Assignment Madeleine (9 page)

"Just about," Durell said.

“Many casualties?”

“Some. Even one is too many.”

“Was that your plane that burned?”

"Yes"

So how do we get out of this trap?” L’Heureux turned Back to
Durell again. His eyes were dark and mocking and intelligent. ‘You say you came
to take me back. Is it for a trial?”

“For murdering Orrie Boston.”

L’Heureux looked down at his cigarette.

Durell said, “You don’t deny killing him, do you?”

"No."

“How did it happen?”

L’Heureux looked bland. “It was self-defense, chum.”

“Do you expect us to believe that?”

“I’ve got plenty to tell,” L’Heureux said sharply. His words
betrayed a trace of down-East twang. He sounded angry. That’s the real reason they
sent you for me, isn’t it? To pump me dry, then shoot me.”

"That depends on what you have to say.”

Listen, I guess you knew Orrie, right? Or you thought you
did. Maybe you worked with him back in the States. All right. A great guy, huh?
And I’m the rat that put a slug in him. That’s the picture, right?”

"Can you change it?” Durell asked.

"I don't give a damn what you and your desk jockeys
think. I didn't ask for the job. I was doing all right here. I had my business
to take care of.”

“What kind of business?” Durell asked.

“Import and export,” L’Heureux said, grinning again.

“Running guns?”

Nobody complained, see? Anyway, Orrie invited me to work for
him and I did. A patriotic duty, he said, Humanitarian work, to help end this
war, he said." Irony ran through the prisoner’s words like a dark, scarlet
thread. “So this is what I get for it. Listen, I knew what Orrie was doing. I
knew all about that Arab girl he slept with. He was
gettin
’
information from her about the rebels. He was tunneling dough to the rebels,
did you know that? Playing hand in glove with them. He'd sold out to the Beds
who are backing them.”

“That kind of lying won’t buy anything,” Durell said.

He was aware of anger. “Orrin Boston wasn’t a Bed. And the
Communists have little or no control over the rebel.”

“No, but they’d like to get in. They offer all the war
equipment they need, in exchange for running the show. You know what would
happen then. And Orrie was helping them get a foot in the door. Look, I caught
Orrie with some of the guerrilla leaders. I hung him up on it. The rebels got
away that night, and Orrie and I went up to his apartment to talk it out. He
had a lot of cash in that place, but it wasn’t there when we got there. He gave
it to the rebels.” L’Heureux looked at Durell with cool, pale eyes. “What Orrie
meant to do up there was to kill me to shut me up. And when he pulled the gun,
I jumped him.”

Durell listened to the man’s smooth, quick words. They were
lies. Clever, assured lies. He knew Orrin Boston better than to believe any of
it.

L’Heureux laughed softly. “Orrie was too old for that hot
little Arab playmate of his. Zorah made him into a dried-out old man. So I got
the gun from him and it went oil. I didn't want to kill him. lust put him under
arrest and turn him over to you people and go back to my own business. But he
got killed and the
Frenchies
here were all set to
line me up against the wall for
knockin
’ oil their
phony tin god. Maybe you want to do it, too. Well, it’s no skin off my nose,
believe me. You can think what you like. But I ain’t going back with you.”

“Do you have a choice?” Durell asked.

“You won’t take me back for any phony trial.”

“We’re starting tonight,” Durell said quietly.

L’Heureux looked surprised. “Are you nuts? Your plane was
wrecked.”

“We'll use the roads and go by truck.”

‘With the country alive with the rebels tonight?”

“I think we’ll make it,” Durell said.

L’Heureux crushed out his cigarette on the floor. He
drew a deep breath and looked at Durell and looked down at his hands. “Not with
me, you won't. I'm not that crazy. I won’t go.”

“You’ll go if it has to be in handcuffs.”

“But I wouldn’t have a chance—”

“That’s your lookout,” Durell said. “Personally, I’m sorry
DeGrasse didn’t shoot you out of hand. And I wouldn't care if the rebels had
gotten you, either. But my orders are to take you back to Paris and then to
Washington, and that’s where were going.”

L’Heureux said quietly, “You’ll never make it, chum. You’ll
be dead by morning. And I’ll get away, believe me.

“You can try,” Durell said. “You’re welcome to try.”

He waited a moment. The prisoner’s story was brash and
arrogant, and Durell wondered at his inner confidence. He didn’t know how
much truth and how many clever lies went into the concoction L’Heureux spun
about Orrin Boston’s death. The man wouldn’t be easy to break. He could stick
to his story indefinitely, proclaiming his innocence through weeks of
questioning. It was not Durell’s job to do this. His job was to bring the man
in.

He turned to go, and L'Heureux stopped him with a gesture.
The man suddenly looked uncomfortable and uncertain. “Just one thing, friend.
It’s kind of important to me.”

“Yes?”

“Did Madeleine Sardelle tell you people about me?”

“Why?”

“I’d kind of like to know. She’s my girl. I know she’s with those
French cops, Working for that guy Brumont. She told me all about that. She’ll
tell you I never killed anybody. Not like murder, I mean.”

“Don’t count on any help from her,” Durell said.

“Look, did she come here with you?”

“What if she did?” Durell asked carefully.

“I’d like to see her. Talk to her.”

Durell watched the prisoner’s face for any telltale sign of
satisfaction in the knowledge that Madeleine was in Marbruk. But the man gave
nothing away. His face expressed concern only.

“You’re not going to take her with us tonight, are you?”
L’Heureux asked. “This is no country for a girl. And she’s got nothing to do
with what you charge me with, anyway. You can’t take her by truck to the coast
tonight. First place, we won’t make it. And if you try, we’re all likely to be
killed before we get ten kilometers out of town.”

“She’ll come along with us,” Durell said flatly.

He kept watching L’Heureux, but he couldn't tell if this was
what the man wanted to hear. He left the cell a moment later.

Chapter Nine

MADELEINE undressed slowly, almost languidly, and ran water
into the bath next to her room in the Marbruk Hotel. She had bolted the heavy
door in the face of the curious guard posted in the corridor outside. Now she
listened for any more of the sporadic gunfire on the edge of town, but it
seemed
quiet
enough now. The raid was over.

She heard several sharp, isolated rifle shots, and she
shivered in spite of the steamy heat of the bath. No need to be afraid, though.
Durell was competent, of course, but Charley would take care of him. After she
prepared the way, that is.

She lifted her breasts with her hands, studying the
still-smooth, firm lines of her body with critical eyes. She bathed
quickly, then changed into a dark skirt and white blouse chosen from the single
piece of luggage she had taken with her.

When she had combed her long red hair and put on fresh
lipstick, she walked barefooted to the bedroom door and opened it.

The soldier on guard in the corridor grinned at her.
“Something, mademoiselle?”

“Has Monsieur Durell returned yet?”

“No, mademoiselle.”

“May I wait for him in his room?”

“It would be irregular.”

“But I feel so nervous. His room is next to mine, isn’t it?”
She smiled warmly at the man. He was really only a boy, torn from his job and
family in France by the Army draft. “If I could unlock the connecting door.”

“I have no key.”

“It must be in the door on his side. Please? It is only a
small favor.”

The guard was a Frenchman, after all. He stood up, holding
his carbine easily in his left hand. “Go into your room, mademoiselle, and wait
one moment.”

She smiled warmly when the Frenchman finally unlocked
the connecting door. He looked as if he wanted to linger, but thought better of
it.

“Thank you a thousand times,” she said.

“It is nothing, mademoiselle."

She did not go into Durell’s room immediately. She tested
the door to make sure she really had access to his quarters, then went to the
telephone and lifted it, pleased to hear the buzzing that indicated the raiders
hadn’t destroyed local communications, at any rate. A man’s voice asked for her
number and she gave one she had committed to memory some time ago. The military
was running the telephone system, she knew, and for a moment the sense of
danger, if her call was monitored, made her lower the phone and almost replace
it on the hook. Then she lifted it to her ear again and spoke in Arabic.

“
Sidi
Gamal
?”
she asked quietly.

“Who wishes to speak to him?”

“An old friend who has just arrived. I am sure he knows
about my arrival.”

“One minute, please.”

She waited. She had kept her voice low, in order not to
alert the interest of the guard outside. The town was very quiet now. There was
no more shooting anywhere. A truckload of territorials went through the market
place below, and she heard the clinking of arms and the creak of leather and an
occasional
sulphurous
curse.

“Mademoiselle?”

She turned back to the telephone. “I am home.”

“Good. Then you received my message. All is well?’”

“As well as one might expect. And our friend?”

“Unable to move.”

“He is to he moved soon,” Mademoiselle said. “I am here to
help.”

“Plans have been made. But they are tentative. One does not
know the time or method of removal.”

“I will inform you,” she said, “When I learn it myself.”

“Good. Keep yourself safe. Peace be with you.”

“And to you, peace,” Madeleine said, returning the formula.

She hung up.
Sidi
Gamal
, in his hideout, wherever it was, would alert the
rebels to help Charley get free. She had made contact. Now it was only a matter
of time and persuasion. Her spirits lifted. Time would pass, and Durell would
return. She could persuade him. She had confidence in her body to move
any man. Once she knew Durell's plans, it would be simple.

She looked at her watch. It was almost midnight. It had been
a long, tiring day. Paris, and the rain, and Madame Sofie’s salon
belonged to another world, another time. It was hard to realize she had come so
far so fast. Madame Sofie’s might never have existed.

Then she remembered the men who had tried to kidnap her in
Paris, and a little shiver of fear touched her. She was afraid because she did
not understand. The men were not of the National Liberation Front. She was sure
of that. And she could not figure out who they were or why they had
attacked her.

She told herself to forget it. Nothing serious had happened,
anyway. She went into Durell’s room and stood looking at his bed, as she had
looked at many beds before. The dim light from her own room followed her and
cast a slab of yellow across the tiled floor. The light touched a corner
of the tall, narrow window on the balcony that overlooked the market place. The
hotel was quiet. She touched Durell’s suitcase with her bare toe. The leather
felt warm against her skin. She tried the latch, but the suitcase was locked,
and she was not too interested in opening it and searching within. Her methods
were different.

She loosened the catch on her skirt and let it rustle softly
down her hips and thighs in a heap to the floor, and then she stepped out
of it. She took off her blouse, shook her red hair loose again, and sat down
naked on Durell’s bed to wait for him. She felt supremely confident that
he would not reject what she had to offer.

A few minutes went by. Madeleine relaxed on the bed, feeling
the heat of the North African night like a thick blanket over her naked body.
She heard a sound from the young guard in the corridor, then the tinny
cacophony of radio music from somewhere in the hotel, then a man’s voice, oddly
distorted, speaking in Arabic in a vituperative harangue against the French.
Madeleine wished whoever was listening to the propaganda would tum it off. She
didn’t care about it, one way or another. If all went well, she would soon be
far away.

But the volume of the radio seemed to come louder, beating
against her quiet, wishful thoughts. Through the shrill screaming of propaganda
she heard a small thudding noise from the guards position in the corridor
beyond the door. She sat up, leaning on one elbow in the semidarkness. She
thought Durell might be returning, and this started a quickening sensation in
her that surprised her, because a man was nothing new to her, and what she
planned to do was no novelty. Yet she thought it might be different with this
one. She didn’t know why. Perhaps because she recognized the danger in him.

The door opened and a man came in. The door was closed.

“Mademoiselle.”

It was not Durell’s voice.

The man was a tall shadow in a native robe. She could see
only the angularity of a narrow face when he turned toward her. And then she
caught the glimmer of a steel knife in his hand.

“Go back to your room, mademoiselle, and be silent.”

She sat up. Her nakedness did not trouble her. But it did
not interest the intruder, either.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

She saw his movement as a sliding shadow when he bolted the door.
The lock clicked. When he came toward her, her fear mounted. She suddenly
remembered the men in Paris. There were too many factions in the rebel
movement, fighting one another. Had Charley angered one, betrayed one
group to gain the favor of another? She opened her mouth to scream, and his
reaction came with the speed of a striking snake. His hand clapped over her
mouth and his fingers pinched her nostrils shut. She couldn’t breathe.