Assignment Madeleine

by Edward S. Aarons

  DeGrasse agreed to let him talk to L’Heureux alone. Durell followed a guard to the big barn across the compound and walked up the steps to what had been the loft, now divided into cells. The soldier unlocked the heavy wooden door and stepped back with his rifle ready, speaking to the man inside. You have a visitor, pig.”

  Durell went The guard outside snapped on a light Charles L’Heureux sat up slowly on the cot. He grinned at Durell.

  "Well, chum. All the way from Washington?”

  “I've come to take you back with me,” Durell said.

  ‘You got an American cigarette?” L’Heureux asked casually. "I'm all out.”

  Durell tossed a pack to the prisoner in silence. He took in L'Heureux’ massive frame, the aura of arrogance, the blond hair and black brows, the feeling of strength and brutality in him. L’Heureux lit the cigarette gratefully and turned his back on Durell to look out through the tiny cell window. “Is the raid over?”

  "Just about," Durell said.

  “Many casualties?”

  “Some. Even one is too many.”

  “Was that your plane that burned?”

  "Yes"

  So how do we get out of this trap?” L’Heureux turned Back to Durell again. His eyes were dark and mocking and intelligent. ‘You say you came to take me back. Is it for a trial?”

  “For murdering Orrie Boston.”

  L’Heureux looked down at his cigarette.

  Durell said, “You don’t deny killing him, do you?”

  "No."

  “How did it happen?”

  L’Heureux looked bland. “It was self-defense, chum.”

  “Do you expect us to believe that?”

  “I’ve got plenty to tell,” L’Heureux said sharply. His words betrayed a trace of down-East twang. He sounded angry. That’s the real reason they sent you for me, isn’t it? To pump me dry, then shoot me.”

  "That depends on what you have to say.”

  Listen, I guess you knew Orrie, right? Or you thought you did. Maybe you worked with him back in the States. All right. A great guy, huh? And I’m the rat that put a slug in him. That’s the picture, right?”

  "Can you change it?” Durell asked.

  "I don't give a damn what you and your desk jockeys think. I didn't ask for the job. I was doing all right here. I had my business to take care of.”

  “What kind of business?” Durell asked.

  “Import and export,” L’Heureux said, grinning again.

  “Running guns?”

  Nobody complained, see? Anyway, Orrie invited me to work for him and I did. A patriotic duty, he said, Humanitarian work, to help end this war, he said." Irony ran through the prisoner’s words like a dark, scarlet thread. “So this is what I get for it. Listen, I knew what Orrie was doing. I knew all about that Arab girl he slept with. He was gettin’ information from her about the rebels. He was tunneling dough to the rebels, did you know that? Playing hand in glove with them. He'd sold out to the Beds who are backing them.”

  “That kind of lying won’t buy anything,” Durell said.

  He was aware of anger. “Orrin Boston wasn’t a Bed. And the Communists have little or no control over the rebel.”

  “No, but they’d like to get in. They offer all the war equipment they need, in exchange for running the show. You know what would happen then. And Orrie was helping them get a foot in the door. Look, I caught Orrie with some of the guerrilla leaders. I hung him up on it. The rebels got away that night, and Orrie and I went up to his apartment to talk it out. He had a lot of cash in that place, but it wasn’t there when we got there. He gave it to the rebels.” L’Heureux looked at Durell with cool, pale eyes. “What Orrie meant to do up there was to kill me to shut me up. And when he pulled the gun, I jumped him.”

  Durell listened to the man’s smooth, quick words. They were lies. Clever, assured lies. He knew Orrin Boston better than to believe any of it.

  L’Heureux laughed softly. “Orrie was too old for that hot little Arab playmate of his. Zorah made him into a dried-out old man. So I got the gun from him and it went oil. I didn't want to kill him. lust put him under arrest and turn him over to you people and go back to my own business. But he got killed and the Frenchies here were all set to line me up against the wall for knockin’ oil their phony tin god. Maybe you want to do it, too. Well, it’s no skin off my nose, believe me. You can think what you like. But I ain’t going back with you.”

  “Do you have a choice?” Durell asked.

  “You won’t take me back for any phony trial.”

  “We’re starting tonight,” Durell said quietly.

  L’Heureux looked surprised. “Are you nuts? Your plane was wrecked.”

  “We'll use the roads and go by truck.”

  ‘With the country alive with the rebels tonight?”

  “I think we’ll make it,” Durell said.

  L’Heureux crushed out his cigarette on the floor. He drew a deep breath and looked at Durell and looked down at his hands. “Not with me, you won't. I'm not that crazy. I won’t go.”

  “You’ll go if it has to be in handcuffs.”

  “But I wouldn’t have a chance—”

  “That’s your lookout,” Durell said. “Personally, I’m sorry DeGrasse didn’t shoot you out of hand. And I wouldn't care if the rebels had gotten you, either. But my orders are to take you back to Paris and then to Washington, and that’s where were going.”

  L’Heureux said quietly, “You’ll never make it, chum. You’ll be dead by morning. And I’ll get away, believe me.

  “You can try,” Durell said. “You’re welcome to try.”

  He waited a moment. The prisoner’s story was brash and arrogant, and Durell wondered at his inner confidence. He didn’t know how much truth and how many clever lies went into the concoction L’Heureux spun about Orrin Boston’s death. The man wouldn’t be easy to break. He could stick to his story indefinitely, proclaiming his innocence through weeks of questioning. It was not Durell’s job to do this. His job was to bring the man in.

  He turned to go, and L'Heureux stopped him with a gesture. The man suddenly looked uncomfortable and uncertain. “Just one thing, friend. It’s kind of important to me.”

  “Yes?”

  “Did Madeleine Sardelle tell you people about me?”

  “Why?”

  “I’d kind of like to know. She’s my girl. I know she’s with those French cops, Working for that guy Brumont. She told me all about that. She’ll tell you I never killed anybody. Not like murder, I mean.”

  “Don’t count on any help from her,” Durell said.

  “Look, did she come here with you?”

  “What if she did?” Durell asked carefully.

  “I’d like to see her. Talk to her.”

  Durell watched the prisoner’s face for any telltale sign of satisfaction in the knowledge that Madeleine was in Marbruk. But the man gave nothing away. His face expressed concern only.

  “You’re not going to take her with us tonight, are you?” L’Heureux asked. “This is no country for a girl. And she’s got nothing to do with what you charge me with, anyway. You can’t take her by truck to the coast tonight. First place, we won’t make it. And if you try, we’re all likely to be killed before we get ten kilometers out of town.”

  “She’ll come along with us,” Durell said flatly.

  He kept watching L’Heureux, but he couldn't tell if this was what the man wanted to hear. He left the cell a moment later.

  Chapter Nine

  MADELEINE undressed slowly, almost languidly, and ran water into the bath next to her room in the Marbruk Hotel. She had bolted the heavy door in the face of the curious guard posted in the corridor outside. Now she listened for any more of the sporadic gunfire on the edge of town, but it seemed quiet enough now. The raid was over.

  She heard several sharp, isolated rifle shots, and she shivered in spite of the steamy heat of the bath. No need to be afraid, though. Durell was competent, of course, but
Charley would take care of him. After she prepared the way, that is.

  She lifted her breasts with her hands, studying the still-smooth, firm lines of her body with critical eyes. She bathed quickly, then changed into a dark skirt and white blouse chosen from the single piece of luggage she had taken with her.

  When she had combed her long red hair and put on fresh lipstick, she walked barefooted to the bedroom door and opened it.

  The soldier on guard in the corridor grinned at her. “Something, mademoiselle?”

  “Has Monsieur Durell returned yet?”

  “No, mademoiselle.”

  “May I wait for him in his room?”

  “It would be irregular.”

  “But I feel so nervous. His room is next to mine, isn’t it?” She smiled warmly at the man. He was really only a boy, torn from his job and family in France by the Army draft. “If I could unlock the connecting door.”

  “I have no key.”

  “It must be in the door on his side. Please? It is only a small favor.”

  The guard was a Frenchman, after all. He stood up, holding his carbine easily in his left hand. “Go into your room, mademoiselle, and wait one moment.”

  She smiled warmly when the Frenchman finally unlocked the connecting door. He looked as if he wanted to linger, but thought better of it.

  “Thank you a thousand times,” she said.

  “It is nothing, mademoiselle."

  She did not go into Durell’s room immediately. She tested the door to make sure she really had access to his quarters, then went to the telephone and lifted it, pleased to hear the buzzing that indicated the raiders hadn’t destroyed local communications, at any rate. A man’s voice asked for her number and she gave one she had committed to memory some time ago. The military was running the telephone system, she knew, and for a moment the sense of danger, if her call was monitored, made her lower the phone and almost replace it on the hook. Then she lifted it to her ear again and spoke in Arabic.

  “Sidi Gamal?” she asked quietly.

  “Who wishes to speak to him?”

  “An old friend who has just arrived. I am sure he knows about my arrival.”

  “One minute, please.”

  She waited. She had kept her voice low, in order not to alert the interest of the guard outside. The town was very quiet now. There was no more shooting anywhere. A truckload of territorials went through the market place below, and she heard the clinking of arms and the creak of leather and an occasional sulphurous curse.

  “Mademoiselle?”

  She turned back to the telephone. “I am home.”

  “Good. Then you received my message. All is well?’”

  “As well as one might expect. And our friend?”

  “Unable to move.”

  “He is to he moved soon,” Mademoiselle said. “I am here to help.”

  “Plans have been made. But they are tentative. One does not know the time or method of removal.”

  “I will inform you,” she said, “When I learn it myself.”

  “Good. Keep yourself safe. Peace be with you.”

  “And to you, peace,” Madeleine said, returning the formula.

  She hung up. Sidi Gamal, in his hideout, wherever it was, would alert the rebels to help Charley get free. She had made contact. Now it was only a matter of time and persuasion. Her spirits lifted. Time would pass, and Durell would return. She could persuade him. She had confidence in her body to move any man. Once she knew Durell's plans, it would be simple.

  She looked at her watch. It was almost midnight. It had been a long, tiring day. Paris, and the rain, and Madame Sofie’s salon belonged to another world, another time. It was hard to realize she had come so far so fast. Madame Sofie’s might never have existed.

  Then she remembered the men who had tried to kidnap her in Paris, and a little shiver of fear touched her. She was afraid because she did not understand. The men were not of the National Liberation Front. She was sure of that. And she could not figure out who they were or why they had attacked her.

  She told herself to forget it. Nothing serious had happened, anyway. She went into Durell’s room and stood looking at his bed, as she had looked at many beds before. The dim light from her own room followed her and cast a slab of yellow across the tiled floor. The light touched a corner of the tall, narrow window on the balcony that overlooked the market place. The hotel was quiet. She touched Durell’s suitcase with her bare toe. The leather felt warm against her skin. She tried the latch, but the suitcase was locked, and she was not too interested in opening it and searching within. Her methods were different.

  She loosened the catch on her skirt and let it rustle softly down her hips and thighs in a heap to the floor, and then she stepped out of it. She took off her blouse, shook her red hair loose again, and sat down naked on Durell’s bed to wait for him. She felt supremely confident that he would not reject what she had to offer.

  A few minutes went by. Madeleine relaxed on the bed, feeling the heat of the North African night like a thick blanket over her naked body. She heard a sound from the young guard in the corridor, then the tinny cacophony of radio music from somewhere in the hotel, then a man’s voice, oddly distorted, speaking in Arabic in a vituperative harangue against the French. Madeleine wished whoever was listening to the propaganda would tum it off. She didn’t care about it, one way or another. If all went well, she would soon be far away.

  But the volume of the radio seemed to come louder, beating against her quiet, wishful thoughts. Through the shrill screaming of propaganda she heard a small thudding noise from the guards position in the corridor beyond the door. She sat up, leaning on one elbow in the semidarkness. She thought Durell might be returning, and this started a quickening sensation in her that surprised her, because a man was nothing new to her, and what she planned to do was no novelty. Yet she thought it might be different with this one. She didn’t know why. Perhaps because she recognized the danger in him.

  The door opened and a man came in. The door was closed.

  “Mademoiselle.”

  It was not Durell’s voice.

  The man was a tall shadow in a native robe. She could see only the angularity of a narrow face when he turned toward her. And then she caught the glimmer of a steel knife in his hand.

  “Go back to your room, mademoiselle, and be silent.”

  She sat up. Her nakedness did not trouble her. But it did not interest the intruder, either.

  “Who are you?” she whispered.

  She saw his movement as a sliding shadow when he bolted the door. The lock clicked. When he came toward her, her fear mounted. She suddenly remembered the men in Paris. There were too many factions in the rebel movement, fighting one another. Had Charley angered one, betrayed one group to gain the favor of another? She opened her mouth to scream, and his reaction came with the speed of a striking snake. His hand clapped over her mouth and his fingers pinched her nostrils shut. She couldn’t breathe.

  All at once panic took her beyond control. She tried to drag the strangling hand from her mouth, but the man’s fingers were like ropes of steel. She lurched to her feet, striking, kicking. There was an odor to the man that urged further terror in her. Her brain screamed at him to let her go. There was a roaring in her ears and she knew she could not break free. A great wave of despair broke darkly over her. She stopped fighting. She let her weight grow suddenly limp.

  Her collapse took the man by surprise. He released her, and she slumped to the floor.

  The last thing she remembered was his rough hands violating her body, picking her up with ease and carrying her off somewhere into welcome darkness. . . .

  Durell returned to the hotel ten minutes later and found the guard sprawled in the corridor in front of his door. He had left Felix, the manager, down in the lobby locking up the hotel. The fat proprietor had told him that DeGrasse had phoned and wanted him to call the command post again, at once.

  It was quiet in the hallway. Durell
knew that an American couple occupied the room farthest from the stairway. He didn’t touch the young soldier once he saw that the man had been slugged and wasn’t dead. He wondered what DeGrasse wanted from him that was so urgent. In the jeep, just before leaving the prison where he had talked to L'Heureux, DeGrasse had asked if it would be possible to take the Larkins to the coast with him if they were willing to risk the trip. Durell had not committed himself. He looked at the Larkins’ door as he stood beside the unconscious guard. There was no sound in the hotel except a muted radio from the kitchen area below, spewing forth propaganda from Cairo.

  He listened to the rasp of the soldier’s irregular breathing and turned slowly. He took his gun from his pocket and walked quietly to his door, then paused. Madeleine’s door, next to his, was shut and the guard had been assigned to keep an eye on her. He turned to the girl’s room instead of his own.

  This door was not locked. He eased it open and moved in behind the swinging panel, his gun held low so it could not be taken from him by surprise. Nothing happened. A lamp shone dimly beside the empty bed. The girl wasn’t here. His eye quickly noted the connecting door that stood ajar to his room. There was nothing but silence and darkness beyond. He moved that way in silence and stood against the wall beside the door, listening.

  He heard the sound of quick, frightened breathing. He decided that would be Madeleine. Then he heard a man’s soft, controlled sigh. He tried to estimate how far the man was standing from the connecting door. Not more than three or four feet, he decided. Durell went in.

  It was easy, after all. The shadowy figure of a man was facing the opposite way, tensely watching the corridor door. Madeleine was on his bed, the coarse sheet held around her. He saw her skirt and blouse in a soft heap on the floor. He wasted no time wondering about it. He held the gun ready and spoke in Arabic, “If you are waiting for me, I am here. Drop your knife.”

  The man turned. In the dim light, his face was like that of an angry hawk. He dropped the poniard. It made a sharp clattering sound on the tiled floor.

  “I come in peace,” he said.

  “With a knife?”