Three Passports to Trouble

by Sean McLachlan

  “I’ll pay for it, baby.”

  “Yes you will, and you’ll take me out to dinner too.”

  Everyone got in the car except me. I took a good look around. I’d picked my spot well. The road was empty and there were no farms in sight.

  I leveled my gun, took a bead on the gas tank over the anarchist’s car, and fired.

  The car went up with a whoosh, a fireball rising to the sky.

  “Someone will definitely see that,” I said, hopping into the passenger’s seat next to Melanie. “We need to—”

  She hit the gas and the car pealed out down the road.

  “Let me get the door first!” I said, slamming it.

  As I got settled, I realized I had lost another hat. My jacked was torn from all the banging around inside the flipping car. Ah well, more for expenses.

  The Reader had come to.

  “What happened?” he mumbled.

  “I was wondering that too,” Neat Freak said.

  I gave them the low down on the Juan Cardona case. Melanie, when she saw she was getting close to the border, turned off and went down another country road, giving us time to get it together.

  “You two good enough to cross the border?” I asked.

  Neat Freak looked all right, but the Reader had a couple of visible bruises.

  “If they ask I’ll tell them I got into a drunken fight,” he said. “We better get to the border before word gets out about that burning car.”

  “Right,” Melanie said, turning around.

  Neat Freak turned to me. “Not to sound ungrateful, but can she be trusted?”

  “She was in the Party, part of the French Resistance during the Nazi occupation.”

  “She ‘was’ in the Party?” Neat Freak asked.

  “Don’t get loony like those anarchists. She saved your life, buddy.”

  Neat Freak gave a little shrug and sat back.

  For the rest of the ride, the two operatives stayed quiet, neatening up their appearance as best they could. Neat Freak opened his suitcase and got to work with his polishing brush. By the time we got to the border town of Houara, they were presentable. I still worried about the Reader’s bruises. That would catch the eye of any border agent.

  Houara is a small town, a cluster of whitewashed Moorish homes by the side of the highway with the square minaret of the local mosque towering over them.

  I had Melanie park at a restaurant and the three of us walked to the bus station. Vehicle traffic got stopped on the highway. Travelers coming on the bus had to walk out of the main square and down a street to another border crossing, where more buses waited to take them to points south. We waited an hour until the bus from Tangier came in and then we merged with the passengers heading to the border.

  I took them as far as the entrance to the street. The border crossing, with the flag of the International Zone on one side and the flag of Spain on the other, was in view a couple of hundred yards down the road.

  “Good luck,” I said, not daring to use the term “comrade.”

  “Thanks for everything,” Neat Freak said.

  “Hope everything works out all right for you back in Tangier,” the Reader said.

  “You and I both.”

  They left without another word. I leaned against a wall near where a Moorish woman, her face covered, sat cross-legged on the sidewalk, a baby in her lap and a hand extended for alms. I gave her a coin and lit a cigarette.

  The operatives strolled down the lane as easy as you please. They had split up, of course. With Chason putting all the border agents on alert for two Spaniards trying to cross into the Spanish Zone, they couldn’t be too careful. I gritted my teeth to see the Reader limping slightly. That didn’t look good.

  Neat Freak got to the border first. He presented his fake passport. I had a horrible thought that with as many twists and turns as this case and this mission had taken, that Einhardt Ritter had put a deliberate mistake on the passport in order to louse up the mission.

  I held my breath, then had a spasm of coughing because I hadn’t exhaled my cigarette smoke first. The beggar’s baby, startled by the sound, began wailing.

  “Just what I needed,” I grumbled. The beggar woman gave me a nasty look.

  The Spanish border guard handed Neat Freak’s passport back and waved him through.

  The Reader was a few people back in line. I stood there, puffing on my cigarette like a steam engine, waiting for his turn.

  When it came, the border guard took the passport and without looking at it, began to question him. The guard gestured at the Reader’s face. The Reader shrugged, a bit stiffly, and said something.

  “Aw, hell,” I said.

  The guard listened, looked at the passport for far too long, and said something else to the Reader.

  “Come on, come on.”

  When the guard handed the Reader his passport I could have scooped up that beggar woman and given her a kiss.

  Instead I gave her another coin.

  I lit another cigarette and waited for both operatives to walk out of sight into the crowd, then I turned and rejoined Melanie.

  She had just finished lunch at the restaurant.

  “Enjoy your meal?” I asked as I came to her table.

  She made a face. “No. The eggs were overcooked and the beef was like shoe leather.”

  “I’ve never tasted shoe leather.”

  She stood.

  “You never lived in occupied France. Let’s get back to Tangier.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed. “Time to face the music.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  They came for me the next day, and in a way I didn’t expect. I was sitting at the Cafe Tingis enjoying a well-earned drink, when I saw one of the Iron Column sailors come around the far corner of the Petit Socco, from the street where the main mosque stood.

  He stopped and stared at me from across the length of the plaza.

  That took me by surprise. They wanted to talk? I was worried that when their operatives didn’t check in that they’d come after me. I’d spent the previous night in a hotel and the entire day in the most public places I could find.

  And now here they were.

  Let them wait. I nursed my beer.

  The guy waited, leaning against a wall and smoking cigarette after cigarette.

  Once I finished my drink, I paid the waiter and strolled over. The guy kept smoking as I passed him and went down Rue de la Marine. It was just past noon prayer and a crowd of Moorish men streamed out of the large arched doorway to the mosque. To my surprise, I didn’t see a gang of Silone’s mugs, but Silone himself. He walked ahead of me to the end of the street where a large concrete platform looked out over the port and the Strait of Gibraltar.

  It was exposed to the sun and not many people stood there in the noonday heat. Good thing I had a new hat and summer suit bought on expenses. Silone sat on the rim of the wall and smiled at me as I approached.

  “Are they dead?” he asked.

  “Yes. I burned the car so there will be no fingerprints.”

  Might as well be honest. He probably knew anyway.

  His remained unmoved. “Why did you do this?”

  I glanced around, wondering if a sniper was on one of these rooftops, waiting for a signal. I sat down right next to him.

  “If your sniper doesn’t have perfect aim, he might get you instead of me,” I told him.

  “There is no sniper.”

  This guy seemed pretty relaxed considering that I just admitted to killing two of his comrades.

  “I’ll believe that once I get out of here alive, but sniping someone in the middle of town may be too crazy even for you. To answer your question, I didn’t mean to kill them. I only wanted to take that tailor in for the murder of Juan Cardona. He resisted arrest and I had to kill them both.”

  No need to bring Melanie into this.

  Silone shook his head. “‘Killed while resisting arrest.’ How many murders of our comrades were covered up with
those hollow words?”

  “Our comrades weren’t cold-blooded killers.”

  At least mine weren’t.

  “Juan Cardona deserved to die,” Silone said. The impish smile on his lips when he said this made him seem extra creepy.

  “No he didn’t. He didn’t know anything about those shipments, and neither did Octavio. They were queer and crazy about each other. They got blinded, so blinded that Juan let Octavio into his apartment even after you warned him. You saw that, didn’t you? And that was the last straw.”

  “He was sleeping with the enemy. During the Spanish Revolution we killed women for that. Do you think we would stop at men?”

  “I don’t think you’d stop at anything. So here’s how this is going to play. I’m sure you know the police chief is a pal of mine—”

  “Drinking with the enemy is almost as bad as sleeping with him.”

  “Shut up and listen. I’m going to tell Gerald I had a tip from an inside source that wants to remain anonymous that Colonel Fernández de Tomelloso has illegal arms in his house. That will make a pretty little bust that will set the Falange’s plans back years. In return, you’re going to let bygones be bygones. If you decide you want to put me on ice, a certain safety deposit box will be opened and a certain letter will be sent to a certain public official. And then it’s goodbye Iron Column. We got a deal?”

  I had expected all sorts of possible reactions from this viper—threats, negotiation, a knife in the gut—but I didn’t expect what I got.

  A roar of laughter and a pat on the back.

  “Well played, comrade! Well played!”

  Threats would have made me feel better. At least that’s something I can understand.

  “So we got a deal?” I asked again.

  “We do have a deal, and we can even be like the petit bourgeoisie and shake on it.”

  He took my hand and we shook it. Then he stood.

  “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, comrade.”

  I had to ask. “You’re not sore that two of your comrades are dead?”

  He gave a little shrug. “They died for the Revolution. The Falange are going to get exposed, after all.”

  “The ends justify the means, eh?”

  “Something like that. Have a good day.”

  He walked off. I stared at him in disbelief.

  No wonder Melanie had put all this behind her.

  I made a beeline to the nearest phone and gave Gerald the tipoff. As much as I’d have loved to have been there to see all those fascists get busted, my presence would have put too much of a political stink into a case that already had too much of it. Gerald thanked me and said he’d assemble a team to go right up there, asking me to come over later to talk it over.

  I went over to Gerald’s office that afternoon, that bottle of rare Scotch I got from Silone tucked under my arm.

  “What’s this?” the chief of police asked as I came through his office door. He actually took his cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out in his overflowing ashtray. The only thing that could get this guy to put out his smoke was the promise of a good drink.

  “A gift from a business associate,” I said, plunking it down on the table.

  “My, my, a rare one. This brand is tricky to get even in London.”

  “The Scots don’t like to share.”

  Gerald pulled out two glasses from his desk. I poured us each a good snort.

  We took a sip. For a moment neither of us spoke, too busy enjoying the finely balanced flavor and the warmth spreading through our bodies.

  “Wonderful,” he sighed. “Thank your business associate for me.”

  If I ever saw the guy again, I’d thank him for not shooting me. I had the bad feeling I might have the opportunity.

  “So I’m sure you’re anxious to hear of the day’s activities,” Gerald said.

  I held up my glass. “Did it go down as fine as this Scotch?”

  “Yes it did, if not more so. We went to Colonel Ramiro Fernández de Tomelloso’s house, first blocking off the driveway with an unmarked car before sending in the patrol cars. He didn’t resist, but did kick up quite the fuss. I’m surprised he didn’t give me a headache with all his shouting and waving his hands in the air. Spaniards are quite an excitable lot.”

  “I’ll pick them over Germans any day. Go on.”

  “It didn’t take long to find the contraband you mentioned. Forty cases of rifles packed in with pamphlets in Arabic espousing fascism. It appears the local chapter of the Falange has finally seen the writing on the wall and realizes the Moors will get independence some day. If that was going to happen, the colonel so proudly confessed after we opened the crates, then the Moors should be a disciplined, orderly nation with a clear hierarchy, one that could stand shoulder to shoulder with Spain in the fight against international Marxism. He was quite angry at all the Communist literature that has been spreading through the Moorish independence movement.”

  “So which party was he going to send it to?”

  “He didn’t say, and the two men with him in the house didn’t say a word. We had the three of them under the lamp for the past several hours. I doubt they’ll confess a thing.”

  “So the rest of the gang goes free?”

  “Yes, even Octavio, although I think he was in this up to his ears. It’s a long prison sentence for the three we caught, though.”

  “So you cut off the head but the body is still thrashing around.”

  “No doubt to one day grow a new head. This is how police work is, old boy. You never fully win. Just like with the Juan Candora case.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Yeah, I guess Felipe will be found guilty.”

  “He’s on trial as we speak. I suspect he was in on this arms shipment, so he deserves to go to jail, but the real culprit doesn’t deserve to go free.”

  I smiled and poured Gerald more Scotch. “Maybe justice was served some other way. Oh, here’s my list of expenses.”

  Gerald looked over the list I gave him. His eyebrows shot up. “Three hats and two summer suits?”

  “This was a pretty rough case, Gerald.”

  “Oh, very well. I’ll send the man in Accounting a bottle.”

  “Hopefully not this one,” I said as Gerald poured me another drink.

  “Good Lord, no.”

  The office door burst open and Chason strode in.

  “How do you say ‘knock’ in French?” Gerald asked.

  “This is outrageous! Outrageous!” he shouted.

  “Hey Chason,” I said, raising my glass to him. “Find those Communist operatives yet?”

  He glared at me. “No, but mark my word, I will. Something even worse has happened. Is nothing sacred in this pestilential city?”

  “What happened?” Gerald asked, lighting a cigarette. Even the finest Scotch smuggled into Africa by anarchists couldn’t stop Gerald from smoking for more than a couple of minutes.

  “My car was stolen!”

  “You told me that yesterday, my good man,” Gerald said. “Stolen from a parking spot on Boulevard Pasteur while you were in the wine shop.”

  “Yes it was,” Chason growled. “And you know what? It just reappeared in the same spot this morning. Someone had opened the steering column and hotwired it, and then they had the audacity to return it to the very same parking spot, with a full tank of gas and a bouquet of roses on the front seat. Someone is laughing at me.”

  “Probably several someones,” I said. Then something clicked. “Hey, when was your car stolen?”

  “Yesterday at noon.”

  I almost choked on my Scotch.

  “The man was clever. I was only in the wine shop for five minutes at most. I swear to God most high that I will catch the culprit!” he shouted before stalking out and slamming the door.

  “If Chason has a heart attack, would you like to have his job?” Gerald asked.

  “I prefer to be a private detective. Besides, I’m not French.”

 
Maybe he should hire Melanie. Turns out she really understood the criminal mind.

  We drank some more Scotch and laughed over poor Chason. After a toast to the car thief I left Gerald to his paperwork, which had just increased by another big pile after busting the fascists. I left him the Scotch. He deserved it.

  During all this excitement I had forgotten my promise to visit Bill Burroughs. The guy was in a really bad way and I should have seen him ages ago. It didn’t matter that I had a murder and two operatives on my hands, it still made me feel like a heel. I headed over to the Spanish hospital.

  And found that he had checked out.

  “What do you mean he checked out?” I asked the nun with the squeaky shoes.

  “He didn’t like the treatment, so he left.”

  “And you let him go? For Pete’s sake, he’ll have made a beeline straight to the nearest pharmacy!”

  “He said he was cured,” she said with an unconcerned shrug. “We cannot keep him if he does not want to stay. Señor Burroughs is not some criminal we can lock up.”

  I hurried to his apartment, a seedy little place upstairs from a male brothel. On the street outside, I passed some Spanish boys leaning against the wall.

  “Hey, have you seen the Invisible Man?” I asked them.

  That’s what the Spanish boys all called him, El Hombre Invisible. He had this way of curling into himself and making himself unnoticeable in public. The boys noticed him, though, because he was a steady source of income.

  “He went to the pharmacy,” one of them said. “I saw him go back to his apartment.”

  “Damn.”

  I climbed the splintered steps two at a time and pounded on his door. No answer. It was, of course, locked.

  Not to me. I took out the lockpicks I always kept in my coat pocket and jimmied the cheap lock in no time.

  The bolt took longer. Luckily the door was poorly fitted to the frame and there was enough space that I could slip a wafer-thin sheet of stiff metal through and, millimeter by millimeter, shift the bolt to one side.

  At last it opened.

  Inside it was dark and smelled of unwashed bedding and sweat. The shutters were closed and the curtains drawn. I fumbled for the light switch and flicked it on.