by James R Benn
“Who is it?” I said, pushing past Marcel Jarnac and Emilie.
Jules Herbert knelt by the body of an American officer, the lower back of his Ike jacket stained in darkening blood. Jules gently turned the body over, revealing the strangely peaceful face of Lieutenant Sean McKuras, who would never again see the spires of Notre Dame.
Chapter Eight
“Secure the area,” Harding said, pushing through the crowd. “Get everyone back into the salon. No one leaves. Not the French, not our men.”
Big Mike began to usher people upstairs. Harding intercepted a major and ordered him to organize the officers and GIs separately for questioning. Then he came back down the stairs, taking in the group still gathered around the body. Jules with his arm around Marie-Claire, and between Kaz and me, Jarnac, who stood with Emilie, whose face had gone white.
“He is dead, Colonel,” Kaz said, feeling for a pulse on McKuras’s neck as he knelt by the body.
“Monsieur Jarnac,” Harding said, “would you please escort Emilie upstairs?”
“Merci, mon Colonel,” Emilie said, making the sign of the cross. “It is so upsetting to see the blood of the innocent spilled, even after years of war.”
“Of course,” Harding said, as Emilie put her arm through Jarnac’s and gave one last glance at the corpse. Jules and Marie-Claire started to follow, but I took Jules by the arm and told him to stay. He let Marie-Claire go with reluctance as we returned to the body on the landing.
“Were you the first to see the body?” I asked Jules, keeping a grip on him and checking his hands for any sign of blood.
“I do not know,” he said. “I was close to the front as people began to leave the cellar. It looked like someone stumbled ahead of me, and I saw le lieutenant on the ground. I thought he’d fallen and was hurt. Then came a scream, and I saw he was dead. I did not do this to him!” He yanked his hand away as he became aware of just what I was looking for.
“Is this how he lay?” Kaz asked, sweeping his hand along the body.
“I did turn him over, but yes, it was like this,” Jules said.
“So, he was on his stomach, with his head facing the cellar door,” I said. “He was stabbed from behind and most likely fell forward.”
“He wasn’t leaving the cellar then,” Harding said. “He was coming down the stairs.”
“With the killer at his back,” Kaz said, standing and dusting off his knees.
“Sam, you better get up here,” Big Mike yelled from the hallway above. Big Mike often used the colonel’s first name, but seldom within earshot of so many people. Which meant something was very wrong.
“I’ll stay with the body,” I said, nodding to Kaz. He understood and left with Harding. Jules followed, looking worried and confused.
I knew the feeling.
I rolled McKuras over to see exactly how he’d fallen, cradling his head to avoid a final indignity on the hard marble. A small patch of blood stained the floor. He’d died quickly, likely from internal bleeding.
The slice through the fabric was thin and narrow. A dagger-cut right to the kidney. A quick kill with a twist of the blade, severing the major arteries and veins which ran through the organ. Lieutenant McKuras was murdered by someone who knew what he was doing and had the right weapon for the job. Which included most of the people who’d been at this morning’s gathering. The assassin was cool and collected as well. Two swipes of blood on the lieutenant’s sleeve marked where the killer had cleaned his blade.
McKuras was the first casualty of this deception, and I hoped the commotion upstairs was all about the stolen map. But I feared otherwise. McKuras was killed because he saw something, and it wasn’t the map being taken. That could’ve been explained away easily. If it had been me, I would have feigned outrage, saying I was simply safeguarding a top-secret document so rashly left in plain sight.
Two GIs with a stretcher finally showed up, and I told them to take McKuras to the morgue. They looked at me as if I was speaking in tongues.
“The field hospital then. Have your sawbones do an autopsy,” I said, hoping that was clear enough. “Right away.”
I went up to the salon. Harding already had MPs stationed at the doors, with people separated into four groups. Big Mike was quizzing the GIs who’d been present, while Kaz talked with a small group of French résistants. Harding had a handful of officers to one side. The largest group looked to be all FTP, and not a one of them looked happy.
Then I saw why. Against the far wall, near the coffee table, the body of Bernard Dujardin lay sprawled on its back. Harding caught my eye and snapped his fingers in the direction of the corpse.
I got to work. An MP stood close by, keeping an eye on the muttering pack of Communist fighters. This was one of their own, and the discovery of his body had soured the festive unity that bound these people together scant minutes ago.
“That’s how he was found, Billy,” Big Mike said, buttonholing a nervous corporal. “Be right with you.”
I stood a few feet away from the late Bernard Dujardin. He lay on the floor next to the table with a scattering of cups and spoons at his side. The tablecloth had been pulled partway down in the struggle. This was different than McKuras. I knelt to inspect the body. Dujardin’s wound was under his heart, a frontal assault with a dagger-like blade. The killer had looked Dujardin in the eye, possibly backing him up against the wall before driving the knife through his ribs and up into his heart. One of the coffee urns was overturned, dark brown stains spreading along the white tablecloth. Dujardin had gone down hard, falling against the table with only a few seconds to thrash about before his killer had him dead on the ground.
Efficient. Experienced. Lethal. Which fit a lot of people in this room, all of whom were still alive thanks to those very skills.
I stood, forcing myself to remember what this was supposed to be all about, and looked at the front of the room. The map was gone, nothing but one brass thumbtack and a torn shred of paper left hanging on the corkboard. This wasn’t going at all how Harding had planned.
Deception plans were grand in theory, but a double murder right in front of me demanded attention. So, I got back to work and searched Dujardin’s pockets. Nothing except for a pistol and a knife at his belt, hidden by the worn leather coat. The knife was a dagger, much like the one that killed him.
“Is that the murder weapon?” Harding asked from behind me.
“It’s Dujardin’s, but it was in a sheath. I doubt the killer took it and then put it back. But a dagger like this was used on both men,” I said, handing it to Harding.
“Standard issue in arms drops to the Resistance,” he said, hefting the blade. “The Special Operations Executive probably delivered thousands of these in the past two years.”
“Meaning there’s a fair number of them in this room,” I said.
“Right. And we don’t have much time to waste. You saw the map is missing,” he said, his voice a whisper. “We have to start acting like that means something.”
“The murder of Lieutenant McKuras and Bernard Dujardin means something. That should be our priority. We don’t even know if the map is connected to these killings.”
“Of course it is, Boyle,” Harding said, his voice a harsh whisper. “What else is worth killing for, especially with all these witnesses so close. Now focus. Where’s the map?”
“It’s not on Dujardin,” I said. “My first thought was that someone saw him go for it and knifed him. But that doesn’t explain why McKuras was killed.”
“It does if Dujardin was killed because he saw who took it,” Harding said. “Could McKuras have seen the confrontation and come to warn us?”
“Maybe,” I said. “He couldn’t have yelled for help with those explosions going off. He’d have to hotfoot down to the cellar.”
“With the killer on his heels,” Harding said. “But what the hell was he doi
ng, hanging back like that?”
“Maybe he heard Dujardin cry out,” I said. “Or maybe he was too curious for his own good. He was treating this like a school holiday. What matters most right now is who’s not here. I doubt the killer hung around after stealing top secret plans and leaving two bloody corpses behind.”
“Let’s check with the FTP people. We had to separate them from the others once they saw Dujardin’s body. Evidently their first thought was that it was a plot by de Gaulle’s henchmen,” Harding said.
“Colonel Harding,” Marcel Jarnac said as we came closer. “I am sorry to say that one of our group is missing. Lucien Fassier is gone.” One of the other FTP guys let loose a torrent of French, pointing at the other Resistance group, his face contorted in anger.
“Fassier?” I said. “I thought his name was Faucon.”
“That is his nom de guerre, which means falcon. Fassier is his family name,” Emilie said. “I learned this only a month ago but saw no reason to reveal it before.” She was interrupted by an angry tirade from one of Jarnac’s men.
“Lucien would never kill a comrade. Perhaps one of them killed him and hid the body,” Jarnac translated, lifting an eyebrow in sympathy with the sentiment as the FTP man glared at the other groups.
“Two deaths and stolen battle plans are quite enough work for one man,” Harding said. “I doubt there would have been time to kill a third and hide the corpse. And I mean no disrespect to you, but from what I know of the Communists fighting in Spain, there were many executions over points of Marxist doctrine. Were there any such arguments involving Fassier and Dujardin?”
Jarnac translated the question for the rest of the group and had to calm them with sharp words before they went silent.
“Yes, we can see there would not have been time, Colonel. And while we do not agree with you that such executions took place often, there were instances in Spain where enemies of the people were discovered, and justice had to be served. But, in the case of Lucien Fassier, we know of no such sectarian issues. Bernard and he were close friends, in fact. Lucien has been a busy man, sent to many places to better organize the struggle against the boche. I did not know him, but others speak highly of his character. In my work with the Front national executive committee, I heard him praised many times. However, I have no answer as to why he might have done this.”
“I can’t believe it,” Jules spoke up. “But, he is gone. That much is true.”
“I can speak for us all, Colonel,” Jarnac said. “We will help you hunt him down. It is a point of honor.”
“The most important thing is to carry out the plan for the liberation of Paris,” Harding said. “We will find Fassier and stop him, but right now you all have your assignments. It is vital you carry them out and not become distracted by this tragedy.”
“We can radio an alarm to MPs giving his description,” Big Mike said, as if he just thought of it. “What was he driving?”
“A green Amilcar M2,” Jules said. “An old model, with FFI painted on the doors. I will see if it is gone.”
“An old automobile with FFI splashed on the door?” Jarnac said as Jules dashed outside. “There could be hundreds.” He swept his hand through the air, taking in the breadth of the search. He wasn’t exaggerating.
“We’ll do what we can,” Harding said. “Your people can help, but they need to stick to their positions.”
“Then we must go immediately,” Jarnac said, nodding his agreement.
“We need to finish questioning everyone,” I said. “We haven’t even started with the FTP.”
“The priority is to get search teams out right now, and for the Resistance people to take their positions,” Harding said, sticking to the script. “Boyle, you and Lieutenant Kazimierz take a jeep and begin scouting the roads leading to the German lines. I’ll send someone out with Big Mike as well.”
“It is gone,” Jules reported, nearly out of breath. “Lucien’s automobile. I still cannot believe it.”
“We have seen many betrayals in this war,” Jarnac said, as his eyes narrowed, his mouth set in a grim line of memory. “We will have revenge for this one, my boy.”
“But someone here may have seen something,” I said, as everyone began to move toward the door. “Something important.”
“The theft of this map is important, Captain Boyle,” Harding said. “These deaths are terrible, but we need to stay focused. Now let’s find someone to head out with Big Mike.”
“They were murdered, Colonel,” I said, sensing that Harding was moving too fast. “And we don’t know if the killer is done.”
“There will be justice, my friend, do not worry,” Jarnac said. “Now, Colonel, allow me to volunteer Jules if it is a translator you seek. Your sergeant looks quite capable, but Jules knows this area well.”
“Good,” Harding said. “Boyle, find out what Lieutenant Kazimierz and Big Mike have learned. Then be ready to leave in five minutes.”
“Five minutes? We’ve got two corpses not even cold,” I said, thinking like a cop and not wanting to leave the crime scene behind.
“Then make the most of the time you have,” Harding said, turning to leave with an angry cloud across his face.
“I will,” I said, drawing Dujardin’s dagger from my belt. “Who has a knife like this?”
Jarnac repeated the question in French, reaching into his boot as he did and drawing out a similar blade. About ten others were held up in quick succession. SOE daggers, French stilettoes, and even a Nazi officer’s blade.
“Enough of this foolishness,” Emilie said, approaching the group. “Paris awaits. If any of us find the traitor Fassier, slit his throat. But we must go. À Paris!”
“Oui!” Jarnac shouted. “Spoken like a good Communist, if you don’t mind my saying it.”
“I shall take it as a compliment this one time,” Emilie said pleasantly, her regal bearing giving away nothing of what she really thought of Jarnac. What would happen once the common enemy was gone, and these groups were at one another’s throats again? Or had it already started?
Raymond Louvet joined the group, speaking with Jarnac, who nodded in agreement as he sheathed his knife.
“Louvet says he will put a dozen men into the hunt for Lucien Fassier,” Emilie explained to me. “His Corps Franc Nord has many ex-police who tracked down Communists during the Spanish Civil War. He says it will be like the old days. As a joke, yes?”
“Jarnac isn’t laughing,” I said.
“He sometimes plays the loud fool, but he is very intelligent. He knows it is the best way to find Fassier,” she said. “We shall handle this, one way or the other, Captain Boyle.”
“Okay, just tell me this,” I said, giving up on talking sense into Harding or any of these people. “Does Fassier have family nearby? Any place he might hide out before making for the German lines?”
“I only knew him as Lucien Faucon, his nom de guerre,” Olga said, speaking for the first time and in surprisingly good English. “Only his closest friends would know his real identity and his family. And those friends are all dead.”
“He told me his family name several weeks ago,” Emilie said. “We were planning an action near his village and he said he hoped to see his mother soon. He made me promise to tell no one, a promise I now see no reason to keep.” I made a mental note to check the name of the village, not that I thought he’d be stopping off for a home-cooked meal.
“Faucon escaped the Nazis last year when his group was ambushed. The only survivor,” Jarnac said. “Or so the story goes. Then he was assigned to work with the Marxist youth movement, and more recently sent to fight in Brittany. I had never met him, but heard he was operating in our area. Whatever his name, he is more Lucien Faucon than whoever he was before the war.”
“He fought in Spain. Wouldn’t anyone know him from there?” I asked.
“Alas,
so many who did are dead,” Jarnac said. “Bernard knew him from those days, but I am afraid no one else can say that. As for the man he became, who knows?”
“You think he may have saved himself by turning traitor?” I asked.
Jarnac raised his hands, palm up. It was an unanswerable question.
“I knew him from the youth movement,” Jules said. “I don’t think he betrayed any of our group. Some were killed or captured, but it was never a grande catastrophe.”
“Ne chie pas où tu manges,” Jarnac said. He moved away, his arm around Jules’s shoulder, head bent close to his.
It made sense. You don’t shit where you eat. Fassier wouldn’t endanger himself by giving up a group directly under him. That would be far too obvious. But he’d be able to pass on dope about plenty of other groups, not to mention weapons drops, radios, and whatever information London was asking for. Invaluable stuff, much more important than nabbing a bunch of kids, no matter how well armed.
“Did you have many successes against the Germans?” I asked.
“Some, yes,” Jules said, his face clouding at the memories of past combats. “But there were times when the boche were not there. Once an arms depot was empty. Did Lucien warn them, do you think?”
“We’ll ask him when we find him, kid,” I said. “Right, Colonel?”
“Get a move on, Boyle,” Harding said. He couldn’t even look me in the eye.
Chapter Nine
I was in no mood to talk with anyone. We were about to let a murderer get away, all for the sake of a deception plan and that damned map. I stood by our jeep in front of the château, watching as trucks and automobiles, all with white-washed FFI and FTP markings, drove away. Each was filled with résistants who would soon be bragging to their comrades, wives, mistresses, and café owners about their role in the liberation of Paris. Harding didn’t need a stolen secret map when he had talkative Resistance fighters and a working telephone exchange. Hell, if I knew anyone in Paris I could call them with a bit of patience and a helpful operator.