Aubrielle's Call

by Bowen, C. Marie

  “Right.” Billy nodded and sat up. “Gah! The stitches pull when I move.”

  “If you can’t walk from here to the next room how much help would you be tonight?” John shooed Henri out of the way.

  Henri backed down the short hall and into the kitchen. “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He took a bullet in his side the other night. Mae stitched him up.” John put on his overcoat. “No, this is too dangerous. You shouldn’t get involved." He settled his fedora on his head and reached for the door. "There’s no shame in staying here with Billy.”

  “I don’t care.” Henri’s eyes were wide as he snatched his cap and jacket from the couch. “I’ll go with you.” He pulled on his coat and glanced back as Billy wobbled into the kitchen. “Better than staying with a cranky Brit.”

  “I heard that,” Billy called.

  John held the door while Henri walked out and hurried down the stairs. “It’s possible Bonet has heard something about François. If not, I’ll ask him to arrange a meeting with René. I’d like to know what he saw that night.”

  Billy nodded as he lowered himself into the chair and opened Mae’s bag.

  John closed the door and caught up with Henri at the bottom of the stairs.

  Large white flakes floated down through the glow of the streetlamp. Glistening cold and white, it covered the cars parked along the street.

  “Who shot him?” Henri asked with a quiet voice.

  John rolled his shoulders. The holster and gun were an unfamiliar weight across his back and beneath his left arm. “We don’t know.” They moved into the street, away from bushes and winter plants weighted with snow. “But whoever shot Billy took François.”

  “For what purpose?”

  They turned at the cross street and continued toward the broader avenue.

  “Billy thinks they hope to exchange François for the remaining American weapons.”

  Henri slowed his pace and stared at John. “Acquisition and trade, was it?” He hurried to catch up with John’s long stride. “Who’s Maurice Bonet, and why do you think he knows who has François?”

  John stopped on the broad avenue and looked both ways. Traffic was sparse on the snow-covered boulevard with no cab in sight. “Bonet owns a musical club—La Fleur Chantante—on the north side. Do you know of it?”

  “Actually, yes.” Henri tucked his chin as he and John headed north, into the slight breeze. “I’ve been there. It’s high class. You think the owner, this Bonet, snatched Billy’s friend?”

  “We don’t know.” An icy breeze snaked down John’s collar, and he buttoned his coat’s top clasp. He glanced back, hoping to spot a cab. “Bonet set up the meeting for the arms sale—he’s the broker. He’ll know how to contact the buyer. Billy hopes one of them will have information about François—perhaps a ransom demand.”

  John threw up his hand and waved at a passing cab.

  The driver slowed to a stop and rolled down his window. “Où allez-vous?”

  John bent to the window. “La Fleur Chantante.”

  “Entendu. Montez.” The driver cranked up his window.

  Henri opened the back door and slid across the seat.

  The cabbie started the meter as soon as John sat down and closed the door.

  CHAPTER 19

  The cab slid to a stop across from the club. John paid the fare, then paused to observe the club's exterior. The narrow front, between two adjacent businesses, had been cast in rough-cut gray stone. Whimsical painted flowers decorated the transom above the double doors. Beside the entrance, a billboard promised a special New Year’s Eve Extravaganza for the price of a ticket.

  John’s arm brushed the hidden weapon beneath his jacket.

  Had Bonet engineered the betrayal from the beginning?

  He straightened his coat and studied Henri. An arrogant young man with a rapidly changing view of life. I hope I don't get him killed

  “There’s usually an attendant outside the entrance,” Henri commented.

  John leaned into the door, and it swung opened.

  Henri followed John inside.

  An accordion provided a soft musical background enhancing the intimate setting. The depth and grandeur of the club must have cost the owner a small fortune. Besides La Fleur Chantante, and smuggling arms, what else lined Bonet's pockets? Double-dealing?

  A raised stage with a short walkway stood center along the long wall. Around the platform, a sea of table lights glowed pink, a reflection of the blood red tablecloths. The small dance floor next to the stage and musicians area would allow patrons to enjoy their bal musette.

  “Puis-je vous aider?” A big man in a dark suit waited beside a small reception podium. The tall, muscular man, who except for his height, reminded John of his former shipmate Taylor—short hair, thick neck, and broad shoulders.

  “Bonjour,” John replied, removing his hat. “Monsieur Bonet, s'il vous plaît.”

  The doorman’s brow furrowed and he glanced over his shoulder.

  John followed the guard’s gaze past the wrought-iron rail that edged the elevated seating area. Several men and women occupied a curved red leather booth. The club’s only occupants tonight.

  The big man turned back to John. “Je suis désolé. Nous sommes fermés.”

  Henri scoffed. “Clearly, you’re neither sorry nor closed. If you were closed, the door would have been locked.”

  The doorman scowled at Henri, jutting his chin and rotating one shoulder.

  John stepped between them and pointed to the group of people beyond the doorman. “Is that Monsieur Bonet? We’d like to speak with him.”

  The doorman clenched his fists and popped his knuckles.

  John ignored the man’s threatening demeanor and called across the club. “Monsieur Bonet? Un moment, s'il vous plaît”

  The small group seated at the booth fell silent and observed John. “I would speak with you about François Belliard.”

  The doorman craned his neck to see the reaction from the table.

  John moved forward.

  The guard stopped John with a hand to the middle of his chest.

  “I’ll only take a moment of your time,” John called to the table.

  A man in the center of the group spoke briefly to his companions then waved John forward.

  “Votre arme.” The guard narrowed his eyes and held out his hand.

  John raised a brow at the guard, unbuttoned his overcoat, and pulled his revolver from beneath his jacket. “How did you know?” He placed the gun in the man’s open hand.

  The impassive doorman stowed the gun beneath the podium. “You may retrieve your weapon when you leave,” he advised in heavily accented English.

  “Perhaps you should lock the door,” Henri whispered to the doorman when they walked past.

  As John approached the stairs, two females fled the table. Dressed in identical shimmering dresses, the women sparkled. Small tufts of colorful feathers, connected to their headbands, swayed in the air as they scurried away.

  Three men remained seated. One man, with a red birthmark or dark scar along his jaw and down his neck, waited beside the booth.

  John dismissed the men dressed in the same dark suit as the doorman and focused on the smug-faced gentleman seated at the back of the curved bench.

  Heavy-set, with an olive complexion and a thin mustache along his upper lip, the club owner lounged between his companions. Maurice Bonet. The older man’s body language, paired with his costly, cream-colored silk, proclaimed his elevated status. Full red lips pouted beneath a broad nose, thick brows, and dark, greased-back hair. Heavy lidded eyes studied John as he approached. “Have you come to beg forgiveness for your friend?” He picked up his half-smoked cigar and crushed the damp end between his teeth. “I do not deal gladly with fools. Where is François? Afraid to face me?”

  John allowed the women to pass down the steps before he mounted the short stair. He hadn’t considered the possibility Bonet would hold François responsible.
His hope of a positive meeting sank into the reality of an angry confrontation.

  So be it.

  John let his disgust at the situation flare, and he ground his teeth.

  Perhaps Bonet has something to hide.

  “Beg your forgiveness?” John stalked toward the table. “On the contrary.”

  The men seated on either side of the owner came to their feet at John’s rapid approach.

  John ignored them. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Bonet. “I’m here to determine what role you played in this disaster.”

  “Explain yourself.” Bonet removed the cigar from his lips, never breaking eye contact with John. “Who are you and what do you mean by my role?”

  John inhaled slowly through his nose. “My name is John Larson. My companion is Henri Vogl.” John glanced at the men standing beside the booth, then concentrated on Bonet. “To my knowledge, only the seller, the buyer, and you, had foreknowledge of where and when the exchange would take place.” John’s anger sparked again, and he tamped down his fury and impatience. “Is that correct?” he said through clenched teeth.

  “So?” Bonet sat forward. “François betrayed my trust and attempted murder to cover his duplicity.” His thick lip curled. “I should have you shot as an example of how I repay such dishonesty.” His face colored with anger, and a string of spittle quivered from his lower lip.

  “John?” Henri whispered in alarm.

  John leaned forward and rested his knuckles on the table in front of Bonet. “If what you say is true, then why did François gun down his partner? The man who held both the cash from the trade and the keys to the vehicle hauling the merchandise?” John straightened, reached in his coat and tossed down several short stacks of 1000-franc notes in front of Bonet. “Keep the weapons. Keep the buyer’s money for all I care. I want my man back.” He hit the table with his fist. “Give me François.”

  The club owner blinked at the notes on the table. “You think I—” His wide-eyed stare lifted from the franc notes to John as his high color bled pale. He waved his hands at his men. “Bruce, Marcel, leave us. Karl, bring fresh wine.”

  “Oui, monsieur,” the man with the dark scar said with a short bow.

  The suited men moved away. One crossed to speak with the doorman while the other two slipped out through a passage near the stage.

  When they were alone, Bonet muttered, “I’ve been misinformed about certain critical aspects of this—disaster.”

  John tossed his fedora to the tabletop behind him. “Convince me of your sincerity. From where I stand, you are the one with the most to gain.”

  “I’ve gained nothing! Because of this embarrassment, my reputation as a broker is tarnished. In the end, that’s all you have in this line of work. The trust of your associates.”

  “Monsieur Bonet, I have one man recovering from a gunshot wound, and one who remains missing.” John held tight to his temper, but his voice rose despite his best effort to stay calm. “Your reputation means nothing to me in light of everything your brokerage has cost.”

  “Monsieur, I assure you, I had nothing to do with this.” Bonet shoved the stacks of cash to the far side of the table. “I am appalled.”

  From the door near the stage, the marked manservant came back carrying three long-stemmed glasses and a bottle of wine.

  Henri leaned forward, his voice low. “If not you, then who? The buyer lost their cash, which we have generously returned. We’ve lost both men and merchandise. It seems, if you are indeed as innocent as you claim, there is but one remaining possibility.”

  Bonet’s steady gaze switched from John to Henri. “What do you mean?”

  “How well do you know the people who work for you?” Henri leaned in and whispered, “How much do they overhear?”

  The manservant approached the booth and set the glasses on the edge of the table. “Votre vin, monsieur.” He held the unopened bottle to Bonet to inspect.

  Bonet read the label. “Merci, Karl. C’est très bien.”

  Karl uncorked the bottle, poured a sample in one of the glasses and stepped back.

  Bonet tasted the vintage, gave a single nod of acceptance, then set his glass back on the table.

  Karl folded a napkin around the bottle and poured wine into Bonet’s glass. He paused and looked at John. “For you, monsieur?”

  “No, thank you. We’re leaving.”

  Karl nodded, set the bottle in a wine-stand near the booth and stood back, hands folded in front. He looked from John to Henri, and then with increasing alarm, at his employer’s stare. “Ai-je offensé, monsieur?”

  Bonet shook his head. “Non, ce sera tout.”

  Karl gave Bonet a short bow, turned and walked away.

  “Do you intend to return the francs to the buyer?” John asked.

  “Bien entendu,” Bonet responded.

  “Then if you would,” John said as he reached for his hat, “ask them if they remember seeing anyone that night. François’s partner spoke to a man named René. Perhaps he may know something.” John straightened the hat’s brim. “Put out the word that we are willing to ransom our associate, if that’s what it takes to guarantee his safe return.”

  “Certainly.” Bonet picked up his wine, swirled the vintage, and then studied the liquid in the glass. “How shall I contact you?”

  “You don’t. Either Henri or I will contact you tomorrow.” John buttoned his coat as he walked away. “I hope you have good news.”

  “Yes, of course,” Bonet agreed. “I have but one last question, if I may.”

  John paused and looked back. “Yes?”

  “What is your role concerning François and the arms sale?”

  “How am I involved with the American weapons?” John asked.

  “Oui.”

  “I’m the American.” John put his hat on, retrieved his gun from the doorman, and followed Henri from the club.

  There were no cabs outside. Henri buttoned his jacket as he looked both ways along the parkway. “That was invigorating.”

  “What made you ask about Bonet’s employees?”

  “I’m Austrian.” Henri shrugged. “And by how Karl pronounces certain words, he’s German.

  CHAPTER 20

  Chanted Hebrew prayers woke Aubrielle from a sound sleep.

  He’s remembered.

  For half a breath, she was a child again, with Papa at prayer before going downstairs to work, and Mama preparing breakfast in the kitchen. She held onto that illusion for as long as she could, but the silence from the kitchen tore at her heart.

  “Marguerite?” Papa called from his room.

  Aubrielle opened her eyes. The reality of another sunrise slanted through her curtains.

  Perhaps Tante Mae can stay with Papa today while I shop for candles and candies.

  She’d hoped to have purchased the Hanukkah items by now, but hadn’t been unable to leave the house for almost a week.

  Mae had knocked on the door four days ago, apologetic and rushed. Antoine, her head baker, had become seriously ill. Mae would be busy at the bakery and unable to sit with Lou until Antoine returned to work.

  John had come to her house each morning, willing to escort her to the market.

  She had turned him away each time.

  He’d even offered to stay all afternoon and help take care of Papa, but she’d declined that offer as well.

  John had enough on his mind.

  Besides, were I to add my burdens and heartache to his, our potted mix would grow a sour relationship of thorns instead of the perfect bloom I desire.

  She made a face at her poetic whimsy. If she were honest, she also wanted to bathe and look her best for John.

  Flowers grow best in a well-tended garden. Her mother’s voice scolded in her memory.

  “Marguerite?”

  “Un moment, Papa.” Out from beneath her covers, the room chilled her skin, and she pulled on her housecoat.

  Her father stood in the hall, shirtless and shivering—a skeleton o
f the man she remembered. He pointed a trembling finger toward his room. “Someone poured ice water on my bed. Pourquoi?”

  “Oh no,” Aubrielle murmured as she fought back tears he wouldn’t understand. Poor Papa. “Let me run a warm bath for you.”

  “Aubrielle?”

  “Yes, Papa?” She wrapped a bath towel around his naked shoulders, switched on the bathroom light and knelt to prepare a bath.

  He followed her and stood in the doorway. “I had a dream,” he said above the sound of the water. “I was a young man who served a knight.” He shivered and his voice grew reminiscent. “I took care of his horse, and I polished his armor until it shone like the sun.”

  Warm water spilled over Aubrielle’s wrist, and she closed the drain and stood. “What a pleasant dream.”

  “It seemed real.” His unfocused gaze changed and he looked at her. “Where’s your Mama?”

  Aubrielle took a deep breath. She had no answer he could accept at this moment. To speak the truth would break his heart. “I’ll find you something to wear.”

  She pulled clean clothes from his drawers.

  His bedding will need to be laundered.

  The wringer-washer was downstairs in the shop. If Mae could watch Papa, Aubrielle would be able to wash their bedding and clothes, hang them to dry in the sun, and then iron the clothes. A full day’s work.

  So much for shopping.

  And time was running out. Hanukkah would begin at sunset the day after tomorrow.

  At least, I found Papa’s special menorah.

  In the bathroom, her father hadn’t moved. She set his clothes on the counter beside the sink and turned off the tub faucet. “I’ll be down the hall if you need me.”

  His eyes shifted to her, then away.

  “Papa? Take off your wet clothes and get into the warm bath. It will feel good.”

  “I’m sorry, ma belle Aubrielle.” His lips trembled.

  “Sorry?” She leaned forward to see his face. “For what?”

  “Ma belle fille, so like your sweet mama. I know she’s gone. I know that, but I forget sometimes.” He looked into her eyes. “My child shouldn’t be trapped caring for a sick old man. I can’t—I know I can’t—remember things. I try—” A single tear slid down his cheek. “Pardonne-moi, s'il te plaît.” He held a trembling hand beside her face.