLAGERS STRANGERS TRAVELERS. URGENT THAT HE BE STOPPED RETURNED TO VIETCLAW.
The General cursed fluently, if not coherently. Interrogate villagers strangers travelers! What did they think he was, a census-taker? Move Western flank three miles further north, following recent heavy casualties! So they blamed him, did they? Kicked him further North to cool his heels for their instructions? Did they think he had called these losses on his own head? Damn them for a bunch of cross-eyed fools. But — Enemy agent heading south. Through here?
His thoughts blurred and re-formed into a fascinating pattern. Enemy agent heading south. Regroup forces above La Farge plantation. Ding Wan Chau cut down by a sniper's bullet. Heavy losses of late. Indeed. Was it, now, a sniper's bullet? If it was, ten snipers would have their entrails dragged out to be eaten by the ants for the outrage of the assassination. But how interesting, that an enemy agent should be on the loose at the same time. The La Farge plantation. The La Farge plantation.
Ho Van Minh's tiny eyes glittered. A ravishing woman, Claire La Farge. Politically neutral, it was said. But how could a Frenchwoman be neutral? Moreau was obviously French. Heading south. Sniper's bullet? Moreau's bullet. Ding Wan Chau dead. Ha! Sniper's bullet? His mind was a kaleidoscope of distorted pictures. Vengeance is mine, saith the Dragon. He killed, she knows!
He channeled his madness into a quiet cunning. She would be the first subject of his interrogation. If all was as it should be at the La Farge plantation, he would have his little bit of fun and then arrange to move his forces according to the plan. But if not — he could foresee quite a bit of excitement in the future.
His heart beating almost as wildly as it used to beat for Ding Wan Chau, he sent for his Sergeant driver and the Royal Roadster.
Fifteen minutes later he was at the front door of the La Farge house, wondering why it was someone other than Saito who answered his brusque summons.
Claire La Farge received him on the screened-in porch. She could see a strange light in his eyes that she had never seen before.
Rain began to splatter on the roof.
"Where is your visitor Moreau?" Minh said abruptly.
A stab of fear went through her and settled painfully in her chest. "Visitor? Have you taken leave of your senses, General, as well as of your manners? Perhaps when you have calmed yourself you will have the goodness to explain the meaning of this intrusion." The thumping inside her chest almost choked off her words. Minh would surely see her anguish and know it for what it was.
But he seemed not to notice. "You are haughty, Madame. You forget that this is war. Do you deny that Moreau is here? He was seen making his way to the house."
No, surely he could not have been. Why should Minh wait three days to confront her with this if Moreau really had been seen?
"That is ridiculous," she said coldly. "There has not been a visitor to this house, apart from yourself and your soldiers, for the past five years and more. Who is this Moreau? I have never heard of him. Look through the house, if you like. Search the sheds and the fields. Let me know if you find anyone. I should be delighted if you did; I would enjoy the company of a gentleman."
"You would not have the opportunity, Madame. He would not stay here long after I had found him. Besides, how can you be sure he is a gentleman?"
His eyes, she noticed, were no longer quite so glitteringly mad, and his tone had lost its menace. She was almost glad that Moreau lay dead in the fallow earth rather than hidden in some closet to await discovery by this peculiar little man with the high, harsh voice and restless hands. Something told her that he would derive much pleasure out of other people's pain.
"You called him by a French name, did you not? Then he is a gentleman. Now shall we forget our differences for the moment, General — a drink before you drive back in the rain?" This time she was positive that there was something very wrong with him. Ordinarily he would have leapt at the invitation. But he ignored it.
"Let me see Saito, then. Where is he? If you claim you have not seen Moreau, perhaps he has. Send for him."
Her heart dropped again. "He is not here. Since you would not allow me to leave my own house I have had to let him go to the village of Hon Du to barter for goods we have run short of."
"So?" The small eyes narrowed. "Hon Du? Are you sure he has not gone to Saigon in your place, hah? Have you not sent him to Saigon because I refused to let you go?"
"Of course I am sure!" she snapped. "You know very well that I would not send him where I cannot go myself."
"Then I will have one of my men find him at Hon Du and bring him back."
"There is no need for that. By the time your man gets there Saito will have started back."
"Ah. So. When do you expect him?"
She shrugged. "Tomorrow or the next day, I suppose. It is hard to say, with these rains. But he will be here soon."
"I see." He stared at her, a half-smile twisting his face. "Then I will come back tomorrow to see him. And then the next day, if he is not yet back. And then, Madame, if he has still not returned, I will have more words with you. In the meantime, be advised that I am moving my troops three miles closer to your plantation for a number of strategic reasons that are none of your concern, but which will give us the opportunity to keep in even closer contact." He bowed ironically. "I will also have my scouts keep their eyes open for your Saito, to make sure that no harm befalls him should he inadvertently cross our lines."
"How very kind you are," she said icily.
He bowed again. "I look forward to our next meeting. I shall be back soon, Madame. To see both you and your loyal Saito."
Moments later she heard the sound of her Royal Roadster receding through the pouring rain.
How much did the General really know? The one thing she was sure of was that the General would keep his promise and be back very soon.
Miss Antoinette Cleans House
Nick let himself into his room and locked the door. In his pocket was the small, neat package he had picked up from the Embassy after receiving their call. It had come in with a batch of material delivered personally by a high-ranking officer of the U.S. Air Force.
The package was a three-quarter-inch thick rectangle of brown paper wrapped firmly around something hard like heavy cardboard or thin metal. It was addressed to Dr. Nicholas Carter in care of the U.S. Embassy, Saigon, and the return address read: Lincoln Pharmaceuticals, Seattle, Wash. In fact the package was, in person, Dr. Lincoln of Washington, D.C. A number of warning stamps on Dr. Lincoln's exterior exhorted his handlers to keep the "Medicinal Samples" cool and handle them with care.
He poured himself a drink and stripped the wrapping off the four-by-seven-inch package. Beneath the brown paper was a sturdy plastic container of the type used for carrying assorted capsules and sample tubes of antibiotics. It was locked, and there was no key in the narrow horizontal slot. But Nick already had the key.
He slid the small, notched metal plate into the slot and concentrated every ounce of his attention on what was to come. It was about time it came, too; it had taken longer than he had expected.
Something inside the small container whirred slowly and then picked up speed. Nick held it up to his ear and listened attentively. A thin, metallic voice rasped softly
at him. Even though curiously shrunken and diluted, as if coming from a genie trapped in a metal jar, the voice was unmistakably Hawk's.
"Listen carefully, now," it said, unnecessarily. "You will recall that this tape is self-destructive on completion of its cycle. I will relay this message only once. After the countdown to one I will begin. Are you ready?" Nick nodded involuntarily and grinned. He knew that Hawk had been itching to try out this tiny message gadget, and even through the minuscule speaker he could hear the enjoyment in the old man's voice."…eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two…"
"Fire when ready, Gridley!" Nick hissed urgently, and lit up his waiting cigarette.
"…one. Now. Item: Your radioed message. It was followed shortly by a communication from French Intelligence which gives a new direction to your assignment. Your trip north is no longer a general fact-finding expedition but a specific job behind enemy lines." Nick whistled. So AXE was rushing in where even the U.S. Army hesitated to tread. "More of that later. Item: La Petite Fleur. The man who used that code name, Paul La Farge, has been dead for over ten years. The name died with him. No one has used it since, until it appeared in the column you saw. Now. When the VietMinh, or Vietnamese Communists, gained control of Vietnam north of the Ben Hai river, they absorbed the area occupied by the La Farge Plantation. This plantation had been in the hands of the La Farge family since the French Occupation of the nineteenth century. Paul La Farge grew up in Vietnam. When he was fifteen his parents sent him to Paris, where he spent the remainder of his student years. In World War II he became a member of French Intelligence in Southeast Asia with the code name of La Petite Fleur. His parents died during the war. When he was demobilized he returned to Vietnam to take over the plantation. He also married, in Hanoi, a French girl named Claire Devereau, who was at least twelve years his junior. However, he still kept up his work with French Intelligence and maintained his old code name. But from the end of the war until his death by enemy bullet in 1954 he worked against the Communists in his own country and their Red Chinese advisors. When he died Madame Claire La Farge retreated into herself, withdrawing from all contact with the French or even the people of the nearby villages. She has devoted herself to keeping the plantation a going concern in spite of the proximity of Viet Minh forces. How she has succeeded in doing so is a matter of some interest to us. It may mean that she has reached a certain understanding with the Communists that could endanger the cause of the South, and thus of the U.S. forces in Vietnam. But so far as can be ascertained, she has shown no political inclinations whatsoever."
Nick listened, fascinated. It seemed odd that La Petite Fleur's widow should take no sides in her late husband's battle. She must be a cold one.
Hawk's voice crackled on.
"In spite of what you may be thinking, Madame La Forge appears to be loved by the people of her plantation for her humanity and warmth. They call her the Fair One, in tribute not only to her beauty — which is or was, I am told, quite outstanding — but to her character. She appears to be that rare being — a truly honest woman. Appears, I say."
Yes, Mr. Hawk. I get your point. Go on, please.
"Item: Moreau. André Moreau. It is now known to us that for many years a French Intelligence agent named Moreau, previously associated with La Farge, has been working behind enemy lines and sending back information relating to Red Chinese influence in Vietnam. He has recently disappeared on a mission of the utmost importance, attempting to reach South Vietnam with a list of some kind. Now. Madame La Farge was mentioned to him by French Intelligence as a possible source of sanctuary in time of extreme difficulty. According to French Intelligence agent Raoul Dupré, Moreau did contact Madame before he died. She kept his information. Kept it, do you understand? The message in the Vietnam Times was her call for help from French Intelligence, a plea for someone to come and get the information from her."
A strange way of doing business, Nick thought, exhaling. The rasping sound went on trickling into his ear.
"Item: Raoul Dupré. You will make further contact with him at the earliest possible moment. French Intelligence has asked us to assist in this case. They feel that since their participation in Vietnamese affairs has become less active than ours, it is in our own interests to procure Moreau's information. Now. Dupré holds the key to the La Farge plantation, figuratively speaking. He will expect a man to approach him with a message saying, and I quote, Andre sends regards from Fiorello. You, of course, will take that message. You will then give him the usual truth identification.
"Finally: Bear in mind that both the Chinese and the Vietnamese Intelligence agents have lately redoubled their efforts to smoke out all remaining anti-Communist agents in Vietnam. Knowing this, proceed to contact first Dupré and then Madame La Farge. Then take steps to determine the following: A. Did Moreau indeed contact her, and has she the information? B. What happened to Moreau? C. Has Madame La Farge gone over to the Communists and set a trap for Raoul Dupré? D. Has a trap been set by the Communists with Madame La Farge the innocent bait? Is she being used to unwittingly lure Intelligence agents into a Communist ambush? No, Carter, do not shake your head. Stranger things have happened."
Nick put out his cigarette and wondered how Hawk could possibly have known he would look skeptical at just that moment.
"Your job, then, is to find the answers to these questions and bring back Moreau's information. It appears to have been somehow knotted into a belt. For what use the knowledge may be to you, Moreau used to be an amateur anthropologist. The belt may somehow reflect his interests. But do not tamper with it, whatever you do. Bring it back intact. And in doing so, use that AXE wherever you can. This is no longer a French fight, Carter. This one is all ours."
The voice died away into a faint sizzle of sound.
Nick waited for a moment or two to be sure that the small container had finished its work. He knew that beneath its plastic finish the contents, already erased, were rapidly disintegrating. After a while he removed the combination key and tape-head without which the device was useless and started to methodically destroy the brittle plastic cover.
So the wife of La Petite Fleur, he thought, had placed the Personal in The Times. Hawk's tape had left a few small questions unanswered, but no doubt Dupré could fill him in. So far the job seemed simple enough, if not particularly pleasant. Now if Claire La Farge had married Paul at the end of the war she would be a good forty-odd by now. Although Paul had been considerably older than she… Well, mid-thirties, at least.
Warming up an aging French iceberg who might very well have become a stooge for the Communists was not the Carter idea of a stimulating assignment. On the other hand her beauty was, or had been, "quite outstanding." Frenchwomen, unlike so many others, often improved with age.
It was a cheering thought.
* * *
Maru was astonished. First by the weather, which was suddenly incredibly beautiful for the end of August, and then by Miss Toni.
Miss Toni was out in the garden snipping away at sprays of foliage and the few remaining blossoms to decorate the house for her soirée.
To her intense annoyance — spray-snipping not being one of her favorite occupations — there was no sign of the "new gardener." She gathered up her trophies and made her way back to the house.
"Vases, Maru," she ordered. "For the patio and the foyer."
Maru slowly shook his head. Miss Toni taking an interest in the house! Wonders would never cease. He was further surprised, half an hour later, when he saw her fluffing cushions in the living room and straightening pictures in the hall.
"But Miss Antoinette," he protested. "The houseman has already cleaned here this morning."
"I see that," she said, running her finger across a picture frame. "What this place needs is a woman's touch. I want things to look especially nice for the party tonight. We haven't enough flowers, Maru. I should like you to go down to the market for me and select whatever seems most fresh and colorful. Also, I do not trus
t those caterers. They are too unimaginative. In a few moments I shall give you a list of extra delicacies I think we need. I'll ring for you when I'm ready." She nodded dismissal.
Maru could hardly believe his ears. Miss Toni could always be relied upon to provide entertainment, liquor, and mountains of caviar, but to extend herself any further than that was unbelievable. As a rule he, Maru, had to take care of all the small details without a thought of help from her…
"Oh, Maru!" she said suddenly. "Before you do anything else. Is there any chance of replacing those moth-eaten bamboo curtains on the closed patio? I know there's not much time before the party, but they really have to go. I've just noticed how terrible they look. Perhaps someone from Le-Loi Thanh…?"
He nodded, delighted with her sudden interest.
"I believe they are a standard item, Miss Toni," he said. "I shall measure them myself and bring the man back with me to fit them. It is possible that I can have them ready if I start at once." He bobbed his head and waddled to the patio. Perhaps she is turning over a new leaf at last, he thought happily.
Good, good, good, thought Toni, sitting down to write her little list. That should keep him busy for a while. Long enough, at least, to scout the servants' quarters and find out where he had hidden that man. With a little subtle persuasion she might even be able to get some answers from the muscular giant. And if she were really lucky her father might take a quick trip out to the plantation while Maru was out. She knew the houseman wouldn't bother her; he had plenty to occupy himself with in the chaos she had left upstairs.
The list took her no more than a few seconds. Maru was still measuring when she wandered down the hall into the huge, gloomy dining room and started planning where she should put the flowers. And a second bar and buffet here in the dining room, for a change? Good idea. She was almost beginning to enjoy her new role of homemaker when she heard the buzzer sounding from her father's study.
