by James R Benn
"It wasn't all Sergeant Casselli," Willoughby said, straightening up from his slouch. "No disrespect intended, but I do a lot of the real work around here. I could run this place. I think something else was going on."
"Like what?"
"If a guy owed you money, would you let him transfer out? Sir?"
"Poker with Colonel Walton?" I asked.
"That's what they say."
"They? Did Joe ever mention it?"
"No, and I never asked directly. It's an open secret though. The colonel has a group of poker buddies and rumor has it Casselli started joining them just before we shipped out of England. Sounds like he didn't do so well."
"Like Doctor Dunbar?"
"Well, yeah. So the rumors say."
"Regulations say gambling's illegal, as well as fraternization between officers and enlisted men. What other rules do they break around here?"
"I wouldn't know, Lieutenant. I don't really keep up on regulations too much. I guess that's what officers are for."
"Yeah, it does give us something to do. Now what did you want to talk about?"
"Uh, when is the body… Sergeant Casselli… going to be moved out? I need to finish the inventory and he's in the way. Plus all that blood…?"
"Okay. We'll get it cleaned up and then you can get to work. Do you have a morgue here?"
"Not really. There's a basement where it's kinda cool that Graves Registration works out of. That's it."
"Go tell them to pick up the body but not to dispose of it until they hear from me. Then get a detail to clean up in here. I just need a few minutes more. Why don't you take five and then organize all that?"
"Will do, Lieutenant," he said as he pulled a small pack of Chesterfields from his fatigues. "Got a light by any chance?"
"Sure," I said. I was still holding the pack of matches I'd found on Casselli. I opened it up and struck a match. Willoughby lit up and strolled down the hall. I watched him go and wondered if there was less to Private Willoughby than met the eye. Those small packs of Chesterfields were usually found only in K-Rations, and K-Rations were found only at the front. Or in a supply depot, like the one right next to the hospital. Did he get them in a trade or was he the kind of kid who pilfered supplies, knowing that some dogface in a foxhole who thought the cigarettes were the only decent part of K-Rations was going to go without? Now, I know a thing or two about how stuff in warehouses can take a walk. A busted crate here and there and everyone's happy. The smart ones pass it around to the cop on the beat, and he keeps an eye out for them. At least that's how I did my Christmas shopping. But stealing from GIs would be like stealing from the blind. I shook my head wearily at the evil men do as I was about to fold the matchbook in my hand. Then I noticed something white behind the front row of matches. It was a slip of paper. I pulled it out and stepped back inside the storeroom, where I was sure no one could see. It had one hole punched on the side, like it had come from a notebook. I knew before I unfolded it that this piece of paper was from the notebook Jerome had told me about, and that it would be in code.
DBSSFGPVS, and under that, MF CBS CMFV.
Damn.
* * *
Chapter Eleven
I WAS MUTTERING OUT loud as i strode from the depot toward Ward C. I could see jeeps and trucks pulling out of the vehicle park onto the main road, heading away from this damn place. Which was exactly what I should be doing. Why the hell did Joe Casselli have to go and get himself killed? How had he obtained that notebook, or at least a page from it? Okay, I told myself, I'll go ask Jerome about this notebook and see if he knows the code, or even what's supposed to be concealed in it. Then I'm out of here, Colonel Walton or no.
It was the colonel himself who greeted me at the entrance to Ward C. He was standing with a Gardes Mobiles officer who had his left arm in a sling.
"Boyle!" Walton barked, crooking a finger at me. "This is Lieutenant Phillipe Mathenet from the local French police. He's here to collect prisoners." Mathenet made a little bow in my direction. With one arm in a sling and the other holding his blue uniform jacket, a handshake wasn't going to work and I wasn't going to salute another lieutenant, especially a Vichy cop. I wasn't big on bowing either, so I just nodded back at him. He was older than I expected a police lieutenant to be, with thinning sandy hair and bags under his eyes. A narrow mouth and long chin made it look like his face had started a long downward slide.
"Lieutenant," I said, "I hope your wound is not too serious."
"No, Lieutenant Boyle," he said, mustering a smile. "It is nothing. A bit of stray shrapnel. I am afraid there is more damage to my uniform than to my arm. My tailor will have to sew me a new sleeve."
He smiled again as he held up his jacket with his good arm. The sleeve was torn and bloody, but the rest of the jacket was fine. It seemed like a custom-made job. His pants and shoes were expensive, and his watch looked like a week's pay. Maybe he'd spent all of his lieutenant's salary on this fancy uniform. Or maybe the tailor was on his beat. Or he'd been lucky at cards. Or he was a crooked throat-slitting son of a bitch.
"Yeah," I said, "War is hell. You taking all of these kids out of here?"
His smile faded, fast. "That is no business of yours, or of the American Army," Mathenet answered. "These rebels tried to overthrow the legitimate government of this province. We do not take such actions lightly."
"Boyle," said Walton, "I ordered you to look into the death of Sergeant Casselli, not to antagonize the representative of the local authorities. Now get to it!"
I couldn't think of a reason to go in to see Jerome that would hold water with Walton, but I needed to talk to him before Mathenet rounded him up. Chained to his bed, I couldn't pretend he'd been a witness to anything, so Walton probably would blow a gasket if I paid him a visit instead of playing Dick Tracy. Before I could think of a pretext, a truck drove by, stopped, and backed up toward the entrance. Another Gardes Mobiles cop got out, saluted Mathenet, and handed him a clipboard. As they all consulted it, I stepped away and quietly went inside.
I opened Jerome's door expecting to find him alone and terrified. Instead, he and Gloria Morgan were both seated by the window, raising glasses in a toast. He was smiling and the manacles and chain had been removed from his leg.
"Having a party?" I asked, confused.
"We're celebrating and commiserating, Billy," said Gloria.
"I am to be freed," said Jerome, "and we are saluting your Sergeant Casselli."
"I just came off duty and needed a drink, after everything that happened today." Gloria explained. "I saw a letter from General Juin's headquarters, ordering Jerome to be released as soon as he was healthy enough. Isn't that marvelous? I was so happy to hear some good news that I came by to celebrate. So, bottoms up!" She and Jerome drained their glasses.
"What is that you're drinking?" I asked as I saw them slosh down something green.
"Créme de menthe," answered Gloria. "It's a liqueur, very French. It's an acquired taste, which Jerome and I share. Sorry I can't offer you any, Billy. That was the last of it."
"Don't worry, I like my liquor amber and Irish. That's great news, Jerome. How'd you pull it off?"
"I knew my family was trying to get General Juin to intercede. They are not without influence here, and finally it worked. Just in time," he sighed heavily. He looked tired. Suddenly we heard a commotion in the hallway, shouts and cries in French.
"They're clearing out the ward," said Gloria. "All except a few serious cases. There's nothing we can do. I'm so sorry about your friends, Jerome."
Jerome nodded, sadly, his eyes cast down, his hands cradling his empty glass.
"Well, that's enough excitement for one day. Let's get you back in bed and I'll come and check in later," Gloria said. She helped Jerome up and got him settled, tucking him in and smoothing his hair back from his forehead. He smiled at her and yawned. Gloria smiled back and then picked up the glasses and a small bottle, putting them on a tray and covering it with a hand towel.
"Sure," I said. "My lips are sealed. Can I just sit in here with him for a while?"
"No, you may not. Doctor Dunbar gave him something to calm him down earlier. He was very upset about his brother's death, and his friends being taken away. It would be better if he slept now. Later, after it's over, come and visit." Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and she nodded her head toward the door.
"Okay." I looked at Jerome. His eyelids were heavy and he looked like he was about to drop off. It could wait, I decided. Let the poor guy sleep. I followed Gloria out and closed the door. By now, there were about twenty patients, or prisoners, lined up to board the truck. Some were on crutches and all were bandaged. A few tried to appear unconcerned, but most had that same look of terror on their faces I had seen on Jerome's this morning. Now he was sleeping like a lamb, us his friends were being led to the slaughter, courtesy of the ever helpful Colonel Walton, who was slapping Mathenet on the back like an old buddy.
I couldn't watch anymore and decided it was a good time to check on Kaz again. I walked to the main hospital building, passing by the Supply Depot where work crews were busy cleaning up damage from the morning's bombing raid. This war wasn't making a lot of sense so far. The Vichy French fight us, the Germans bomb us, and we turn over the kids who are on our side to the Vichy police. I hoped Uncle Ike knew what he was doing. Inside the hospital, I found Dunbar at the desk near the nurse's station doing paperwork. I filled him in on my conversation with Willoughby, leaving out the matchbook, and told him about moving the body to Graves Registration.
"Thanks, Boyle. Sorry I blew up before. I don't like being interrogated like a suspect."
"Everyone's a suspect. Nothing personal. Sometimes you just have to ask a lot of dumb questions to get one good answer."
"Kind of like making a diagnosis, maybe?" He tossed down his pen. I wondered how long before he blew up again. This guy was under some kind of pressure.
"Yeah, probably. How's Kaz doing?"
"Very well. I just saw him and there's a marked improvement. His fever's down, and the swelling and inflammation are almost gone. He responded very well to the treatment. Go see for yourself."
"I will. And thanks, Doctor. You saved his life."
"Actually, you did, Boyle. If you hadn't brought him in he'd have lasted only a few hours."
I mumbled something and took off down the hall. I didn't want to confess that Kaz was in this fix because of me in the first place. I was glad to hear the good news, but I was still worried. Kaz was a little guy in lousy health, and that was before he took a slug and then got gangrene waiting for yours truly.
I needn't have worried. I found Kaz sitting up in bed, a huge white bandage wrapped around his arm, with a pretty redheaded nurse feeding him soup.
"Really?" she was saying as I walked in, "a real baron? I never met royalty before." She stuck a spoonful of soup into Kaz's mouth as he noticed me in the doorway. He smiled weakly as he swallowed and gave a little apologetic shrug.
"There," the nurse said, dabbing the corner of Kaz's mouth with a napkin, "I'll leave you to your visitor, Baron, and come back to check on you later."
"Thank you, Rita," Kaz said. "But I am fine."
"It's no problem at all," she said, keeping her eyes on Kaz. She walked by me like I was a piece of furniture. Kaz looked away from me, and raised his good hand to wipe away a tear, then covered up by making a show of adjusting his glasses.
"It's okay if a pretty girl makes a fuss over you, Kaz," I said in a low voice as I took the chair Rita had just vacated. "You don't have to give her the cold shoulder."
"Why would my shoulder be cold? We are practically in the desert here."
"Don't change the subject," I said. Kaz loved American slang and he and Daphne used to go to gangster movies just to pick up new phrases. I thought he might know this one already but wanted to divert my attention.
Kaz turned away to stare at nothing.
"Sorry," I said. "I just hate seeing you all torn up."
"She is very pretty, and kind," Kaz said in a tired, low voice. "But all she can do is to remind me of what Daphne and I once had. I would rather she was plain and heartless. I have no room for kindness."
I couldn't think of anything to say, or do. Someone dropped something out in the hallway and the clatter and cursing echoed off the tiles. I was glad of the distraction.
"You look better, Kaz. Last night was pretty bad."
"Thank you for taking care of me, Billy. They say I would have died if you hadn't brought me here."
"Yeah, well, you wouldn't have gotten shot if you hadn't rescued me, and your arm wouldn't have gotten so bad if you hadn't waited for me last night, so we're even. Forget about it. How are you feeling?"
"Much better. I woke up a while ago and was actually surprised to feel so well, even though my arm hurts. They had to clean out the wound and re-stitch it. Rita told me about the penicillin they gave me. It's a miracle drug. Do you know about it?"
"More than I want to. I've got a lot to tell you-"
"Tell both of us, Boyle." The deep voice of Major Sam Harding boomed out from the doorway where he stood; the expression on his face said he was not pleased. Gloria Morgan stood right in back of him. Her face told a different story. She looked very happy to be in the major's company. She gave me a little raise of her eyebrow and a coy smile, then vanished as Harding shut the door behind him, but not before he'd given her a smile and a nod. I had a feeling they'd be doing some catching up later.
"How are you, Lieutenant Kazimierz?" Harding asked as he took off his helmet and sat next to Kaz's bed on the chair I had occupied before his arrival.
"Fine, sir. My arm hurts a bit, but they said that would pass. I am very lucky Billy got me here in time."
"Good. Now tell me what the hell is going on," Harding said, his eyes drilling me. "This morning I got your message that you'd brought I Lieutenant Kazimierz here, but I assumed it was just to check his wound. Then I get a phone call from Gloria… Captain Morgan… informing me that it was gangrene and that oh, by the way, the CO here wants you to investigate a murder!"
"Bet it was a real surprise hearing from her, Major." I said.
His look said the topic was off limits. The room went totally silent.
Kaz glanced between us. "Do you know Captain Morgan, Major?" he asked, tentatively. A couple of seconds passed very slowly as Harding turned his gaze toward Kaz, who obviously was unaware of their history. Some of the grimness left Harding's face, mostly because he wasn't looking at me anymore. It made me wonder about what had happened between him and Gloria. And what might happen next.
"Yes. We served together for a while back in the States. She's career Army Medical Corps."
More silence. That was going to be it. I looked at Kaz. He looked at Harding. Harding looked at me. Right back where we started.
"Start at the beginning, Boyle," Harding said as he shook a cigarrette out of a pack of Lucky Strikes and lit up with his Zippo. That reminded me of Willoughby's Chesterfields.
"Just one quick question, first," I said, "sir." Always helps to remember to call 'em sir when they're in a bad mood. "Those little four-packs of Chesterfields, do they only come in K-Rations?"
"Yes," answered Harding. "Why?"
"And K-Rations are only issued to guys in the front-lines, right?"
"Who else would want to eat them? Now what's this all about?"
I thought about Willoughby and how he was probably just a little rat who pilfered supplies when he had the chance. That was a court martial offense, but turning him in wouldn't get me anywhere. Better to leave a little leverage in case I needed it later.
"Probably nothing. Not worth going into. So where do we start Kaz?"
We were each thinking fast, trying to come up with some explanation as to how we
'd gotten the information from Bessette's office. An explanation that didn't involve rooftops and late night burglary.
"Late last night we made contact with Agency Africa," Kaz blurted out first, as if he didn't trust me to concoct a good story. I had forgotten that his job was to find out if any part of the pre-war Polish spy network still existed and make contact after we were established in Algiers. "We asked if they knew anything about the political prisoners," Kaz continued, "and gave them the names of the French officers involved, Villard and Bessette." Then he looked up at me. Not a bad cover story. I picked it up, using Agency Africa as the source of the information I'd discovered.
"They said Bessette is as crooked as they come, that he's involved in drug smuggling. He recently had a French Army officer killed after he threatened to expose him."
"Do they have proof?" Harding asked.
"An eyewitness, but no other hard evidence. They did tell us two things about the supply depot at Bône where Villard was headed with the prisoners. First is the password: Le Carrefour."
"Crossroads," Kaz translated for us.
"Go on," said Harding. I took a deep breath. It was just a hunch, and I had been wrong before, but there was something about that matchbook, and all those bills in Bessette's desk drawer.
"A contact for the smuggling operation can be made in a bar, Le Bar Bleu, in Bône, near the supply depot. There's a link between Villard, the prisoners, and the smuggling operation."
I didn't know that there was such a link. Maybe Bessette just collected matchbooks. But I had to keep this thing going in the same direction that Diana was headed, or I'd never see her again.
"Interesting," said Harding, giving me a once-over that said he believed me about as much as he believed we'd be home by Christmas. "What was the name of this contact?"
I looked at Kaz, who simply shrugged. "We were not given a name, Major."
"Man or woman?" he asked. We both hesitated for a heartbeat, but It was long enough for Harding.
"Never mind," Harding said, "I don't want to undermine the enthusiasm of my junior officers, even if they use unorthodox and illegal means."