Roll the Credits: A Hector Lassiter novel

by Craig McDonald

  I checked to make sure Jimmy and Marie were still asleep. I said, “As I’m awake now…”

  We moved on tiptoe. There was a slight breeze across our faces as the brisk night air whisked through the widening crack in the barn door that had softly squeaking hinges. I closed the door softly behind us. Pancho had insisted on following us out; he promptly went off in search of some tree.

  The lights were on in the Dupuis’ house. I checked my watch: Three in the morning. “Guess we’re not the only night owls,” I said. It didn’t seem right they’d be up at this hour.

  Duff nodded. “Probably best we first take a moment and be the spies we’re supposed to be, wouldn’t you say?”

  “You read my mind,” I said.

  ***

  Through a window, we saw the woman and two younger men gathered around the kitchen table, loading guns; slipping knives into pockets and boot cuffs.

  Our host, the farmer Christophe Dupuis, crept into the kitchen with an oil lamp. His wife, Gabrielle, and his two “sons” smiled.

  One of them feigned drawing a knife across his throat and raised an eyebrow. Christophe smiled meanly, nodding. He aimed a gun in the direction of the barn and feigned a shot and the recoil. I ground my teeth, deciding on the spot.

  I’d already had my doubts about a familial connection between the boys and the Dupuis elders. The young fellas didn’t look much like brothers, and they didn’t look like either of their supposed parents, either. Christophe and Gabrielle didn’t seem a real couple. I had this vision of the real farm family that was supposed to be helping us dumped in some silo or at the bottom of some nearby stream.

  All four of the “Dupuis” were armed to the teeth now.

  The woman was gathering a length of clothesline. It wasn’t nearly enough rope to tie up all four of us, but it was just about right to hogtie a little girl.

  Son of a motherless dog.

  Duff whispered, “So it’s like that. We’re outnumbered and outgunned.”

  “But we’re not surprised,” I said softly back. “There’s value in that.”

  “So what do we do?” Tension in her voice.

  I smiled grimly. “We retaliate first.” I pulled a grenade from my pocket.

  Duff was horrified. “You’re carrying those in your pockets?”

  “Just this last one I have left.”

  “You think it will get them all?”

  “Probably not,” I said. “There’s a front door on this place, and a back door. I’m going to break the glass here, shoot as many of them as I can, then shoot the lamp on the table—get that flammable oil out of the bottle, so to speak. I’ll count five—enough time so they don’t have time to throw this sucker back at us,” I hefted the grenade, “then pitch it in. If any are still left alive after the explosion, eventually they’re going to run out the front or back doors because I figure soon enough the house will be on fire. We’ll shoot them as they come outside. Agreed?”

  She looked sickened by the notion but nodded. “There’s no other choice,” she said. Duff chose the back door to guard.

  I managed to get Christophe and one of the boys with my first two shots; my third took out the lamp. The woman and the surviving younger man made it to another room. I pitched the grenade in after them.

  The ground shook.

  Screams.

  The back door opened and a lone figure ran out. Duff hesitated shooting—just couldn’t bring herself to shoot another in the back, I figured.

  Faced with the same choice, I wasn’t so certain I’d have done better…or, to be fair, perhaps bloodier was the more precise word for the act Duff had failed to bring off.

  A low growl at my side: Pancho, snarling.

  I pointed at the distant figure. We just couldn’t risk leaving one for seed or to tell the story. I was about to give the word when Duff beat me to the punch. She said, “Pancho—attack!”

  The dog sprung from his sitting position, stretching out and tearing across the dew-kissed field.

  Pancho seized the running figure by a hamstring, shaking his head side-to-side and dropping the person to the ground.

  The dog moved up the torso next, grabbing the person by the upper arm, again violently shaking his head side-to-side.

  Duff and I ran after the dog. As we got closer, we saw: It was the woman.

  Gabrielle was already in shock.

  I said, “Pancho, stop. For God’s sake, stop.” I got him by the scruff and pulled him back. He’d torn some kind of artery under her arm. Gabrielle was bleeding out. I wasn’t compelled to help her, but I also didn’t want to seen any more damage done to the dying woman. “For God’s sake,” I said softly to the dog, “please stop.”

  17

  Marie was running across the field as I walked back from the stream, Pancho trotting at my heels in the high grass.

  She said, “What’s wrong? Is Pancho sick?”

  That dog was very nearly Marie’s exclusive focus. I said, “He’s fine. Just had to wash out his mouth. He ate something that might be bad for him.”

  Duff was trailing behind Marie. “We’re ready to go,” she said. “Jimmy’s almost finished moving everything into the Dupuis’ truck.” Their bodies were under a rat-infested hay mound in the barn.

  “Good, ’cause I want to make tracks pronto,” I said. “God only knows when those Germans are supposed to get here to take us off the Dupuis’ hands.”

  Jimmy raised and locked the tailgate of the truck. “Guess we’ll steal yet another vehicle, something a little less rural in character, when we get closer to Bordeaux. And we’ll need an extra vehicle anyway when we split up.”

  “I’ve re-thought all that,” I said. “To hell with that notion. There’s been too many leaks, at too many levels. There seems to be deep German penetration of the resistance, of the OSS. I say we go straight to the coast, all of us, together. We’ll arrange our own transportation to England. Whether or not it’s a government boat or plane, between the U-boats and the fighter planes, it’s a crapshoot anyway. Might as well be our show.”

  Duff said, “We go together to Bordeaux?”

  “Nah,” I said. “Not going there. Somewhere more obscure.”

  ***

  It was six in the morning. I was a wreck from filling my body with gallons of black coffee and streams of nicotine.

  Duff stretched and turned around in her seat to face me as we bumped along the road. She said softly, “Sorry. I really meant to keep you better company. I have this sense you’re going to be a mess any moment from all this pushing of yourself past all limits of endurance. I don’t know how you’re sustaining even now, Hector.”

  “Thing to do now is to sprint,” I said. “I’m counting on you and Jimmy carrying the last leg of this thing when we run out of road.

  Duff sighed and tipped her head back against her seat, eyes closed. “Now that you’ve scuttled all the official plans, what really happens now?”

  “I’ve delved into my little black book. Going to reach out to another old friend.”

  “Another Hanrahan?”

  “There’s no such thing,” I said. “But the man I’m thinking of is another friend. He’s clever and scrappy. And, so, maybe just what we need now.”

  ***

  A dockside tavern in Gujan-Mestras: we were watching the wind make whitecaps on the Bassin d’Arcachon. Duff had shamed the keep into sending someone to fetch some milk and a sandwich for Marie. I’d also slipped him a few extra francs to allow Pancho to sit at my feet.

  As Marie ate, sneaking morsels of meat to the dog, Duff stroked the little girl’s hair. She eyed me and said, “Where is this clever friend?”

  Jimmy sipped his ale and said, “Hec may have been glossing that last a bit, dear Duff. This boyo is a bit of a pirate, literally. He’s a merchant marine who used to hang around the Keys when Hec lived there. When our current war started to heat up, our friend Trev thought he might take all his rum and refugee running skills and turn a buck this side while s
till helping the cause. He does all that when that help doesn’t get in the way of his wallet, that is to say.”

  Duff said, “Trev?”

  “Trevor Lord,” I said.

  She said, “A pirate, huh?”

  “That’s Jimmy’s word for the fella, not mine,” I said.

  Duff nodded. “And what would your word for him be?”

  “An adventurer, I guess.”

  ***

  “Ah, the Keys in the twenties! It was like a wide-open border town, and while the rest of the country was dry, we were positively bathing in booze.” Trevor smiled and shook his head at the memory, or at what he remembered of the memory.

  Lord knows I drank my share during prohibition, but Trev drank many people’s share. “It was a hell of a great time.” He smiled and winked at Duff. “The stories I have to tell you, pretty lady…”

  “Another time, Trevor,” I said. “How quickly can we shove off?”

  Trev said, “When does Hanrahan get back? And where’d he go, anyhow?”

  “Jimmy said he’d be back around three or four this afternoon.” I yawned. My stimulants and lack of sleep were starting to hammer hard at me. I said, “As to where he went? He said he had some special things he needed to pick up from some people he’s connected with. Ones he swears he can trust, at least in terms of supplies. When he gets back, we’re all ready to go.”

  “Let’s plan on heading out at 4:30, then,” Trev said. “We’ll keep on until it gets dark, then drop anchor. I don’t like to run at night because of the submarines and overhead patrols. If you’re not dark and still, you’re begging to be a target.”

  “Makes sense,” I said. “I don’t care if it takes two weeks to reach England, just so long as we get there intact.”

  “Two weeks would be a very expensive charter,” Trev said. “Think of my losses on other jobs.”

  I watched Duff watching Trevor, imagining him as she was seeing him—a lanky guy most women would probably call good-looking. He stood six-four, one of the rare men who eclipsed me. He was broad-shouldered and had an easy smile under green eyes. A full head of auburn hair. Yeah, she probably thought him handsome. Trev always did well enough with the ladies in the old days. And he was cocky. Like I said, a hell of a scrapper, too. What was there not to like?

  He said, “Who’s paying for this voyage, Hector?”

  “Duff’s hating you for a money-grubbing mercenary by now,” I said.

  Trevor shrugged. “I was trying to make a joke. Anyway, it’s not like Duff’s on the market, right, so why should I try too hard to be liked? I mean you two are a couple, yes?”

  “Now I’m hating you,” I said. I nodded at Marie. “It’s all about her. If it’s money you want—”

  “I’m just joking, Hec,” he said. “Someone else is underwriting this run back to England. My costs are covered with some special things in the hold I’m transporting. No, I’m doing this for the same reasons you all are, to get this little girl to safety. All I need from you is that you bring your own provisions for this sweetie, here.” He chucked Marie under the chin. She squirmed, evidently ticklish there. Trev said, “I’m not exactly stocked or equipped to see to the needs of children.”

  I sipped some beer. “Right. So let’s split up now, then we’ll reconvene at your boat at 4:30 p.m. What’s your current craft’s name, by the way?”

  “I bought the boat, and changing the name is bad luck,” Trev said, skittish-like.

  I smiled. “Sure, I’ve heard that. So what’s it called? ‘Daffodil’ or something?”

  Trev rolled his eyes. “No, not that bad. It’s Victoire. Grandiose, I know.”

  “It is a tad much,” I admitted.

  Trev checked his watch. “Where are you all staying?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “In a couple of hours, it’ll be a moot point. And if you don’t know and unfriendly types somehow how trailed us here?”

  Trevor scowled. “Right. Now, joking aside, you’re scaring me. This Höttl, he’s really that bad?”

  I said, “Every wicked and warty inch.”

  He looked at his watch again, then pointed at my glass. “How about another drink, Hec? It’s been a long time. We have a lot of catching up to do.”

  “Thanks, pal,” I said, “but we’ve got the trip from here to England for that stuff. I also haven’t slept much in at least thirty-six hours. I still have things to do while I have half a brain left and before I simply fall over dead from exhaustion.”

  Trev bit his lip. “Sure. See you in a bit then.”

  I helped Duff on with her coat and whistled for Pancho. We slid out into the weather. There was a brisk, cold wind off the water.

  Voices, carried on the breeze. I heard conversation, urgent, guttural and officious. German.

  Holy Jesus!

  I grabbed the girls by the arms, looking left to right and back again.

  There was a run of stairs down to a small jetty.

  I said, “This way, fast,” and urged Duff and Marie down the stairs. There was a small dinghy tied-down there. The oars were still in the boat. I helped the girls in, toed Pancho into the boat, then untied it and slid in myself.

  Using a single oar like a canoe paddle, I punted us along best I could directly under the overhead pier, heading back the way the German soldiers were coming directly overhead. From the sound of all the boots and glimpses stolen between gaps in the salt-sprayed planks, I figured there to be at least a dozen of them passing above.

  We reached another small jetty, and I pulled to and roped off the boat again.

  I crept back up to the pier, then signaled the girls and dog to join me.

  We slid back into our truck and headed to our scheduled rendezvous with Jimmy.

  “Another close one,” I said, furious.

  Duff toed around it a while and finally came out and said it in her way, “Those Germans, the questions Trevor asked you about where we’re staying? His trying to get you to stay for another drink, while all the while checking his watch? I know he’s your friend, but…”

  “I’m thinking it, too,” I said, seething. “Reason why I lied to him about Jimmy’s schedule. Trevor’s already sold us out, goddamn it. Swear to God, apart from you and Jimmy, I’m not trusting anyone anymore.”

  Duff placed her hand on my thigh. “What are we going to do now?”

  “I used to have my own boat in the Keys,” I said. “The Devil May Care. I can pilot at sea. I ran all over the Gulf Stream back in the day. So best figure I can find an island as big as England. We’re going to steal Trevor’s crate. We’ll risk the run to Great Britain on our own.”

  18

  Standing on the shore, steadying his elbows on the truck’s roof, Jimmy scanned Trev’s boat with a pair of binoculars. He must have heard my approach; his back stiffened. “Don’t shoot, Jimmy, it’s just me,” I said, padding up behind him.

  Jimmy handed me the binoculars. “I’m relieved to have you back, Hec. Where have you been?”

  “Making sure Trevor isn’t on that boat,” I said. “After the Germans rushed the tavern I picked for our first meeting with Lord, I found a phone and called back there for Trevor. I directed him to our hotel, telling him there’d been an urgent change in plans. Bastard sprinted out of there right along with the Nazis. He drove off with them in one of their troop transports.” I lit a cigarette and said, “Swear to God, I’m losing all faith in my own judgment. And if I ever cross paths with Trevor again, I’m puttin’ him down.”

  “I trusted him enough to support you in this gambit, too,” Jimmy said. “And you’ll race me for the privilege of killing that bastard. We’re just lousy with turncoats in our midst, it seems. Well, we best shake a leg before he comes back here.” He bit his lip and said, “The Keys are a few years behind you, Hec. You can really pilot this rust bucket, can’t you?”

  “I really can,” I said. “No worries there. It’s like falling off a horse.”

  “But you haven’t had a night’s
sleep since I can’t remember when.”

  I flung my yet-to-be-tasted cigarette into the water. It suddenly felt like one too many. “Trevor’s basic plan for a crossing as he described it to me was the right one, I think. We should shut down engines and go dark at night. But first we’ll get some distance from this place. Then, tonight, I’ll sleep. Come morning, I’ll get us underway, put us on our heading, then show you and Duff how to keep us on that beam. While you two take turns making that run tomorrow, I’ll get some more sleep. But first, let’s steal that Judas’ damned boat.” I hesitated, then added, “Ideally, we should kill him doing that.”

  ***

  Trevor dodged a bullet. When we stole his boat, he wasn’t conveniently present to be put down.

  It was a hellish first few hours. I felt nauseous and unfocused from all the tension, nicotine, caffeine and no sleep. The water was choppy and seasickness chased Marie and Duff below. Pancho had followed them down there, looking a bit punk, himself.

  Jimmy scanned our wake with binoculars. “All’s clear, so far. Of course they need only to radio ahead for a sub to intercept us and to sling a torpedo into our side. Perhaps a fighter squadron to find and strafe us.”

  “Yes, so I’m going to shut down in about thirty minutes,” I said. “We’ll hook up Duff’s radio to the boat’s battery. I want you and Duff to use that coded gizmo to see about getting one of our subs or frigates to intercept us and carry us the rest of the way to England. Wild Bill ought to be able to swing that much for us. I mean, the boys who’ll be coming to lend us aid will have been to sea for a time, well outside Höttl’s reach or the influence of his Nazi gold or whatever else he’s using to pay off these traitorous bastards.”

  “Right,” Jimmy said. “Sometime you’re going to have to tell me why dear Bill Donovan would support—or at least appear to support—your bid to deprive Höttl his birth daughter, yet deny you the right to kill Höttl. With your wily ways and the right couple of snipers, putting old Werner on the south side of the sod should be a relatively simple task for you. Done-before-breakfast stuff.”