by James R Benn
“Where was he hit?” I asked. “Is it serious?”
“Hit?” Durand asked as he hustled down another platform, this one filled with less-serious cases. No one here was going to be doing the foxtrot tonight, but they were all conscious, at least.
“Wounded,” I said. “By a bullet or shrapnel.”
“Oh, I see. He was not wounded, mon ami. He has the crise cardiaque.”
“What?” I said, grabbing him by the arm and stopping so I could look him in the eye.
“Here,” he said, patting his chest. “Attaque cardiaque. You understand?”
“A heart attack? Kaz had a heart attack?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Oui, come. You can see him.”
I fell in behind Durant, trying to come to grips with what he’d told me. All of a sudden it made sense. Kaz had been tired lately, but I’d thought it was not enough sleep and too much war. And those headache pills. Maybe it wasn’t a headache at all.
“Here,” Durant said, his hand extended to a cot at the end of a row.
Kaz sat propped up by pillows, damp hair plastered to his head, a handkerchief held to his lips as he tried to stifle a coughing fit.
“Billy,” he said, bunching the handkerchief in his hand and trying for a smile.
“Kaz,” I said, going for the same and having a hard time of it. I’d caught a glimpse of the red-flecked handkerchief and was shocked by that as much as how white his skin was.
“What of the mission?” Kaz asked as I knelt by his cot. I looked up at Durand, a million questions swirling through my mind.
“I must return,” the doctor said. “To la chirurgie. I spoke to the baron of his condition. My anglais is too poor to tell you, oui?”
“I will explain, Docteur, thank you,” Kaz said with a smile. Durant departed and Kaz dropped the grin like a heavy weight. “I will tell you everything, Billy, but first, what is happening?”
“Hang onto your hat, pal,” I said, and laid it out as quickly as I could, beginning with when we got separated after running into Jarnac. How I’d made it to the rue Volney barricade where the fifis were sort of on my side, not buying Jarnac’s claim that I was a traître. My late-night jaunt to grab Paul Lambert and how I hustled him and his violin to the One-Two-Two.
“And get this,” I said. “Who does our contact Malou turn out to be? Diana.”
“We should have anticipated that possibility,” Kaz said, his brain obviously working better than his ticker.
“Maybe,” I said. “But you’ll never guess who she had stashed in there. One Colonel Erich Remke.”
“Surprise upon surprise,” Kaz said. “Was he there as a client of the club?”
“No. Hiding out from the Gestapo, he claims. Said they’d uncovered his role in the plot to kill Hitler.”
“That does sound like Herr Remke,” Kaz said. “Both his involvement and choice of hiding place.” I filled him in on Remke running Atlantik and the common ground we found in not wanting the City of Light to be lit up like a bonfire. Plus, the bit about spreading the word I wanted to meet Jarnac at the rue Volney barricade, although I glossed over how they’d gotten the drop on me.
“So, here’s the deal,” I said. “I’m meeting Jarnac at ten o’clock opposite the Hotel Meurice. Remke is there now—he heard the Gestapo team sent for him has hightailed it for the safety of the Reich—and Jarnac has agreed to recant his story about Leclerc’s approach route in exchange for Paul’s safe return.”
“What did you threaten to do?” Kaz asked.
“Kill Paul. Jarnac didn’t believe me, but I got his attention when I told him you would do it,” I said.
“So glad to be of assistance,” Kaz said, as the patient in the next bed began to moan. His head and leg were wrapped in white gauze with a decidedly pinkish hue, and his hand shook like he had the palsy, which made me damned uncomfortable. “Jarnac agreed, really?”
“Yeah. He wants Remke at the meet. Now I need to figure out how to get in touch with Remke to let him know. I can’t exactly stroll into the hotel lobby.”
“The telephones are working, you know,” Kaz said.
“Right, and I have Diana’s number at the One-Two-Two. I can call her and have her deliver the message.”
“Or I can make the call,” Kaz said. “I am not crippled, Billy.”
“First, give it to me straight. I know you’ve been feeling lousy for a while. It finally dawned on me what those pills were for after the doc told me about your attaque cardiaque.”
“Nitroglycerin tablets. For chest pain,” Kaz said. “I thought my heart problems were behind me, but I started having pains again.” When I’d first met Kaz back in ’42, he’d been pretty skinny and weak. He’d built himself up with exercise and had turned into a tough and wiry customer.
“You didn’t tell me,” I said.
“I did not want to let you down,” Kaz said. “It became bearable with the tablets, for a while. And then this mission came up, and I knew you’d need me along, at least to point out the sights.”
“Tell me what happened after we got separated.”
“I went up to the rooftop ahead of you and crossed over to the next building. I found a gable window open and climbed in. Simple, except I had no idea where you had gone. I went out into the street and followed a group to a nearby barricade. Then I could feel my heart beating oddly. Rapid and fluttering. Then pain. Terrible pain. The next thing I recall is being bundled into an automobile and driven here.”
“What did the doctor do?”
“Other than tell me to rest, nothing. He said I should avoid intense physical activity and any kind of stress.”
“Which has pretty much been our life for the past couple of years,” I said.
“Yes. I intend on seeing a specialist as soon as we return to London,” he said. “Doctor Durant seems to be a fine surgeon, but he is not a cardiac specialist. I daresay the medical community in occupied France is somewhat behind on recent advances.”
“But did he say if your condition is treatable?”
“Not that he knew of. His guess was that I have something called mitral stenosis. Something to do with a heart valve not pumping blood properly, which causes fatigue and shortness of breath. He said it is common among those who had one of several diseases during childhood. I did have rheumatic fever when I was eight or nine, which according to him can bring this condition on later in life.”
“Okay, let’s hope some sawbones back in England can fix you up,” I said.
“One thing, Billy. You must promise me you won’t reveal this to Colonel Harding.”
“Kaz, you’re in no condition to return to duty,” I said.
“Of course. I shall request leave while I seek treatment. But I can’t risk Colonel Harding discharging me on health grounds.”
“But what about Angelika? You need to keep yourself alive for her sake,” I said, as the patient next to us groaned loudly and thrashed about. Two nurses came running, and I got out of their way.
“Yes, of course. I promise, I will see a proper doctor in England, immediately. If he says there is no hope, then I will resign, or return to office duty if it is allowed. But I must stay in the field if possible, if only on the slight chance I can help Angelika or find her somehow. Please, Billy, promise me.”
The moaning in the next bed stopped. The patient’s arm, raised in mid-air, dropped to his side.
“Mort,” one of the nurses murmured.
“Sure, Kaz. I promise.” In the face of so much pain and death, what could I do but offer hope?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
There was no keeping Kaz down. He swatted away my proffered arm as we made our way through the narrow aisles and the scurrying doctors, nurses, and medics. We passed a few Germans who looked relaxed in spite of their wounds. Most Krauts feared being captured by partisans, who weren�
��t bound by any rules of war—not that the Nazis paid much attention themselves. But these Fritzes had been well-treated, cared for, and now their war was over. I was jealous.
“Do you have any idea what’s going on in the streets?” I asked as we stepped around a stretcher, empty except for a pile of bloodstained bandages.
“Each side seems to be entrenched in their strongpoints,” Kaz said. “The Germans attack barricades and buildings, but without sufficient force to make a difference. There are rumors of Leclerc every hour. He is ten miles from the city, he is almost here, he is here, there, and everywhere. The FFI fighters seem euphoric, but there is desperation as well. What if Leclerc is delayed, and the Germans reinforce the city? It could be a slaughter.”
“If there’s a delay, let’s make sure it’s not our fault,” I said, holding up my hand as we stopped to let a stretcher pass by.
“Your hand is no better,” Kaz said, grabbing me by the wrist.
“About the same,” I said, eager to change the subject. “Comes and goes. You sure you’re okay?”
“I had a heart attack,” Kaz said. “But I am not having a heart attack. I will be fine unless you want to race me to a telephone.”
“Where are we going to find one anyway?”
“At a bar or tabac shop,” he said, as we entered the main passageway leading to the stairs. “Or, perhaps in there.” Kaz pointed to an open door I hadn’t noticed before. It was a small office, barely wide enough for two people to pass. Probably for the stationmaster or whatever they called the head ticket-taker. The only problem was it was crammed with people, one of whom was shouting into a telephone with a hand pressed over one ear. It looked like a long line.
“We can’t wait that long,” I said. “Besides, those guys might not appreciate a phone conversation about calling German headquarters.”
“True,” Kaz said, heading for the stairs.
“Are you sure you can make it?” I asked, as he took the first step.
“May I borrow your pistol, Billy?”
“Why?” I asked, staying right by his side in case he faltered.
“So I may shoot you with it if you ask me that again,” he said, pulling himself up the railing. I didn’t say anything since I wanted him to save his strength for the steps.
Once at the top, we stopped to catch our breath. Both of us, since it was a long climb. People flowed by, excited groups of Parisians dressed for a hot summer day. Armed fifis wearing Cross of Lorraine armbands swaggered confidently, preening in delight as they displayed their allegiance and their weapons in a manner unthinkable a day or two ago.
Gunfire echoed from every direction, not the sound of a major battle, but the reverberation of short, sharp encounters throughout the city.
“We ought to find out about getting you to the Hôtel-Dieu Hospital,” I said. “The way may be clear by now.”
“No, for two reasons,” Kaz said, wiping the sweat from his brow. “First, there is still fighting around the bridges leading to the hospital and the Préfecture de Police and too much open ground to cross without taking fire. Second, I don’t intend on being a patient anywhere, at least not right now.”
“Kaz, you’ve got to go back,” I said, my hand tapping my holster.
“Why are you so jumpy, Billy?” he asked. “Your whole body is trembling as badly as your hand did at first.”
“I took a pep pill,” I said. “I needed to stay awake. Remke gave me these.” I showed him the tin of Pervitin, not seeing any reason to tell him I took two, plus all that caffeine-laced chocolate.
“Methamphetamine,” Kaz said. “Don’t take another, it may put you in the cot I just vacated. And don’t lecture me, you are not exactly the picture of health yourself.”
“All I need is a good night’s sleep,” I said.
“Hmm. That is the same thing I said when you first noticed my symptoms. We can talk about this later, right now we need to find a telephone.” We walked away from the crowded Louvre Metro stop, and soon came to a small plaza. Kaz spotted Le Royal Bar and we strolled toward it.
“How did you come by that clean shirt, by the way?” Kaz asked as we neared the door. I told him about Claude Leduc and his detective agency.
“I am in dire need of a change of clothes myself, not to mention a bath,” Kaz said. “I am certain I shall find both at the One-Two-Two.”
“How are you going to get all the way over there?” I asked, as I opened the door. The interior was dark, only a few faint lights illuminating the long bar, but it was enough to spot the barman eyeing us, or maybe it was me and my pistol. A good bartender can see trouble before the door slams shut behind it.
“I will find a way. If Jarnac’s men had not taken our cash, I would simply check in at the Ritz. But given my appearance, I doubt they would trust my credit,” Kaz said.
We leaned against the bar. The barman approached, a cigarette dangling from his lips and a towel tossed over his shoulder. He and Kaz went on for a while with some sort of give and take.
“Billy, give this gentleman your pistol and belt,” Kaz said after they’d shaken hands.
“Why?” I asked, as the barman brought over a telephone and set it down in front of Kaz.
“For the use of his telephone, two coffees—the real thing, he claims—and a supply of francs. All of which we need more than that boche Walther.”
Coffee got my attention. I handed over my piece as Kaz swept up the francs like winnings at a poker game. He held out some for me, and I took a few of the bills, not even sure what I’d do with them. I recited the telephone number Diana had given me, and Kaz dialed the One-Two-Two. He asked for Malou, and in a minute he happily greeted Diana.
His face went cold.
“What? Slow down, Diana. When?”
“What?” I mouthed, grabbing his sleeve. He waved a hand, concentrating on what she was saying. He held up a finger, telling me to wait.
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll tell Billy. But please call our friend from Rome. Tell him Marcel wants to meet him along with Billy outside his hotel at ten o’clock. Yes, he’s agreed. Yes, this morning. There’s not much time. Au revoir.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, before he set the phone on its cradle.
“Paul Lambert has escaped,” he said.
“Damn! When?”
“Less than thirty minutes ago. Diana had to meet with a Resistance contact and didn’t want Paul to see him. She left him with one of the girls and locked the door. He apparently pleaded hunger and got her to take him to the kitchen. He knocked the poor girl unconscious, tied her up, then escaped out a kitchen window.”
The barman brought our coffees. I probably didn’t need any more caffeine, but it smelled great. I took it in my steady left hand, draining the small cup while I thought about what to do.
“Hey, should you be drinking that joe?” I asked.
“Billy, a cup of coffee is not going to kill me. Be glad your pistol is no longer in reach. Now, what does this mean for your plan?”
“Nothing, I hope,” I said, glancing at the clock. “There’s no way Paul can know where his brother is right now. Jarnac must be at the Hotel Lutetia or on his way to the Meurice. We have to assume he’ll go back to his apartment or hide elsewhere.”
“He has already performed his role in this charade,” Kaz said, draining the last of his coffee. “As long as he does not communicate with his brother in the next hour or so, it should not be a problem.”
Gunshots sounded from the street. People ran by the bar, some of them darting in for a moment, then walking calmly out as the shooting died down. Just another Parisian morning.
“You know, there’s something odd about hearing Lambert tied up that girl,” I said.
“Billy, such things are not unknown at the One-Two-Two,” Kaz said with a bit of a smirk.
“You didn’t meet
him. He seemed pretty meek. The exact opposite of Marcel Jarnac. I’m actually surprised he went with one of the girls. He was intimidated by the place.”
“So were you, Billy, admit it.”
“Yeah, I was,” I said, turning around to rest my elbows on the bar and stare out the front window. “Maybe he was all worked up over losing his violin. He was really attached to it.”
“Well, if he’s a classical musician, that makes sense,” Kaz said.
“But still, escaping out a window. I didn’t think he’d be capable of that.” I started to pace along the narrow bar, back and forth, the possibilities playing themselves out like lightning bolts in my mind.
“What is it?” Kaz asked, his brow furrowed.
“Call back. Tell Diana to get out. Now. Her and her team. At once.”
Chapter Thirty
I’d made a big mistake. I’d underestimated Paul Lambert. I had assumed he was a meek musician who was the total opposite of his brother, and that it would be easy to keep him under wraps. I failed to take him seriously. He’d played a role, and I’d fallen for it completely.
I cursed myself as I made my way through throngs of people who seemed to be going in the wrong direction. I needed to get in position well before the meeting time, ready to spot any trick Jarnac had up his sleeve. I’d left Kaz to make the call to Diana, trusting he’d get word to her in time. The barman had already donned an FFI armband and was wearing his new pistol proudly, so Kaz decided to trust him and arranged to leave a message for me at Le Royal Bar, letting me know where he’d be.
Rifle fire rippled through the morning air. Not an all-out battle, but a steady series of shots coming from the direction of the Seine. Kaz had told me to head straight to the river and take the Quai du Louvre, bearing right to head into the Jardin des Tuileries. It was a big fancy garden along the Seine, full of trees, flowers, and plenty of places to hide behind well-trimmed shrubbery. The gardens were bounded on the far side by the rue de Rivoli, with the Hotel Meurice smack in the middle, facing the gardens.
It wasn’t far, but I had to elbow my way through the crowd heading away from the river. As I got closer, I saw why. Krauts were lining the wall along the quay, firing across the Seine and down at the boat-shaped island in the river, where the Prefecture de Police sat like a fortress. Trucks rolled up and down the quai, boche taking potshots at the FFI across the water. No Germans came down these side streets, where the possibility of ambush lurked in the narrow passageways, but on the quay, they held sway, swarming to the wall and firing wildly.