Assignment Madeleine

by Edward S. Aarons

  Durell’s face was like stone. “I understand that.”

  “It is important that we learn what L’Heureux was up to.” Brumont looked at his crooked Italian cigar. “He has played the rebels against the el-Abri forces in Marbruk—and it is our good fortune that both factions of the criminal rebel movement fight each other as much as they war against us. They are all gangsters, supplied by arms from Tunis and Cairo. They fight like savages, perpetrating medieval horrors against friendly Moslems and French settlers alike. I could tell you tales of their tortures, their adamant refusal to negotiate—” Brumont interrupted himself, “One loses one’s perspective in emotion in this matter. I apologize, m’sieu.”

  “It is understandable. What do we do with the girl?”

  “She will go with you to Algeria,” Brumont said flatly. “We know that she is frightened and alone here in Paris. We know she is in love with your suspect, and hence not to be considered dependable. Perhaps this kidnap attempt—if it was that—may make her more reliable to us. She has been trustworthy in the past. Perhaps she will see the truth about her Charley, inevitably. You understand, I have not given her any cause to think we no longer trust her.”

  “But she's intelligent,” Durell objected. “She must know she is suspect in your department now.”

  “Of course. It is a game we play.”

  “Then why not restrain her and keep her in Paris until I return with L’Heureux?” Durell asked.

  “She is partly Algerian, you know. She will be useful, as long as you keep your eyes open and aware of her potential weakness. She has begged me to keep her on.”

  “She’s partly Moslem?”

  “Her father was a Legionnaire in the old days. Her mother was Algerian. She is a product of the bidonvilles—the native tin-can villages in the slums. But a beautiful product, as you have observed.”

  “Beautiful enough. Like a leopard in the night.”

  “And intelligent. She knows much about the rebels. But love makes a woman lose her perspective, unfortunately. In custody here in Pans, she reports nothing to us. Traveling with you, she may reveal much more. It will be like carrying a hot coal in your hand, but it may prove to be worth the price.”

  Durell matched the Frenchman’s bland look. He sensed a sardonic note in the man’s comments on cooperation. and remembering past cross-purposes of foreign policy, he wondered how far he could trust Deuxieme Bureau in relation to the information he needed. The primary rule for any agent was to trust no one, accept nothing on face value, and be on guard against everything. Brumont was an old hand, an expert. Durell had no illusions about him, but he respected the man and liked him.

  “I’ll consult with my people about it, he said. And find out if they really want L’Heureux returned here. For my part, your Army people in Marbruk can stand him up against a wall and shoot him out of hand, if the evidence is correct and he killed Boston.”

  “But we do not know anything for certain,” Brumont objected. “And then we would lose what lies in L’Heureux’ head about the rebels. You understand how important it is to know all we can about them. “

  Durell nodded. “The girl still troubles me, though.”

  “I have arranged passage for both of you on the plane leaving at seventeen hours for Algiers. ”

  “Just what have you told her about me?”

  “Only that you are L’Heureux superior sent to investigate the serious charges against Nothing more.”

  “Even that may he too much.”

  Brumont spread his fat hands. An intelligent woman must he given some grains of truth in the pill she must swallow.”

  “She will never trust me,” Durell objected.

  “No. Do not expect her to. It is the game we play, to become knowledgeable at the expense of the enemy. ‘We lie, cheat, steal, and kill. We do these things as a bookkeeper does his additions every day.”

  Durell made no final decision. A gendarme knocked on the door and reported to Brumont that the search for the gunmen had failed. Durell returned to the main salon. The fashion show was over, and the big room was deserted. He lit a cigarette and touched the slightly pulsing bruise on his forehead. His head ached. It was one o'clock, and Deirdre would be waiting around the corner at Jacques’ bistro.

  He had more than one reason to visit Jacques, however.

  Chapter Four

  MADELELNE SARDELLE was waiting in her dressing room when he returned there. The girl had propped up one of the larger fragments of broken mirror and was combing her long red hair. She did not pause or turn when he entered. Her pale gray eyes met Durell’s in the mirror and she nodded, and Durell closed the door behind him. She had changed into a slim tailored suit, and a tan raincoat was at hand.

  He ignored his French. “Do you speak English, mademoiselle?”

  “A little. Well enough, I think. Is it necessary?”

  “It may be, later on.”

  She put away the comb and pursed her mouth to apply lipstick. “Brumont has told you all about me, I presume.”

  “Some of it. We are in the same business and we are to collaborate.”

  She moved her lips to smooth the lipstick. “You are not a stupid man. You know I am badly frightened. I wish to be out of this business, as you call it. Those men would have done unpleasant things to me, given the opportunity. They want to know about L’Heureux. Brumont no longer trusts me, I know. And I don’t trust you. In a way, it is a fair enough basis for our mutual effort.”

  Durell smiled. “You’re very frank.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Not really. A fine actress, let’s say.”

  She laughed, stood up, and took his arm. “Then we are agreed. You distrust me. I distrust you. I am not very fond of Americans, you know. I saw too many of them, years ago, in Africa. You expect me to—what is it, double-cross? Yes. And you take me for a foolish woman who is in love with the wrong man. You condescend toward me. But perhaps for the moment we can arrange a truce. You are taking me to Marbruk, are you not?”

  “If you wish.”

  “I am ordered there by Brumont. It will be interesting to have you as a traveling companion and—collaborator?

  “Let’s call it a truce until the plane, then. At five o’clock.”

  They went out into the hallway. The two policemen on duty there stepped aside to let them leave. Durell was very conscious of the girl’s spectacular beauty. He was also aware of the wire-tight condition of her nerves. Under her smile were taut little muscles and faint smudges that cosmetics couldn’t hide.

  “Do you mind,” she said, we stay together until we are on the plane? I have a few things to pack—you may come up to my flat—and perhaps we could have an apéritif and lunch together.”

  “I have a date waiting for me at Jacques’ place,” he said.

  “A girl?”

  “My girl, yes.”

  “An American?”

  “Yes.”

  “This complicates things for you.” She laughed. “Perhaps it would be embarrassing for you it I went with you, but I promise-”

  “It will be all right,” Durell decided.

  The cool August rain still fell over Paris. A mist hung over the Seine, obscuring the bridges and the Notre Dame spires, softening the walks and statues and stone stairways going down to the river bank. A man in a black beret leaned over the stone balustrade, staring at the dappled surface of the river, and when they passed by, Durell heard him straighten and saunter after them as they walked to the first crossing. He decided the black beret was Brumont's agent, and he would have to be more than usually careful at Jacques’ place.

  The café was a short walk from the river, on a narrow cobbled street edged with dripping trees. A striped awning sheltered the tables outside. Three men were visible within, at the zinc-topped bar, and through the shutter door they could be heard arguing volubly about taxes. Deirdre Padgett sat alone at a table on the sidewalk under the awning.

  As always, Durell’s heart lurched
when he first glimpsed her, and all his resolutions to keep her out of his lite grew dimmer. He knew her intimately. There were no secrets between them except those of his work, and she had come to accept this, even if she refused to understand it. Her raven hair was touched by the soft mist, and she wore a small suede beret. Her winged brows were inquiring as she saw Durell approach with Madeleine on his arm.

  “Sam. . . .”

  He kissed her and drew a chair for Madeleine and introduced the two girls. Deirdre was cool and aloof; then her eyes warmed again as she touched Durrell’s hand.

  “Were you waiting long?” he asked.

  “I only just got here, darling. You never waste time, do you?”

  He laughed. “You mean Madeleine? She’s part of the job I came here to do.”

  “Not very distasteful work, is it?” Deirdre asked. “Or am I making unpleasant noises. I thought we were going to have the afternoon together. Alone, I mean.” She picked up her small glass of vermouth. She wore a pale gray dress trimmed with white piping, under a transparent rain cape. “I suppose I should be used to this by now. But I’m downright jealous about anything where you are concerned."

  “I’m sorry, Dee. There’s no need to be.”

  “Should I trust you?”

  “No.” He grinned. “Definitely not.”

  Madeleine spoke in her throaty French. “Please do not be disturbed by my presence, mademoiselle. Monsieur Durell is only interested in protecting me and convicting my friend of murder.”

  Deirdre looked quickly at Durell. “Something you can talk about, darling?”

  “No,” he said.

  “We travel as custodian and prisoner,” Madeleine added, “although neither wishes to admit to the relationship. I am a foolish woman who chose to fall in love with one who may be considered the enemy. But not by me. I shall never agree. But in any case, you may forget about me, mademoiselle, if you wish.”

  Durell said, “If you ladies plan to use your claws, go right ahead and help yourself. I think I’ll have a word with Jacques about lunch. Excuse me.”

  He went into the cafe to where the three Frenchmen were arguing at the bar. Through the dim window he saw the man in the black beret hovering at the corner. Jacques, a dark obsidian mass behind the bar, simply nodded to Durell and went on talking to his customers. Durell finally asked to consult with Madame Jacques about the lunch he wished to order.

  “Of course, m’sieu. In the kitchen, if you will.”

  He went through a curtained archway to the rear of the cafe. There wasn’t much time, with Deirdre and Madeleine outside and Brumont’s shadow on the corner. It would have to be quickly and naturally.

  A hallway painted a queasy brown led into the kitchen. Madame Jacques looked up from her cast-iron coal stove and nodded. She was stout, gray, and mustached. “Up the stairs, m’sieu.”

  Durell turned up a narrow flight of enclosed steps to the floor above. At the top of the stairway was a green door, and he rapped on it in a quick, simple signal. Footsteps approached from the other side and it was opened.

  “Hello, Hal.”

  “Welcome to Ears West.”

  They shook hands. Hal Remington was a middle-aged expatriate who looked more Parisian than the New Yorker he had originally been. A poet and an artist, he had come to Paris in the late Twenties when a large colony of Americans had made it their adopted residence. Remington had a short, forked beard, a flat face, and bright intelligent eyes under bushy gray brows. He locked rather lie an aging and sardonic Mephistopheles, gone a bit to seed. The room was a rat’s nest, cluttered with two studio easels, clothing scattered everywhere, and unfinished canvases stacked heavily against the plastered walls. There was a huge desk with an ancient Oliver No. 9 typewriter standing among a heap of squeezed-out tubes of pigment. A wardrobe closet stood open, and in the bottom section, built into a drawer, was a compact and powerful radio transmitter and receiver. On the window ledge that overlooked the cobbled street, two wet pigeons huddled and argued for space beside a pair of high-powered binoculars.

  Durell looked out the window and discovered he could see the front entrance of Madame Sofie’s salon.

  “Quite a view,” he said. “Comfortable here, Hal?”

  “I get some work done. And Madame Jacques has graduated from the Cordon Bleu kitchens.” Remington kissed paint-stained fingertips. “At last, after fifty-odd years, I find myself at peace with the stomach. I am never hungry. As a matter of fact, amigo, I grow fat sitting up here like a spider in one of your webs.” Remington looked out of the window, too. “One of Brumont’s boys followed you here. That all right?”

  “Don’t underestimate the Deuxieme Bureau,” Durell said. “They watch us and pick up tips from American tourists at Madame Sofie’s. And they know we watch them, in turn, from here. Friendly rivalry for now. Anyway, it wouldn’t surprise me if Jacques takes a pay check from Brumont as well as from our Embassy. Nice, clean competition.”

  “As long as were allies,” Remington said.

  Durell’s eyes darkened. “Let’s hope that never changes.”

  Remington lit a Gauloise. “Business has been slow, you know. I’ve even done two paintings this month. Only two couriers through last week, and a couple of cut-out assignments. I used to think your business had a lot of excitement in it, Sam, but so far it’s been a bloody bore. But the pay is good and I’m getting fat as I said. You’re here about Orrie Boston, aren’t you?”

  Durell nodded and sat down. “What do you have on him, Hal?”

  "Orders for you, somewhere.” Remington rummaged through the rubbish on his huge desk. “Came in by code from Washington two hours ago. Yours not to reason why, friend, yours just to do or die.”

  “Don’t be so cheerful. Let’s have it.”

  "You are to bring Charles L’Heureux back alive,” Remington said.

  “No matter what?”

  “No matter what.”

  “Suppose he’s really guilty? Suppose he killed Orrie?”

  “We think he did. I’m sorry, Sam. That’s the word we got from Marbruk. I knew Orrin Boston, too, don’t forget. We had some high old times every time he made it into Paris.”

  “You'd better brief me on the background,” Durell said. “What I got from Brumont may he out of perspective. There’s a girl involved in it, too—one whom Brumont uses but doesn’t trust. I have to take her on.”

  Remington nodded and chuckled. “The Sardelle, She snuggled up to our Charley and liked what she found between the sheets.”

  “Anything on her I could use?”

  “No. About L'Heureux, he’s important because of what he knows. Washington thinks he can be made to talk if he’s pulled out of Algeria, where every rebel group wants to ventilate him a bit and maybe carve off special pieces of anatomy. Our Sardelle would be heart-broken if that happened.” Remington ran fingers through his forked gray? beard. “You’ve been in North Africa before, haven’t you.

  “With the old Lincoln Unit of the OSS. Making ready for the landings at Algiers,” Durell said.

  Remington dragged at his cigarette. “Two angles to this, but they both tie to friend Charley. You know how it is sometimes, a man in the field has to make use of whatever human material is at hand. Orrie Boston found our Charley popping up in his work and finally put him on the payroll to keep an eye on him. Did Brumont give you a rundown on L'Heureux?”

  “There were a number of G.I.'s who turned adventurer in the Mediterranean area after the war,” Durell said.

  “And on the surface, all of them good patriots.” Remington nodded. “Modern-day buccaneers to some people. Looters, smugglers, murderers, dope-runners to others. L’Heureux was all of the latter and then some.” Remington’s light tone was belied by the hardness of his bright eyes. “L'Heureux probably was running guns to the rebels when Orrie contacted him. Any chance to talk to the rebels has to be seized on—they resist contact and demand prior independence like a bunch of fanatics. Anyway, Orrie figured that our Char
ley was playing oft two factions of the rebels against each other. Brumont wants chapter and verse on all that. He expects to get it, when you deliver L’Heureux to Paris. We’ll cooperate on that. As for Washington, your K Section wants to wash its own dirty linen and take L’Heureux apart for information and then suitable penalties—when he’s been squeezed dry.”

  “Just what was Orrie working on?”

  “His last report was optimistic. He’d been in contact with Hadji el-Abri. Negotiating a compromise conference with the French Army. Unheard of, these days. If L’Heureux hadn’t killed him, maybe the rebels would have done the job. The rebels won’t allow any parley.”

  “You seem damned sure L’Heureux killed Orrie.”

  “We’ve got the commandant’s report, that’s all.”

  “And the motive?”

  “Two points, possibly. One, Orrie got the dope on the game our Charley was playing and faced L’Heureux with it. Or maybe L’Heureux took our pay and a check from the rebels, too, and got word to stop Orrie Boston from meddling and playing the part of the neutral intermediary.”

  “And second?”

  “Second, and much more specific, is a matter of over two hundred grand in American currency, lifted off a courier of ours in Cairo tour weeks ago.”

  Durell was startled. “I didn’t hear about that.”

  “Nobody has. It was money from another section—not itemized in the national budget, you can be sure-and it’s being sorely missed. At the time, there was that regular crisis in the Mideast, you remember, and people recommended stepping lightly. No protests were made aside from routine remonstrance to the police, and nobody mentioned anything so mundane as a quarter of a million American dollars.”

  “I gather it was traced to Algeria,” Durell said drily.

  “Right. Via our friend Charley.”

  “He hijacked our own man?”

  “Not personally. He was here in Paris then. Doing some odds and ends for the rebel terrorists in metropolitan France, we think. That’s how Madeleine got put onto him.”