When Hell Struck Twelve

by James R Benn

  “Raymond Louvet is manning a roadblock just south of here,” I said. “We could start with him.”

  “Perhaps,” Dufort said, sipping his coffee. “But to make an arrest, I will need more. More men, more weapons. The FFI now operates in the open and is very well armed, thanks to the British dropping supplies throughout the countryside.” He ground out his cigarette in the ashtray and finished the last of his coffee. “You mentioned the Saint-Just Brigade. They are FTP too, and the most extreme of all the groups. They would be a good place to start. And the woman, Olga. Is it not possible she was used to gain entrance to Marchand’s house? There are many armed women in the FFI, but men still can be gullible in their presence. Or Emilie, the Catholic? One never knows.”

  “What do you mean, exactly?” Kaz said.

  “I mean that you must find out who the murderer is. I will arrest the killer for taking the life of Charles Marchand, have no doubt. But I cannot get involved in a war with the FFI. That, I can only lose.”

  “We’re both after the same thing,” I said. “If we find the map, we find the killer.”

  “The map is your concern,” Dufort said, shaking a smoke out of his pack and tapping it on the table to pack down the tobacco. “The killer is mine. And if you do not find him, Captain Boyle and Lieutenant Kazimierz of Supreme Headquarters, I will charge both of you with this murder and bring charges against you to your superiors. Am I clear?” He struck a match and watched us as he lit up and snuffed out the match.

  “I understand you,” I said. I sure did. Dufort was a wily guy, and he was handing off a hot potato to us. Nothing personal, but he needed leverage. Maybe the charges would come to nothing, or maybe they’d prove an embarrassment to the Allies. Which could mean there’d be a scapegoat, and I could tell who he had in mind for that job.

  “Very well. Head for the police judiciaire, by the monument you passed coming into town. If you go left at the monument, you will come to the crossroads where Louvet and his men are,” Dufort said, rising and dropping some coins on the table. “Bonne journée.”

  “If I did not feel somewhat responsible for what happened to Marchand, I would be tempted to call his bluff,” Kaz said, nibbling at a piece of bread.

  “We’re supposed to solve cases and make things easier for General Eisenhower,” I said. “Getting involved in murder charges would not make anything easier for him.” Or me, I should have added. Uncle Ike was such a straight arrow he’d make sure no special favors were granted to a relative in hot water.

  “Then we proceed as normal,” Kaz said. “We can radio Big Mike and have him meet us at the crossroads. If the killer has possession of the map, he may be headed for the German lines. We should find out where they are exactly.”

  “You fellas looking for Germans?” A figure slouched in the doorway, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He was an older guy in a billed cap, wearing GI khakis with a US War Correspondent arched patch on his shoulder.

  “Looking to stay away from ’em,” I said. “Who are you, pal?”

  “Name’s Ernie Pyle,” he said, taking a seat. “What are you guys doing this far forward?”

  “Ernie Pyle? The reporter?” I said. “My folks read all your columns. They’re always asking why I don’t get my name in print.”

  “Hey, we can fix that,” Pyle said, pulling a notebook from his pocket. “Give me your names and tell me what you’re doing here. Might be an interesting story.”

  “No, sorry, I shouldn’t have said it that way. I wasn’t asking for a mention,” I said, backpedaling as fast as I could. The last thing we needed was a newspaperman in on this.

  “We are lost, my friend is afraid to admit,” Kaz said, turning on the charm. “It would be most embarrassing if word got out. That is why we were wondering about Germans. Are there any here?”

  “Been nothing but reporters holed up in the hotel, and a bunch of crazy FFI types careening through the streets for the past two days. I’ve been waiting here to ride into Paris with General Leclerc, but where is he? I’m ready to pull up stakes. You boys have any idea what’s happening?”

  “Not a clue,” I said. True enough. “But what about Krauts? Are they close?”

  “Last I heard, there’s an anti-tank gun dug in down the road a mile or so. Camouflaged in some trees, they say. Plus, a machine gun nest. They shot up an FFI car that got too close yesterday, so I don’t recommend the direct approach.”

  “What about patrols?”

  “I sure hope not,” Pyle said. “I’d hate to be rousted out of bed by the German who had my room before me. I drank his schnapps. But if you want the latest dope, check back here tonight. Hemingway and his gang will have plenty to say. Some of it even true.”

  “Hemingway?” Kaz asked.

  “The writer,” Pyle said. “Ernest Hemingway. Big guy with a beard and pistol on his belt. You can’t miss him. Booming voice and a bottle at hand.”

  “What gang?” I asked.

  “Well, to hear him tell it, he’s been authorized by the army to organize a force of fifis and gather intelligence. He’s got a driver and some fool of an OSS officer along with him, and the local Resistance people love him. He’s brought in jeeps loaded with arms and uniforms, God knows where from.”

  “But isn’t he a war correspondent, like you?” I asked. “I thought you were prohibited from carrying weapons.”

  “Tell that to Hemingway. He claims since he only writes one column a month for Collier’s, the rest of the time he’s free to ply his trade as a guerilla fighter. He convinced the army, but I can’t say the Germans would buy his story,” Pyle said. “Anyway, drop by tonight. Before he gets really sloshed.”

  “When’s that?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s probably too late already,” Pyle said with a grin. “See you boys in the funny papers.”

  “Funny papers?” Kaz asked as Pyle ambled away.

  “The comic section of the newspaper,” I said. “It kinda means he finds us laughable.”

  “Ah, I see,” Kaz said, filing away another piece of American slang. “I think I know why he said that.” He motioned in the direction of our jeep, where Pyle was giving our radio setup the once-over. After all, it’s hard to get lost with a two-way radio in the back seat.

  Chapter Fifteen

  We headed out down the road, leaving Ernie Pyle scribbling in his notebook, hoping he was as mystified at our presence as we were. Kaz radioed Big Mike, giving him our destination. We turned at the monument in front of the police station as instructed by Dufort, following the winding road through a small village hemmed in by thick stands of fir trees. I had to downshift to get the jeep up a steep hill, the gravel roadbed rutted and narrow.

  We crested the ridge and came to the crossroads. Our road crossed a lane running along the hill, where a few houses huddled together, tucked under tall pines. The view was dramatic, stretching for miles in front of us, looking over farmland and pastures to the east, toward Paris itself.

  There was a more surprising view as well. A gaggle of fifis gathered around a table and chairs set out by the door of one of the houses. Louvet, Jarnac, Olga, and Emilie looked up at us, hardly bothering to hide their good cheer as they drank champagne from mismatched glasses.

  “What’s the celebration all about?” I asked as I got out of the jeep.

  “We have heard that Lucien Faucon has been found,” Emilie said, draining her glass. “And that justice has been served.”

  “I never saw more bloody justice done,” I said.

  “We do not know the details,” Jarnac said. “One of the gendarmes informed us not too long ago. A bad business, then?”

  “Was it an FTP member who told you?” Kaz asked, not bothering to get out of his seat.

  “What if it was?” Olga said. “Even those who serve the capitalist state can believe in the unity of the working classes.”

 
“Oh, it may mean nothing,” Kaz said with a diffident wave of his hand. “Or it may mean that someone on the police force knew Lucien was hiding there and informed his killers.”

  “Come, my friend, do not worry yourselves over this traitor,” Jarnac said. “Have a drink with us.”

  “Was Charles Marchand a traitor?” I asked, watching for a reaction.

  “Who?” Emilie asked. It was blank stares all around.

  “The teacher who Lucien was staying with,” I said. “He was murdered as well. But at least he hadn’t been tortured like Lucien. Marchand died quickly. With Lucien Fassier, it took longer. He was kept alive as they cut off his genitals.”

  Emilie gasped. Louvet looked confused. Olga whispered a translation, but his stone face gave away nothing.

  “Harboring a fascist traitor deserves a death sentence, I think,” Jarnac said. “But perhaps one not quite so brutal. Tell me, did you find the map?”

  “No,” I said, studying their faces. Only Emilie had the grace to look stunned at the news of torture. Jarnac leaned close to Louvet, filling him in on what I’d said. Across the road, about a dozen of Louvet’s Corps Franc Nord were dug in around a German machine gun covering the road. At least someone was doing their job around here.

  “Louvet says if the map was not found, Fassier may already have handed it off to a contact,” Jarnac said. “Have the gendarmes searched the house?”

  “Thoroughly,” I said. “If that’s the case, the map may already be in Paris.”

  “Perhaps not,” Emilie said, rising from her chair as if the company had become distasteful. “There have been German patrols everywhere, and they have a number of well-hidden flak cannon covering the roads. We lost fighters yesterday to them.”

  “Yes, the boche shoot at anything,” Olga said. “There are not many of them to our front, but their positions are carefully camouflaged. Louvet learned that yesterday when he sent out patrols to keep Fassier contained if he were in Rambouillet. It will be no problem when Leclerc’s tanks arrive, but until then . . .” She sighed, her gaze fixed on the faraway, dangerous hills.

  “So why are you all here?” I asked.

  “You have caught us out, Captain Boyle,” Jarnac said. “We agreed to meet here to pool resources in the hunt for Fassier. Then we heard he had already been dealt with. So, we celebrate, eh? The good people of this house hid their wine well, but we know a thing or two about hiding, do we not?” He poured another round for everyone, asking Kaz and me again if we’d join them.

  We declined.

  They assured us all the roadblocks were still defended, and that their hunt had not taken any fighters away from their duty. And they asked again, where was Leclerc?

  It was easy to feign ignorance.

  I got out the binoculars and walked to where Louvet’s men were dug in. The hilltops were swathed in trees, while the fields below were bare but for grasses and crops. Good positions for the dreaded German 88mm Flak gun, which could punch holes in our Sherman tanks. Which wasn’t all that hard to do. Tankers had taken to calling them Ronsons, after the cigarette lighter, because they lit up so easily.

  I searched the horizon, spotting a dark hulk that I thought might be a Ronson. As I focused the binoculars, I saw it was a burned-out automobile. I pointed it out to Kaz, who asked the résistants about it.

  “An unfortunate encounter between an FTP patrol and a German machine gun nest,” Kaz said, translating as three guys told the story at the same time. “Men of the Saint-Just Brigade went down that road even though they were warned of the danger. They were in high spirits, talking of Paris.”

  “They jumped the gun,” I said.

  “No, Billy, the machine gun jumped them,” Kaz said, in perfect seriousness. There were occasional gaps in his understanding of American idioms.

  “I mean as in a footrace,” I said, “taking off before the starting pistol is fired.”

  “Ah, yes, I see. They jumped the gun indeed. They were foolish to think they could get to Paris,” he said.

  “Might have been a case of too much wine and not enough common sense,” I said, as I heard a jeep behind us. It was Big Mike and Jules. The expressions on their faces couldn’t have been any more different. Jules was smiling as he jumped out of the jeep and rushed to the Renault bakery van with FFI splashed on the side that had pulled up behind them. He helped Marie-Claire from the passenger seat, and they walked arm-in-arm to the champagne.

  Big Mike didn’t look like he was in the mood for celebration.

  “The moonlight when the hell struck twelve,” he said, sticking his thumb out toward the radio. “Came in about ten minutes ago.”

  Harding’s signal that the advance on Paris might be on.

  “You told the colonel about Fassier?” I said.

  “Yeah, but he wants the map,” Big Mike said. “His orders are to find it, and anyone Fassier may have talked to. Pronto.”

  “Okay,” I said. “No second half of the message?”

  “Nope. Sam said he’d confirm soon as he got word.”

  “The map could be anywhere,” Kaz said. “Except for within the house where Fassier was found. It was searched thoroughly.”

  “Here’s what we’ll do. Big Mike, you and Jules go back into town. See if you can find Fassier’s motorcycle. I didn’t notice any kind of garage near Marchand’s house. Maybe he stashed the map with the bike.”

  “Will do, if I can pry Jules away from his girl,” Big Mike said. “We met up with this la Croix bunch coming to fetch Emilie from the powwow.”

  “Marie-Claire may stay with you, if you don’t mind,” Emilie said, having overheard the exchange. “I would like to hear first-hand what you learn of this killing. Although traitors must pay a steep price for their treachery, we should not become animals like the boche when we extract that payment.”

  “Sure,” I said, glad to have another local to help Big Mike.

  “Marie-Claire is quite resourceful,” Emilie said, “and impetuous. But weren’t we all once, Captain? Au revoir.”

  I held back telling her the last time I’d been impetuous I was nine years old, and I jumped off my garage roof using a bedsheet as a parachute, expecting to gently float to earth. It didn’t work out, and I spent the rest of that summer with my arm in a cast. So, I knew being impetuous in wartime was a shortcut to the cemetery.

  “Thank you, Captain Boyle,” Marie-Claire said, after Emilie had given her the news. “Jules and I have not seen much of each other.”

  “We’re not on holiday,” I said, trying to sound like Colonel Harding and not liking it one bit. “Stay on your toes and help Big Mike search for the map back in Rambouillet. There are still Krauts in the area.”

  “Toes?” Marie-Claire said, trying to translate that one.

  “Stay alert,” I said. “Like a dancer, or a boxer in the ring.”

  “Les orteils,” Jules said, and they broke up laughing as they clambered into the jeep with Big Mike.

  “What are you guys gonna do?”

  “Talk with this crowd a bit more,” I said. “Then follow up with the cop who tipped them off about Fassier.”

  “We should also speak to the gentleman who found Marchand’s body,” Kaz said. “Perhaps he saw someone on the street.”

  “Right. We’ll ask to see the police report, if there is one,” I said.

  “Okay, I’ll get you on the horn soon as we have anything,” Big Mike said, and drove off with his gun-toting lovebirds.

  Kaz and I went back to the table where Jarnac, Louvet, and Olga were polishing off their last bottle. He took a seat near Louvet and began to chat with him, while I pulled up a chair at the opposite end of the table.

  “Emilie seemed distressed,” I said. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have shared the details of Fassier’s torture.”

  “I have seen dear Emilie push the plunger on a
detonator and blow up a bridge as a troop train crossed it,” Olga said with a crooked smile. “I am sure many German boys lost their body parts as they crashed into the ravine. She is religious, yes, but no stranger to blood and bone.”

  “Every now and then it seems a bit much, don’t you think?” I said, feeling the faint quiver of my hand on my thigh.

  “It is sad,” Jarnac said, twisting the empty glass in his hand. “I speak of the feeling of betrayal, when a man you trusted turns out to be false. It makes one feel the fool. And as for myself, that is something I hate. Therefore, I waste no tears on the fate of Lucien Fassier, or Harrier as he was known in Spain.”

  “Who do you think caught up with him?” I asked the two of them.

  “Someone who wants the map,” Olga said. “Otherwise it would have been left to be discovered.”

  “Perhaps,” Jarnac said, rubbing his chin as he thought. “It also could have been someone from Beaulieu who knew him there. A friend of his and Marchand’s, who would know where he lived and could expect a friendly greeting?”

  “Not a bad idea,” I had to admit. “Have either of you seen anyone suspicious since you’ve been here?”

  They both laughed.

  “Look around you, Captain Boyle,” Olga said. “We are all suspicious people, that is why we still live.”

  “I should say out of the ordinary.”

  “Who can say? Nothing is ordinary,” Jarnac said. “I hope to live to see an ordinary day.”

  “Well then, tell me when you both arrived here,” I said, pushing my chair back and getting to the real point of this conversation. “Just for my report.”

  “About an hour after dawn,” Jarnac said. “It was Louvet’s suggestion we meet to work together to apprehend Fassier. He sent us messages last night, and we arrived this morning, only to hear the matter had been settled.”

  “Except for the map,” I said.

  “I am beginning to wonder about General Leclerc,” Olga said. “Perhaps the map is of little importance after all.”