Citadel of Death (A Captain Gringo Western Book 11)

by Lou Cameron

  Headhunters want his skull in the jungle. Women want his body in to bedroom. There’s no escape for Captain Gringo—not even from L’Affaire Dreyfus, the explosive scandal that is tearing Europe apart thousands of miles away

  When Captain Gringo isn’t outracing the angry spears of the native population, he’s dodging the unexpected bullets of British, French, and German agents. It’s time for a vacation—in the arms of a frisky, redheaded reporter on a suicide mission to rescue the notorious Dreyfus himself from the citadel of death they call Devil’s Island!

  CITADEL OF DEATH

  RENEGADE 11

  By Lou Cameron, writing as Ramsay Thorne

  First Published by Warner Books in 1981

  Copyright © 1981, 2016 by Lou Cameron

  First Smashwords Edition: May 2016

  Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information or storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law.

  Cover image © 2016 by Tony Masero

  This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book ~ Series Editor: Mike Stotter

  Text © Piccadilly Publishing

  Published by Arrangement with the Author.

  As the sun was setting in sultry Cayenne, a body lay staring up from the street below as Captain Gringo came out on the balcony again. The tall blond American soldier of fortune grimaced as he saw the corpse was still there. It explained the silence of the street outside the hotel. In the tropics people were usually out on the streets at sunset, cooling off in the sea-scented trade winds as they sized up each other for later, when it would be even cooler and comfortable enough to screw.

  Captain Gringo found it amusing to watch the paseo in a new town. So he’d brought his smoke and bottle out on the wrought iron balcony to check at a safe distance on the local talent. But until somebody hauled away that white clad stiff down there, few femmes in fresh flouncy skirts were likely to be strolling by.

  But what the hell—it was cooler out here, so he pulled out a spidery chair from the painted metal table on the balcony and sat down with his drink and smoke. His more-or-less trustworthy sidekick, Gaston Verrier, was off trying to collect for some smuggled arms they hadn’t been paid for and, if Gaston met anything in a skirt, he’d probably be late getting back to this hotel. It was shaping up to be a dull evening.

  As a conspicuous Anglo Saxon with a price on his head, Captain Gringo felt a certain hesitancy in exploring a strange town, and Cayenne was shaping up to be strange indeed. As the capitol of French Guiana, Cayenne was busting a gut trying to be Paris. The populace seemed divided on the subject. The British, French, and Dutch had played musical colonies along this stretch of the South American’ coast until nobody knew what lingo they were supposed to speak and the resultant Creole dialect was a weird mixture of bad French, bad Spanish, with some pidgin English and a Dutch accent thrown in. The customs seemed different, too. He’d been in some rough towns since escaping from the U.S. Army stockade in the States, but up to now, they’d generally done something reasonably sanitary about corpses in the streets.

  The sunset was at his back as he sat there, morosely smoking and sipping. The eastern sky was purple and Venus, the evening star, winked at him. He knew that Devil’s Island was out there somewhere just over the horizon and he assumed that was why the body spread eagle on the cobble stones below had a red target painted on its white cotton shirt front. The one on the back of the shirt was probably the one someone had put a bullet through, since he couldn’t see any blood from the balcony. The poor slob had been one of the French prisoners from Devil’s Island and it seemed only reasonable that someone had shot him for the standing reward he’d heard about. But, for Chrissake, were they going to just leave him there? He’d be stinking by morning in this heat and Gaston had assured Captain Gringo that this was supposed to be a decent hotel.

  Of course, Gaston could get sort of weird, too, now that he thought about it. The little legion deserter had been on the run so long he probably thought the Algerian Cashbah was a fancy neighborhood. Like most men on the dodge, the Frenchman preferred to hole up in places neither too fancy nor too disreputable. Local police always seemed to keep an eye on the fancy hotels to make sure no tourists were robbed, and of course they expected to find the people who robbed them on the darkest street in town.

  This waterfront hotel had seemed a safe bet to Captain Gringo, too, up until now. But sooner or later, someone had to report that stiff to the authorities. So why in the hell was he just sitting here? Why wasn’t he running, like any sensible knock-around guy?

  “Easy does it,” he warned his itchy feet as he forced himself to take another casual sip of whatever the hell they called this green stuff he’d ordered from room service. The stiff was obviously an escapee. The police should see no need to question anyone in the hotel, and if they did, he’d look more innocent cooling off out here than he would if they found him holed up in a stuffy room at this hour, right?

  Captain Gringo glanced along the row of balconies adjoining his. He saw no other guests enjoying the view with him.

  Was it the slack season, or did they know something he didn’t?

  Captain Gringo decided to go for a stroll—whatever the local form. But as he started to rise, the French doors of his hotel room opened and a woman came out on the balcony to join him. He frowned and removed the cigar from his lips, musing, “M’selle?” For, unless he was losing his touch, the door inside had been locked.

  The woman was young and pretty with long black hair, and was dressed like a lady in a white lace bodice nobody but a European was foolish enough to wear in the tropics. She sat down, uninvited, and said, “You have to help me, Captain Gringo.”

  So he sat back down, too, but said, “I’m afraid you have me mixed up with someone else, M’selle.”

  She sighed and replied, “I know what you wrote on the hotel register, M’sieur Walker. I, too, found it prudent to use an alias. I am Claudette Pardeau. I knocked on your door and when I heard no answer I took the liberty of trying the latch. As you can see, it was not locked.”

  Captain Gringo saw no such thing. But why argue with the lady? He shrugged and said, “Howdy, Pard. Have you any ideas about that dead man down there?”

  Claudette gasped as she glanced where he was pointing. Then she made the sign of the cross and said, “Oh, thank God it’s not him! When I saw the prison uniform I thought for a moment … But let us get back to my reasons for approaching you, hein? I knew the moment I learned you and Gaston Verrier were in town that you were just the men I was looking for. You are my last hope, M’sieur.”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer as he studied her. She obviously knew who he was. He could rule out a police informant, since all one had to do to collect the rewards was inform the police. Ergo she had something else in mind, and he didn’t think it could be three in a bed with him and Gaston. He took a drag on his Havana Claro and waited. Claudette saw it was her move, so she sighed and said, “I represent a clandestine organization interested in a prisoner out there on Devil’s Island. You, of course, are interested in money, no?”

  He blew a smoke ring and raised an eyebrow.

  She said, “A hundred thousand in U.S. currency.” So he said, “Keep talking, Pard. You have my undivided attention.”

  She leaned forward earnestly and said, “You have heard, o
f course, of the Dreyfus Affair?”

  “I’ve seen something about it in the papers. Some French officer got nailed on a spy charge, right?”

  “Wrong! Captain Dreyfus is innocent! The French high command accused him simply because they are anti-Semitic.”

  “Oh, is Dreyfus Jewish?”

  “Oui, an assimilated French Jew like myself. There was a scandal in high places. Some French battle plans were smuggled to the German High Command by someone at French headquarters who had access to them. Most naturally, it was assumed the Jew must have been the one. After all, all the others were Christian gentlemen, hein?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and said, “I used to be a Christian gentleman and my army framed me anyway. How do you know Dreyfus is innocent, and what’s the fuss about in the first place? Last I heard, Germany and France weren’t at war.”

  “Not at the moment,” Claudette said. “The Germans won in ’70 and France means to win the next time. The stolen plans were for the defense of France in case of another German invasion. Naturally, the French high command must now start from scratch on new ones. As to how we know Alfred Dreyfus was innocent of the charges, there are two reasons. Captain Dreyfus is a most dedicated and patriotic French officer. No other man of Jewish birth could have risen so high in our very discriminating army. Captain Dreyfus made it to the general staff on merit alone, since he had no friends in high places.”

  “I’ll buy that.” Captain Gringo nodded. “What’s the second reason?”

  “His so-called trial was a farce,” Claudette replied, adding, “the evidence presented against him was irrelevant and the only thing the prosecution seemed able to prove was that Captain Dreyfus was a Jew.”

  The tall American noticed a wagon coming down the street. As he watched it, he mused aloud, “Prejudice works both ways, you know. What was this evidence you seem to find so flimsy, Pard?”

  “Are you mocking my Jewish name?”

  “No, I thought it was French. But I stand corrected if it bothers you.”

  She sniffed and said, “My name does not bother me—I’m proud of it. My family had a Sephardic surname when few of your kind were called anything but Tom the Miller or John the Weaver!”

  “I think I must be related to some peon who walked a lot. But let’s get back to the evidence against Dreyfus.”

  She looked mollified as she sniffed again and said, “There was no real evidence. A French agent stole an unsigned letter from the German files. It appeared to be an offer from some French officer to betray his own command. It was never proven the Germans had even received the plans, but of course one must assume they may have. Someone at French Headquarters decided the handwriting was similar to that of Captain Dreyfus. Impartial handwriting experts declared in court this was not so, but the judges decided otherwise, and now poor Captain Dreyfus is out there on Devil’s Island, dishonorably discharged and serving a life sentence at hard labor!”

  Captain Gringo didn’t answer. He was watching them load the body down there on the wagon. There were two cops or soldiers in tropic whites and a couple of guys wearing the same shabby prison uniform as the dead man. But he noticed neither had a target stenciled on his shirt. He asked the girl if she knew why and Claudette said, “They are, how you say, trustees? Prisoners from the island and transferred here to the mainland after a few years good behavior on the island they serve out the remainder of their sentences here, as laborers. Naturally, only those serving less than a life sentence are so fortunate, if one calls being an unpaid slave good fortune.”

  He watched the casual work detail and when he saw they didn’t seem at all interested in him, he turned back to Claudette and said, “Somebody must have shot that guy on sight and gone for help with the body. I was afraid they were just going to leave him there for the pigs and vultures. Let’s get back to your Captain Dreyfus. Assuming, for the hell of it, that he’s innocent as you say, what am I supposed to do about it? I’m no lawyer, even if my French was worth a damn.”

  Claudette said, “You and Gaston are soldiers of fortune. You have a boat and a machine gun, no?”

  “No. The launch we coasted down here aboard is on the mud flats with a leaky bottom and a rusted out boiler. Gaston sold the heavy weapons we had on board to some local thugs who shall be nameless. Right now he’s looking for another slob who owes us money and as soon as he gets back we’ll be long gone. This town makes me nervous and Gaston’s wanted by the French, too.”

  She looked discouraged. He discouraged her some more by adding, “Even if we had that little launch in running condition, it’s too big a job to consider. Devil’s Island is way offshore, in green water that goes splash splash. I’ve never been there and never intend to be there if I can help it; but an island prison intended for desperate lifers strikes me as a place that one would expect to find some guards. A lot of guards.”

  “But if you had one of those machine guns you use so well, Captain Gringo—”

  “Hey, come on,” he cut in. “A landing under fire on an island fortress, with one lousy machine gun? A battle cruiser, maybe. I guess a few salvos of eight-inch shells would reduce the place pretty good. But I don’t have a battle cruiser and, even if I did, would you be doing your Captain Dreyfus a favor by pounding the rock he’s on to dust?”

  “We have to help him escape. He’s innocent,” she insisted, stubbornly.

  They were hauling the dead escapee away now, so it was safe to risk a scene as he said, “Why don’t you take a hike, sis? I don’t know what your game is, but I won’t call the cops if you don’t.”

  The brunette gasped and said, “I don’t understand, M’sieur!”

  So he said, “I do. They call it the Spanish Prisoner Con back in the States. It’s usually a rich political prisoner being held in one of those new Cuban concentration camps, but the rest of the story goes the same. A pretty lady comes to the mark with a wild scheme to get the Spanish prisoner out and everybody’s supposed to make a lot of money, right? The man the Doris are holding has a treasure map or funds tied up in the Morgan Trust in New York until he can get to them.”

  Claudette laughed incredulously and asked, “Are you suggesting I’m party to a confidence scheme involving the notorious Captain Gringo?”

  He nodded and said, “Yeah, and I’m pretty insulted, too. I know I’m a Yanqui in banana land, but for Pete’s sake do I look that green?”

  “You don’t understand!” she said. “I know the trick you’re talking about. It’s been in more than one newspaper as a cautionary tale, but this is different. I haven’t come to you asking you to finance a rescue attempt. I’ve come to offer you the money! A great deal of money. Cash up front!”

  He took another sip of his greenish drink, swallowed, and said, “You mean we don’t get the money after Dreyfus is free to tell us where it is?”

  “Of course not. Alfred Dreyfus has no money. The people I work for have the money. They want to hire you, you idiot!”

  He cocked an eyebrow again and asked, “Who are these mysterious people and while we’re on the subject, what happened to that slight French accent you started out with?”

  “If you must know,” Claudette said, “I am working for the freedom of Captain Dreyfus with a ... well … international Jewish group. I didn’t know I had any accent, speaking English. I was educated in New England, but of course, since I’ve been speaking French the past few months—”

  “Aw, come on, why play chess when the name of the game is checkers, Doll? You lied about the way you got through the door inside. You made the sign of the cross, like a Catholic, when you spotted that dead body over there. Now we’re talking about a mysterious organization of international Jews. But you just told me this Dreyfus is an assimilated Jew who considers himself a Frenchman.”

  “If only you will let me explain …” she began, but he was on his feet and lifting her to hers as he cut in, “I’ll show you the way out. I’d let you find your own way, but I’m afraid you’d steal the hat I left h
anging in there.”

  “Please,” she pleaded, as he firmly led her inside. She twisted free and plunked herself down on his brass bed to add, stubbornly, “I’m not leaving until you hear me out.”

  “I don’t want to hear you out,” he said. “You lie too much. So upsy daisy, Doll. Your charade’s over, whatever it was.”

  “Listen, I’m offering you a lot of money, damn it!”

  “I don’t want your money. I just want you out of here.”

  “Don’t you trust me, Dick?”

  So she knew his first name, too? That was sort of interesting and he’d have been tempted to question her further about it, if he’d thought she knew how to level with a guy. He noticed she was fumbling with the buttons of her bodice in the semi-gloom, so he said, “I don’t want your fair white body, either, if it means exposing mine to the bullets I smell in your hair. What the hell do you think you’re doing, Claudette?”

  She opened her dress, exposing a pair of small but perfectly formed breasts as she sobbed, “I have to show you I can be trusted, and you men are all alike!”

  He knew she had a point, as he felt a tingle in his groin, but he made his voice deliberately gruff as he said, “Hey, you’re pretty, but a man who can turn down a hundred thousand dollars can turn down almost anything!”

  Claudette moved back on the bed and began to wriggle out of her dress like a pretty snake shedding its skin as she asked, “Are you sure, Dick?”

  He went to the door, checked the lock, and started unbuttoning his own shirt as he replied, “Well, I wouldn’t want you to leave calling me a sissy. But don’t get the idea I’m agreeing to anything else. I still don’t trust you farther than I could throw you and that bed put together. But if you just want to have some innocent fun ...”

  She kicked free of her skirts to recline invitingly in nothing but her gartered stockings and high button shoes. Her curves were carved in old ivory by the soft light and she was breathing rapidly as he joined her on the mattress to shuck his boots and pants. As he turned to take her in his arms she panted, “Do you trust me, now, darling?”