Citadel of Death (A Captain Gringo Western Book 11)

by Lou Cameron

  The redhead laughed incredulously and said, “Heavens, no! I know these gentlemen. Just by sight, of course.”

  “M’selle described the man who killed those two convicts out there in broad daylight as a tall blond man in a straw planter’s hat and a linen suit of European cut, with a two-gun harness around his hips, non? Forgive me, M’selle, but the tall one there fits your description exactly.”

  The redhead smiled exposing two pretty dimples and met Captain Gringo’s eyes with a twinkle in her hellfire green ones as she said, “I ought to know my own description, Sergeant. I didn’t have to come forward as a witness if I had any reason to conceal the killer’s identity, true?”

  “Naturally, M’selle, but when you reported the killing, you said—”

  “I said a tall blond man had some sort of a tussle with the men you found dead and I did say he wore a straw hat and a two-gun rig. But this is not the man I saw out there. I’m quite positive. I told you I’ve nodded to this particular gentleman before and I’d know the other if I saw him again, too.”

  The sergeant sighed, touched the beak of his cap to anybody who might feel the need of an apology, and said, “Eh bien. In that case we shall have to search further. I thank you gentlemen for being so co-operative.”

  The gun moved away from Captain Gringo’s spine, so he smiled and said, “Hey, you were just doing your job, Sergeant.”

  The French noncom still looked like he’d bitten into an apple with a worm in it, but he nodded and led his men down the steps as the redhead said, “Let’s go inside where we can talk.”

  Captain Gringo knew how the fly must have felt when the spider invited him into her web. But he nodded at Gaston and they followed the mysterious redhead outside.

  The hairs on the back of Captain Gringo’s neck were tingling, for something fishy was going on here. The cops had seemed excited enough about finding a couple of dead bums out in the weeds. How could they have missed the half dozen bodies he’d left all over that abandoned church in the neighborhood?

  Local peons had responded to the sounds of gunplay. What was wrong with the local law? Those guys he’d shot it out with couldn’t have got up and walked away before the cops arrived. There’d been a fix. The guy in the white hat had either cleaned up the mess damned suddenly or he had an in with the colonial government that allowed him to wash his own linen. The stiffs out in the weeds hadn’t worked for white hat, so they’d been allowed on the police blotter and ... yeah, the cops who’d picked him up just now probably didn’t know about the more important fight across the way. That meant white hat was in with somebody higher up. So who the hell was he and what was his game?

  The redhead’s furnished room was shabby and non-descript, save for a new steamer trunk that was obviously the only furniture she’d brought with her. It stood open and was almost as tall as she.

  The redhead waved them to a couple of bentwood chairs, stepped over to the trunk, and pulled out a drawer as she introduced herself. “I’m Birdie Peepers. I work for James Gordon Bennet.” Then she handed them each a large card and added, “These are press passes accredited to my newspaper chain. Fill them in with whatever names you’re using at the moment. Most underpaid customs officials down here don’t know the difference, as long as you show them something.”

  Captain Gringo stared at the documentation and asked, “You’re a newspaper reporter?”

  “Foreign correspondent, s’il vous plait. I mean to knock Nelly Bligh and the other girl reporters out of their socks with the scoop of the century and you boys are going to help me!”

  As the two soldiers of fortune exchanged glances, Gaston asked Birdie, “Ah, M’selle speaks French?”

  “Oui, M’sieur, but let’s stick to Captain Gringo’s English for now. I had to know French to get this assignment, but to tell the truth I’m not very comfortable as a Frog.”

  Captain Gringo asked, “Who’s Captain Gringo?” in an innocent tone.

  Birdie laughed and said, “Nice try, Lieutenant Walker of the 10th Cav.”

  He met her gaze unwinkingly as she perched on the edge of her bed across from him. She perched kind of nice. The green dress was wrapped around a trim little torso that didn’t need foundation garments to hold it together. The dress was thin enough to tell.

  She smiled and said, “My, you are as cool as they say. I suppose the two of you are wondering why I changed my story for the police just now?”

  He raised an eyebrow, so she explained, “I described you so they’d pick you up. I told them they had the wrong man because you’d be no good to me in jail. I’ve been trying to figure out a way to approach you when I saw you in action from that window and I must say you move nicely for such a big man. Now that we’ve been properly introduced, I told you I was down here to get a story.”

  “I don’t give interviews, Birdie.”

  “Pooh, they never sent me all the way down here to write about another soldier of fortune. These woods are full of your kind, thanks to the great depression in the States and a new writer named O’Henry has a corner on telling your tale. I’m here to interview Captain Dreyfus. So far the damned Frogs won’t let me talk to him.”

  Gaston looked pained and said, “M’selle, some of my best friends are Frogs. Would it be possible to call us Frenchmen?’’

  “Sorry, Shorty,” Birdie laughed. “Even if I call them Frenchmen they’re giving me a hard time. They say Dreyfus is being held incommunicado out on Devil’s Island. You boys are going to help me slip into the prison out there for my papers.”

  Captain Gringo shook his head and said, “No we’re not. Prisons make us nervous.”

  “I’m not finished,” she said. “I’m not going to blackmail you by changing my mind to the police and those press passes may save your behinds someday. But there’s more: My boss has chartered that tramp steamer down at the pier. So I can take you aboard and drop you off anywhere you like after I’m through here. How do you like it so far?”

  “Keep talking.”

  “Okay, I know a little of your story, Dick, and you’re in a situation a lot like Captain Dreyfus. A lot of people think both of you got a raw deal at your court martials. Suppose I got you to a safe hideout for a time and started a newspaper crusade to get you a new trial back home in the States?”

  He brightened, heaved a sigh, and said, “It’s a little late. Since you seem to be following my career, you know I killed the officer of the guard as I was making my departure the night before they planned to hang me.”

  “That could be considered self-defense, couldn’t it?”

  “That’s the way I looked at it. But you know how picky the army can be.”

  She shook her head and insisted, “If Zola can get Dreyfus off, I can get you off. I’m a better writer than Zola.”

  “Last time I heard,” he laughed, “Zola wasn’t doing so hot. Dreyfus is still on Devil’s Island and Zola is on the dodge.”

  “Pooh, he’s in England where they can’t touch him and he’s still giving them hell. He has an opposition party man named Clemenceau asking questions in the chamber of deputies, now, and Anatole France has come out for poor Dreyfus, too. The movement’s beginning to snowball and it’s only a question of time. That’s why it’s important I interview him now. Before they let him out and somebody else gets the scoop!”

  Gaston was trying to catch Captain Gringo’s eye as he shook his head. But the tall American didn’t have to be told her idea was dumb. He said, “You’re talking about a maximum security prison fortress and a guy they’re watching like a hawk. You’re not the only one interested in getting to him, you know.”

  Birdie Peepers nodded and said, “I heard about that Jewish organization. The French have, too, and it’s not helping Captain Dreyfus much. But I’m not navigating blind in a complete fog, even if you do think I’m a silly.”

  She rose gracefully and took a folded chart from her trunk, where all sorts of things seemed to be stashed. She spread it on her bed as both men rose to
stand on either side of her. Captain Gringo noticed she wore sandalwood perfume as she pointed down and said, “This is a chart of the facilities on Devil’s Island. As you can see, it’s not a walled castle rising from the sea.”

  Gaston said, “Mais non, it seems to be a quite ordinary French prison camp. Those round circles would be the guard towers. I see the prisoners are kept in these barracks and ... oui, here would be the maximum security cells, sunk in the rock nearer the main headquarters.”

  “Dreyfus isn’t in solitary,” she said. “We know that much. More than one decent French officer feels sorry for him so he’s being treated as well as the other lifers out there. Maybe a little better. You can see there’s nothing much to keep anyone from coming ashore or leaving the same way.”

  Gaston nodded and said, “Practique and cheap, as usual. The main barrier to escape is the shark infested sea itself. It must be trés frustrating to walk about out there, with nothing between you and freedom but an occasional dark fin cutting the placid water, hein?”

  She nodded and said, “The guards find it easy enough to keep the prisoners from building a boat. At night they sweep the sea with searchlights to make sure nobody brings a boat in.”

  Captain Gringo grimaced and said, “That’s what I just said. So how in hell could you expect us to put ashore without a burst of gunfire coming down a beam at us?”

  She shrugged and said, “You’re the professionals. All I need you for is to get me out there and bring Captain Dreyfus back with me. Once we’re all aboard my hired tramp steamer it’s high for the bounding main and an exclusive that will top Stanley and Livingston!”

  “Holy bananas! You intend to rescue Dreyfus, too?”

  “Of course. The fact that he’s out there is hardly fresh news. Stanley didn’t just find Livingston, he saved him, remember?”

  “Not exactly, but I see your point. It’s too big a boo, Birdie. The odds are lousy going in and even worse on getting off the island alone, forgetting Dreyfus. Why not sit tight and let Zola do it the easy way?”

  “Pooh, let Zola get his own story of the century! I thought if we could work out some sort of ruse, to distract the guards as we landed—”

  “What kind of ruse, Birdie?”

  “How should I know? I’m a reporter, not a soldier-of-for-tune. If I were a knock-around guy in your shoes, Dick, I think I’d come up with something fast. I’m making you a hell of an offer, you know.”

  He knew. “I’ll think about it,” he sighed, “I have to know how many guys you have on that boat that we can rely on. I need to see what kind of gear we have to work with. Above all, I need an idea. Right now I’m drawing nothing but low cards from the deck and I have to find the joker.”

  She said, “Sleep on it if you like. I have to the end of the week to either get a story or give up. Dear James Gordon is acting bearish about the expenses I’ve run up so far. But all will be forgiven if I can come back with Captain Dreyfus and an exclusive. Meanwhile, as long as I’m here, have either of you heard of M’Chuma, the new king of the Bush Negroes?”

  “Those are his drums you hear when the wind is right,” Captain Gringo said. “What about M’Chuma?”

  “What about him indeed. I interviewed Geronimo at Fort Sill just before coming down here. He was fun—not at all like I imagined.”

  Captain Gringo sighed and said, “He wasn’t much fun when I was chasing him through Apacheria, Birdie. M’Chuma’s not a defeated chief on a reservation. They say he hates Whites and he’s sitting surrounded by a whole tribe of warriors who seem to feel the same way.”

  “You don’t think you could get me up to his camp in the hills, Dick?”

  “Good God, I’d rather try for Dreyfus on Devil’s Island! At least if we’re caught, we won’t be tortured to death.”

  She looked uncertain, then shrugged and said, “Well, I’ll worry about that another time. When do we go to Devil’s Island, boys?”

  “When I come up with a plan, if I do,” Captain Gringo replied. “Meeting you and talking about that steamboat has changed things, Birdie. The first thing we have to do is mend some fences so that nobody’s looking for us. Come on, Gaston. We’d better go back to the plantation and act innocent.”

  He told Birdie he’d be back around sundown, even if he had to fib about a date with her in town. He added, “The guy we’re working for might ask questions, and he has a lot of informants among the convicts here in town. So it’s going to have to look like you and I are ... you know.”

  She smiled and said, “Oh, right, we’ll put on an act about being lovers.” Then she spoiled it all by adding, “You understand, of course, that this will just be for public consumption? I hope you won’t think I’m old-fashioned, but I’m not that sort of girl.”

  He grinned wryly and added, “Hey, who said I was that kind of boy? The idea will be to have people thinking we’re up here acting naughty-naughty while we’re innocently plotting serious crimes against the state, see?”

  She laughed her understanding and the two of them went down to the street. Gaston asked, “What do we tell Van Horn if he’s back, Dick?”

  Captain Gringo shrugged and replied, “We tell him we went to town, got mixed up with the police, and that I made a date with a redhead. Does that sound suspicious to you?”

  “Mais non, but I don’t think Wilma is going to like it.”

  “Screw Wilma. Come to think of it, Van Horn will probably want to since he didn’t get to last night.”

  As they walked to their tethered horses, they heard a commotion coming their way and turned to see what the noise was about. Three weary-looking soldiers in gunsmoke-stained white uniforms were slogging grim-faced down the street, surrounded by convicts and civilians shouting back and forth. They recognized one in officer’s kit as Lieutenant Granville, from the meeting at the plantation. Captain Gringo said, “Ask him what’s up, Gaston. He doesn’t speak English, remember?”

  Gaston hesitated, nodded, and moved out to fall in step next to the dazed-looking junior officer as Captain Gringo followed along the walk, trying to follow the drift of their rapid-fire French. He didn’t believe what he was hearing until Gaston peeled off, rejoined him, and said, “They are on their way to their headquarters, after a most distressing incident in the jungle. Chambrun is dead. Almost everyone is dead, save for those three who were near the end of the column when it marched into an ambush.”

  “I got that part. What was that shit about a machine gun?”

  “Granville says they were raked by machine-gun fire in the jungle as they formed ranks to face the Ashanti.”

  “The fuckin’ wild tribesmen hosed them down with machine-gun fire?”

  “Oui, it sounds trés mad to me, too, but Granville was there and he should know, hein? Life was so much simpler in the good old days when the natives knew their station in life. Now wild Indians have repeating Winchesters and they say the British have been meeting Afghan tribesmen with their own homemade copies of British repeating rifles. Is it not amazing how a man who sees no need to send his children to college seems to grasp the advantages of modern weaponry so easily?”

  “Yeah. The White Man’s Burden is likely to get heavier before it gets lighter. Let’s ride out.”

  They saw other soldiers on the road as they headed for the Van Horn place. These guys looked clean and were jogging with rifles at port arms. So apparently somebody was already thinking of setting up defense lines.

  As they neared Van Horn’s gate they heard the distant woodpecker snarl of yet another machine gun. So Captain Gringo whipped his horse into a run and moved on the sound of the guns. There were two convicts, armed, on duty at the gate. He reined in and called down, “Get those weapons out of sight. We may have visitors and you guys are only allowed to hold hands.”

  They rode on, swinging wide of the house, and reined in again as they saw what all the noise was about. Van Horn and Chef had one of the Maxim guns set up and were apparently trying to mow down a row of distant bottles
as other convicts watched with interest. Van Horn stopped firing as the two soldiers of fortune joined him, dismounting and tossing the reins to the nearest convicts. Van Horn said, “Oh, there you are. We were just trying out our new ammo. I met the smugglers and their new guide last night. We have enough now to train as well as fight.”

  Captain Gringo said, “Swell. The first thing we have to do is hide every fuckin’ weapon on the place, and hide them good! This place figures to be crawling with security forces any minute. Didn’t you hear what happened to Chambrun’s column?”

  “No. You two are the only ones who’ve been to town since I got back. What happened to Chambrun? Did he have his meeting with M’Chuma?”

  “He sure did, and the Ashanti chopped the shit out of him. Chambrun’s dead. Along with most of his men. The survivors said they were mowed down with guns like these!”

  Van Horn looked astonished and gasped, “Ashanti with automatic weapons? Where in God’s name would they get them?”

  “That’s a good question. Have you checked since Tonda ran off to them?”

  “You mean our guns? Impossible. The other two are ... Chef, you’d better run and make sure, eh?”

  As Chef trotted for the storage sheds, Captain Gringo said, “Even a stolen machine gun needs a gunner. Back in the good old days when they were still talking to you, did you notice many other Whites trading with the Bush Negroes?”

  Van Horn frowned and said, “Not many. They don’t trust the French as much as they do Dutchmen. And I’m the only Dutchman this far south.”

  “A German would look a lot like a Dutchman to M’Chuma, wouldn’t he?”

  Before Van Horn could answer, Chef called out from a doorway, “They are both here, Le Grande Chef! Nobody has trifled with our stored arms!”

  Captain Gringo said, “Yeah, it fits even better now that we know it’s not one of your boys going into business for himself. A very sharp German spy master named Von Linderhoff, added to an Ashanti chief who’s heard Dutchmen are trustworthy, could sure account for a machine-gun crew backing a spear-tossing ambush!”