by James R Benn
“Louvet had no idea Fassier was here?” I said, ignoring her comment about the map. For the first time, it actually was important. They both shook their heads, and I wondered if Louvet may have invited them here to muddy the waters.
In the distance, a machine gun rattled away, echoing against the hillsides. We all rushed forward, craning our necks to see where it was coming from.
“There,” Kaz said, binoculars already up to his eyes. He pointed to a few rooftops visible between the rolling hills. Rifle shots popped, and the machine gun kept up a steady rhythm of bursts, until a muted explosion marked the end of the encounter.
Kaz asked Louvet if his people were out that far, and he declared they were not.
“It may be Hemingway,” Jarnac said. “The American writer and his men.”
“We heard he was around here,” I said. “I thought he was a war correspondent. What’s he doing in a shoot-out?”
“He drinks more than he writes, so I hear,” Jarnac said. “Some men love war. Hemingway loved it in Spain, but as a tourist. He darted toward danger, then darted away. Others did not have the pleasure of leaving the front when it pleased them.”
“You knew Hemingway in Spain?” Kaz asked.
“Yes. That was enough for me. I do not need to know him in France,” Jarnac muttered.
“But what’s he doing running around out there?” I asked, as Kaz handed me the binoculars.
“He has a band of local résistants who met him on the road to Chartres. A leaderless group of young men who took to him,” Olga said. “He managed to get them arms and uniforms somehow, and they race from village to village looking for Germans. I hear he reports back to the American division to our rear. He may do some good, or he may get those boys killed, who knows?”
“Look!” Kaz shouted, as Louvet’s men cried out as well. A young guy, a kid really, maybe sixteen at most, ran up the road about a hundred yards out, waving his arms. Everyone waved back, and he turned, calling for someone to come forward.
A half dozen Germans in blue Luftwaffe uniforms became visible as they rounded a curve and trudged up the road. They were barefoot, hands held high, clutching their boots. Behind them marched another kid, even younger than his pal, his face almost angelic as he grinned at the marching prisoners. He too was armed only with a pistol.
“Smart of those boys to have the Fritzes carry their boots,” I said. “Those uniforms might have drawn fire even with their hände hoch.”
“And it is difficult to escape barefoot,” Kaz added as Jarnac called out the boys’ names. Kaz joined him as he went forward to greet the lads amidst the jeers and taunts tossed at the miserable-looking Germans.
“Saint-Just fighters?” I asked Olga as we watched the parade.
“It appears so. Marcel does not inform me of his movements and plans, Captain,” she said, as Jarnac gave the two boys a bear hug and congratulated them. The prisoners were hustled off to the side and allowed to rest in the shade.
“The lads captured these Luftwaffe ground crew after their vehicle broke down,” Kaz reported. “They were retreating from Chartres and put up no resistance. Sensible fellows, perhaps.”
“If they make it back in one piece,” I said.
“Do not worry, Captain,” Jarnac said, looking cheerier than he’d been all day. “We will send them by truck back to your lines. Your intelligence officers may learn something of value.”
Maybe. But they looked like a bunch of sad-sack mechanics to me. Still, they might have some scuttlebutt on the status of German aircraft.
“You learn anything from Louvet?” I said to Kaz as we stood apart from the others, watching the countryside, which bloomed with surprises today.
“No, his story matched what I heard them tell you. He suggested a meeting to be sure all the routes leading to Paris were covered to thwart Fassier’s escape. He seemed genuinely surprised at learning of his death. But lies are simple things for those used to falsehoods.”
“You’re right,” I said, my mind busy trying to sort out everything that had been said today. “Hey, without making a big deal of it, ask the guys manning the machine gun if Hemingway and his crew came through here today. Or if they knew what route he took.”
Kaz nodded, making for the jeep first to grab a carton of Chesterfields. He stopped by the POWs, sitting on the ground and rubbing their bruised feet. He tossed one of them a pack of smokes. They smiled and said danke, happy for the small kindness.
I stared eastward as Kaz handed out the rest of the cigarettes. Louvet’s fighters chattered with him as they lit up. Jarnac glanced back as he talked with the younger of the two boys, watching Kaz intently. Louvet snapped out orders about a truck for the boche, and then huddled with Olga, sharing a laugh. I didn’t see much to laugh about. Wide-open country, hidden machine guns, mines, and death traps marking the path to the City of Light.
Where I had a hunch Diana Seaton was right now, doing whatever Special Operations Executive agents did in an enemy-occupied stronghold. She hadn’t given a hint when she left so suddenly a few weeks ago, but it was all a big rush, and what was more important right now than Paris?
Everybody wants to go to Paris.
Chapter Sixteen
“There was no sighting of Hemingway today,” Kaz said as we drove away from the crossroads. “He did pass through yesterday in his jeep, followed by a truckload of local Maquis. Apparently, he talked a supply officer from the 2nd Infantry Division into providing uniforms and weapons.”
“Well, I guess he does have a way with words. He sounds like the kind of war correspondent who makes his own story,” I said, as the jeep strained to make it back up the rutted lane.
“Louvet’s men seemed entranced by Hemingway,” Kaz said. “They like that he always has a good supply of liquor and speaks French perfectly. For an American, that is quite a compliment from a Frenchman. But why your interest in Hemingway’s comings and goings?”
“Because he’s moving around out there, close to the German lines,” I said. “I never figured a writer would get out in front of GIs, but he has.”
“You think he may know a route through the German lines?” Kaz said, as we descended into the village we’d driven through earlier. Inquisitive heads leaned out of doorways and windows, perhaps checking to be sure we weren’t Krauts here for a return engagement.
“Well, he sounds a little off his rocker, but he’s got a bunch of locals to show him the back roads. He lived it up in Paris a while ago, so he’s probably anxious to get back,” I said.
Navigating an escape route between two armies was harder than it sounded. You can’t just walk around with your hands up in the air, especially if you’re a Frenchman trying to move through the Kraut lines. They’d shoot first and not bother asking questions. That meant the safest bet would be to sneak through, much like Gallois had done on his way out of Paris. Then announce yourself to some boche officer at a headquarters unit, far from too many nervous trigger fingers.
“Jarnac’s men have been out as well,” Kaz said, holding on to the seat with one hand and his wool cap with the other as I rounded a corner and headed back to Rambouillet.
“Those young kids? Not much of a patrol.”
“I did wonder if they’d simply gone off on their own,” Kaz said. “It is the kind of foolish lark boys excel at. They were lucky to have encountered such pliant Germans. But I didn’t mean them, I was referring to the burned-out vehicle we saw earlier. That was the work of an FTP patrol, according to Louvet’s men.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Seems like there’s more people out in no-man’s-land than we thought.” I made the circle around the monument by the police judiciaire, and wondered if Dufort was watching, and if he’d make good on his promise to raise holy hell with SHAEF if we didn’t crack this case for him. I wasn’t convinced it was anything more than a bluff, but we couldn’t take a chance, e
specially since our interests coincided.
“This is the route Fassier would have taken into town, is it not?” Kaz said.
“Probably, unless he went around the long way,” I said. “But I don’t see why he would have. Even going cross-country, he would’ve ended up on this road. Why?”
“Perhaps he hid the map somewhere. He might have thought it too dangerous to keep with him at Marchand’s house.”
“Didn’t help him much, but it’s possible,” I said. I pulled over by a row of shuttered shops, silent beneath their gray slate roofs. Normal life had not yet returned to this town on the knife’s edge of advances and retreats, with cut-throat partisans on every road and death at the door.
We got out and walked, passing a café that was closed. Without knowing when Fassier had come this way—odds were after dark—it was impossible to tell what had been open or if people were even awake.
“There are trash cans in the alley,” Kaz said, pointing down a narrow and smelly passage between the buildings.
“Too risky,” I said. “They might collect the trash the next morning.”
“Mail slots?” he said, gesturing to a brass hinged mail slot marked Lettres.
“Not unless the person on the other side of the door knew what they were getting,” I said. We strolled along for a while longer, then admitted defeat and went back to the jeep.
“We need a break,” I said. “Nothing makes sense. The torture, the missing map, all these fifis running around and getting themselves shot, it doesn’t add up.”
“What do we know for certain?” Kaz said, collapsing into the passenger seat and popping a pill.
“You still have that headache?”
“It came back. A lousy night’s sleep in the rear of a truck with Big Mike snoring next to me didn’t help. In any case, let us strip this down to the essentials. What do we know that is absolutely factual?”
“Bernard Dujardin and Sean McKuras were murdered,” I said.
“Within a minute of each other,” Kaz said.
“Then Fassier disappeared with the map.”
“No,” Kaz said, wagging his finger. “To a certainty, we know that Fassier, known as Faucon or Harrier before that, left in his vehicle. We also know the map vanished at the same time.”
“Right, right,” I said. Lack of sleep was affecting me too. “We assume he had the map, but we can’t know it.”
“We know Fassier was tortured to death,” Kaz said.
“What else?”
“We believe Fassier did not visit his father, but once again, we do not know for certain,” he said.
“Based on what his father and mother said, odds are he didn’t. And Inspector Ribot would have known about it,” I said. “I think we can chalk that up as a certainty.”
“All right, I agree. Now let me ask you a question. Why do we think Fassier stole the map?”
“Because he ran,” I said.
“And if he ran at the same moment the map vanished, but he did not take it, what would you call that?”
“A coincidence,” I said, sinking down in my seat. I knew where Kaz was going with this. One of the things my dad drummed into my head was that in a murder investigation, there are no coincidences. Only undiscovered connections. “Okay, let’s get back to work. Maybe Big Mike found something.”
We radioed Big Mike, but he didn’t answer. We stopped at the police station to get the address of the fellow who’d discovered Marchand’s body. The cop who’d thrown up in the gutter recognized us and offered directions to where the witness, Maxim Renaud, lived out on the avenue de Paris, less than a quarter mile away. He worked at a lumber mill on the edge of town, and we found him trudging home from work.
He froze when he saw us, looking like he was ready to bolt. I figured it must have been a normal reflex during the Occupation to be leery of a military vehicle pulling up alongside you. Kaz spoke apologetically, and Maxim relaxed, even taking us up on the offer of a ride home. I drove slowly as Kaz asked his questions.
Maxim Renaud was in his forties, maybe older, or maybe simply well-aged after years of work. He wore the usual blue jacket that French workmen favored, worn corduroys, and a threadbare wool cap. As they talked, I wondered what he and Marchand had had in common. Fassier had known Marchand from the university in Paris, and Renaud didn’t exactly look like a scholar.
I glanced at him in the back seat. He had a good build and callused hands rough from heavy labor. Some people who find a dead body are just plain unlucky. Others are the type of killer who can’t resist returning to the scene and watching everyone get hysterical over what they’ve done. It’s not always the case, but it happens often enough for me to always wonder about the first person to come upon a murder scene.
We dropped Renaud at his place, where Kaz gave him a couple of packs of smokes for his time. He left happy, unlatching the iron gate to a two-story stone house with a crumbling foundation and paint peeling from wooden shutters.
“What’s his story?” I asked Kaz, as we watched Renaud unlock the door.
“Chess,” Kaz said. “He and Charles Marchand played chess regularly at a café near the hotel. Maxim says there is only enough work for a half day and chess is a good way to spend the afternoon. Marchand didn’t show up yesterday, so Maxim knocked on his door on his way home to see if he was unwell. He said he was sure he heard footsteps inside, but no one answered. He looked again this morning on his way to work and saw the door ajar.”
“Chess. Okay, that makes sense,” I said. “And it tells us Fassier showed up late afternoon sometime. Not much else.”
“I wonder why Fassier stayed at all?” Kaz said. “Why not continue under the cover of darkness?”
“Too dangerous? He could have been waiting for word of a safe route,” I said. “Or maybe he was holed up here for another reason we don’t understand.”
“The connection we have not yet made,” Kaz said. “Ah, here is Big Mike.”
Big Mike pulled up next to us, minus Marie-Claire and Jules.
“Where are those two kids?” I said.
“Jarnac sent that baby-face kid who captured the Krauts with a message for Jules. He needed him for a job, and of course Marie-Claire went along. Jules seemed to have a bad case of Paris fever, and we’d already found the motorcycle, so I cut ’em loose.”
“Motorcycle? Where?” I asked.
“Behind some bushes by the house directly behind Marchand’s place. It wasn’t all that well hidden, but it would’ve been tough to spot in the dark,” he said.
“You searched it?” I said, getting out of the jeep and stretching. The day was beginning to get the better of me. I needed food and sleep. And to think clearly.
“Yeah. I came up empty,” Big Mike said. “But it wouldn’t make any sense to hide the map anywhere on the bike. Might get pinched, and then you’re done. You get anything from this guy?” He nodded in the direction of the house, where someone was peeking out from between lace curtains.
“He and Marchand were chess pals,” I said. “Marchand didn’t show for a game last night, and Maxim checked on him this morning.”
“In other words, we got nothing,” Big Mike said.
“Exactly,” Kaz said, dropping heavily into his seat and mopping his brow. It was a warm day, but he was sweating like a field hand at harvest time.
“Let’s head to the hotel,” I said. “We’ll get a room and see if Hemingway’s back from his patrols.” What he might have to offer I had no idea. To be honest, I was more interested in a soft bed and a bath. I wheeled the jeep around left-handed, my right hand in my lap, rustling against the GI fabric.
Chapter Seventeen
The street in front of the Hôtel du Grand Veneur was awash with armed partisans hoisting wine bottles and shouting toasts to Le Grand Capitaine. It wasn’t tough to spot their grand captain. Ernest Hemingway h
imself stood on the hotel steps, surrounded by fighters in a wild array of civilian clothes and uniforms. Some wore vests and suit jackets over GI wool shirts, others sported bright scarves worn over field jackets, and all were waving their Sten guns and American rifles madly as Hemingway took a swig of brandy. A couple of swigs, actually, straight from the bottle.
“Reinforcements!” he bellowed, catching sight of the three of us. He thrust the bottle at another war correspondent and stepped forward, the band of partisans parting before him, as did a gaggle of reporters. They all wore the War Correspondent patch on their shoulders. All except Hemingway, that is. He sported the 4th Infantry Division patch, although his heft and dark mustache marked him as anything but an infantryman. He cut through the noise around him with a clear and vibrant voice that managed to sound boyish and stern at the same time. “Who the hell are you fellows?”
“Hardly reinforcements,” I said, and introduced Kaz and Big Mike. Hemingway was a big guy himself, and he squared himself up and puffed out a bit as he shook hands with Big Mike, sizing him up as if they were about to box a few rounds. He and Kaz exchanged greetings in French, and Hemingway grinned in approval. Me, he didn’t find so interesting. “We’re on the trail of a Resistance turncoat. We hear you and your men know every road and trail leading to Paris.”
“You heard right, Captain. What do you need to know?” Hemingway beamed, whether from my flattery or the brandy, I couldn’t tell.
“What’s the best way into Paris?” I said. “What roads are the Germans guarding, and are there any left open? Maybe you could take a look at our map . . .”
“Your map?” he said, looking at the folded paper Kaz was clutching. “Come on upstairs, fellas, I’ve got a whole wall of maps.”
Without waiting for us, he turned and bounded up the steps, a spry, burly bear of a man who didn’t betray any evidence of drunkenness, save for the aroma of brandy that wafted in his wake like aftershave gone bad.
“Hey, General Hemingway,” one of the correspondents yelled after him. “What the hell are you up to? The manager said you’d booked all the rooms in this joint.”