The Collected Short Stories of Louis L'Amour, Volume Four (29 page)

“Yet try as she could, there was no clue. The man was shrewd, and a very devil. He finally came to her himself, after her brother was caught. He told her what he knew of her underground activities and of mine. He told her unless she came to live with him that I would be tortured and killed.

“He had spied upon her. He had even discovered her burning the candle before the dagger for Pierre after he was killed. He told her of it, to prove how much he knew—to prove he knew enough to find me—and she had admitted the reason.

“In the letter in which all this was told, she could not tell me who he was. He had friends in the underground, and she was fearful that learning who she was writing about, they would destroy the letter if they saw his name, and then she would be cut off from me and from all help.

“She would give me his name, she said, when I came next to Paris. He had not forced himself on her, just threatened. We had to plan to do away with him quickly. Marie said, too, that she was afraid that if the invasion came, he would kill her, for she alone could betray him; she alone knew of his activities for the Nazis.

“The invasion a secret? Of course! But when orders began to come for the underground, come thick and fast, we knew it was coming. Then, the landings were made, and for days we were desperately busy.

“We rose in Paris, and they were exciting, desperate days, and bitter days for the collaborators and the men of Vichy. Their servitude to the Nazis had turned to bitterness and gall; they fled; and they begged, and they died.

“When I could, I hurried to the flat where Marie lived. It was near here, just around the corner. I found her dying. She had been raped and shot by this collaborator two days before and she had crawled to her apartment to wait for me. She died telling me of it, but unable before her last breath to give me his name.”

“And there was no way you could figure out who he was?” I asked.

“How?” He spread his hands expressively. “No one suspected him. His desire for her was such that he had threatened her, and in threatening her he had boasted of what he had done. That was a mistake he rectified by killing her.

“Only one thing I know. He is one of our little group here. She said he lived in this neighborhood, that he was waiting here more than once when he accosted her. He thinks himself safe now. My girl has been dead for some time and her body buried. She is never mentioned here.

“Mombello? He is an Italian. Picard is a chemist, and has had traffic with Germany since the twenties. Matsys? An iron foundry owner who retained it all through the war, but who was active in the underground as were Picard and Mignet.”

We were interrupted then by some others coming into the café, yet now the evening had added zest. Here was a deadly bit of business. Over the next two hours, as they trooped in, I began to wonder. Which was he?

The slender, shrewd Mombello with his quick, eager eyes? That lean whip of a man, Mignet? The heavy Matsys with blue and red veins in his nose, and the penchant for telling you he’d seen it all and done it all? Or was it dry, cold Picard who sipped wine through his thin lips and seemed to have ice water for blood?

Which man was marked to die? How long would Tomas sit brooding in his corner, waiting? What was he waiting for? A slip of the tongue? A bit of drunken talk?

None of these men drank excessively. So which one? Mombello whose eyes seemed to gloat over the body of every woman he saw? Mignet with his lust for money and power and his quick knife? Or big affable Matsys? Or Picard with his powders and acids?

How long would he wait? These five had sat here for months, and now…now there were six. I was the sixth. Perhaps it was the sixth to tip the balance. Here they were caught in a pause before death. Yet the man who killed such a girl, and who betrayed his country, should not go free. There was a story in this, and it had an ending, somewhere.

Over the following gray days, several in a row, the conversation ebbed and flowed and washed around our ears. I did not speak privately to Tomas again but there seemed an ongoing, silent communication between us. Then, in a quiet moment of discussion, someone mentioned the bazooka, and it came to me then that another hand had been dealt…mine.

“A strange weapon,” I agreed, and then moved the tide of conversations along the subject of weapons and warfare. I spoke of the first use of poison gas by soldiers of Thebes when they burned sulfur to drive defenders from the walls of Athenian cities, then to the use of islands of defense; a successful tactic by the Soviets in this war, previously used by the Russians defending themselves against Charles XII of Sweden.

Then other weapons and methods, and somehow, but carefully, to strange knives.

Tomas ignored me, the spider in his web, but he could hear every word and he was poised, poised for anything.

Mignet told of a knife he had seen in Algiers with a poisoned barb in the hilt near the blade, and Mombello of a Florentine dagger he had once seen.

Tomas stayed silent, turning his glass in endless circles upon the table before him, turning, turning, turning. We locked eyes for a moment and before he looked away he seemed to sigh and give a nearly imperceptible nod.

“There was a knife I saw once,” I said suddenly, “with engraving on it. A very old knife, and very strange. A figure of Christ on the cross rose above a fallen snake. The religious symbolism is interesting. I’d never seen its like before, the worksmanship was so finely wrought.”

A moment passed, a bare breath of suspended time…

“It was not the only one, I think,” Leon Matsys said. “Odd things, they were used in some custom dating back to the Crusades.”

He looked up, about to say more, then slowly the life went from his face. He was looking at Tomas, and Tomas was smiling.

Jean Mignet’s eyes were suddenly alive. He did not know, but he suspected something. He was keen, that one.

Leon Matsys’s face was deathly pale. He was trapped now, trapped by those remarks that came so casually from his lips. In the moment he had certainly forgotten what they might imply, and could not know that it would matter. He looked to one side and then the other, and then he started to take a drink.

He lifted the glass, then suddenly put it down. He got up, and his face was flabby and haunted by terror. He seemed unable to take his eyes from Tomas.

I glanced at Tomas, and my muscles jumped involuntarily. He had the ancient knife in his hand and was drawing his little circles with its point.

Matsys turned and started for the entrance, stumbling in his haste. The glass in the tall door rattled as it slammed closed, leaving only a narrow view of the dimly lit street.

After a moment Tomas pushed his chair back and got up and his step was very light as he also went out the door.

A Friend of the General

I
t began quite casually as such things often do, with a group of people conversing about nothing in particular, all unsuspecting of what the result might be.

My company was quartered in the château of the countess, as during the war she had moved into what had once been the gardener’s cottage. It was the sort of place that in Beverly Hills would have sold well into six figures, a warm, cozy place with huge fireplaces, thick walls, and flowers all about.

The countess was young, very beautiful, and clever. She had friends everywhere and knew a bit of what went on anywhere you would care to mention. I was there because of the countess, and so, I suppose, was everybody else.

Her sister had just come down from the Netherlands, their first visit since the German occupation. There was a young American naval attaché, a woman of indeterminate age who was a Russian émigré, a fragile blond actress from Paris who, during the war, had smuggled explosives hidden under the vegetables in a basket on her bicycle. There was a baron who wore his monocle as if it were a part of him but had no other discernible talents and an American major who wanted to go home.

The war was fizzling out somewhere in Germany, far from us, and I wondered aloud where in Paris one could find a decent meal.

They assured me this was impossible unless I knew a good black-market restaurant. Due to the war there was a shortage of everything, and the black-market cafés had sprung up like speakeasies during the Prohibition era in the States—and like them you had to know somebody to get in.

Each had a different restaurant to suggest, although there was some agreement on one or two, but the countess solved my dilemma. Tearing a bit of note paper from a pad, she wrote an address. “Go to this place. Take a seat in a corner away from the windows, and when you wish to order, simply tell the waiter you are a friend of the general.”

“But who,” somebody asked, “is the general?”

She ignored the question but replied to mine when I asked, “But suppose the general is there at the time?”

“He will not be. He has flown to Baghdad and will go from there to Chabrang.”

I could not believe that I had heard right.

“To
where
?” the naval attaché asked.

“It is a small village,” I said, “near the ruins of Tsaparang.”

“Now,” the Russian woman said, “we understand everything! Tsaparang! Of course! Who would not know Tsaparang?”

“Where,” the naval attaché asked, “are the ruins of Tsaparang?”

“Once,” I began, “there was a kingdom—”

“Don’t bother him with that. If I know Archie, he will waste the next three weeks trying to find it on a map.”

“Take this”—she handed me the address—“and do as I have said. You will have as fine a meal as there is in Paris, as there is in Europe, in fact.”

“But how can they do it?” Jeannine asked. “How can any café—”

“It is not the restaurant,” the countess said, “it is the general. Before the war began, he knew it was coming, and he prepared for it. He has his own channels of communication, and being the kind of man he is, they work, war or no war.

“During a war some people want information, others want weapons or a way to smuggle escaped prisoners, but the general wanted the very best in food and wine, but above all, condiments, and he had them.”

The general, it seemed, had served his apprenticeship during Latin American revolutions, moving from there to the Near and Middle East, to North Africa, and to China. Along the way he seemed to have feathered his nest quite substantially.

A few days later, leaving my jeep parked in a narrow street, I went through a passage between buildings and found myself in a small court. There were several shops with artists’ studios above them, and in a corner under an awning were six tables. Several workmen sat at one table drinking beer. At another was a young man, perhaps a student, sitting over his books and a cup of coffee.

Inside the restaurant it was shadowed and cool. The floor was flagstone, and the windows hung with curtains. Everything was painfully neat. There were cloths on the tables and napkins. Along one side there was a bar with several stools. There were exactly twelve tables, and I had started for the one in the corner when a waiter appeared.

He indicated a table at one side. “Would you sit here, please?”

My uniform was, of course, American. That he spoke English was not unusual. Crossing to the table, I sat down with my back to the wall, facing the court. The table in the corner was but a short distance away and was no different from the others except that in the immediate corner there was a very large, comfortable chair with arms, not unlike what is commonly called a captain’s chair.

“You wished to order?”

“I do.” I glanced up. “I am a friend of the general.”

“Ah? Oh, yes! Of course.”

Nothing more was said, but the meal served was magnificent. I might even say it was unique.

A few days later, being in the vicinity, I returned, and then a third time. On this occasion I was scarcely seated when I heard footsteps in the court; looking up, I found the door darkened by one who could only be the general.

He was not tall, and he was—corpulent. He was neatly dressed in a tailored gray suit with several ribbons indicative of decorations. The waiter appeared at once, and there was a moment of whispered conversation during which he glanced at me.

Embarrassed? Of course. Here I had been passing myself as this man’s friend, obtaining excellent meals under false pretenses. That I had paid for them and paid well made no difference at all. I had presumed, something no gentleman would do.

He crossed to his table and seated himself in his captain’s chair. He ordered Madeira, and then the waiter crossed to my table. “Lieutenant? The general requests your company. He invites you to join him.”

A moment I hesitated, then rising, I crossed over to him. “General? I must apolo—”

“Please be seated.” He gestured to a chair.

“But I must—”

“You must do nothing of the kind. Have they taught you nothing in that army of yours? Never make excuses. Do what has to be done, and if it fails, accept the consequences.”

“Very well.” I seated myself. “I shall accept the consequences.”

“Which will be an excellent meal, some very fine wine, and I hope some conversation worthy of the food and the wine.” He glanced at me. “At least you are soldier enough for that. To find a very fine meal and take advantage of it. A soldier who cannot feed himself is no soldier at all.”

He filled my glass, then his. “One question. How did you find this place? Who told you of me?”

Of course, I could have lied, but he would see through it at once. I disliked bringing her into it but knew that under the circumstances she would not mind.

“It was,” I said, “the countess—”

“Of course,” he interrupted me. “Only she would have dared.” He glanced at me. “You know her well?”

It was nobody’s business how well I knew her. “We are friends. My company is quartered in her château, and she is a lovely lady.”

“Ah? How pleasant for you. She is excellent company, and such company is hard to come by these days. A truly beautiful woman, but clever. Altogether too clever for my taste. I do not trust clever women.”

“I rather like them.”

“Ah, yes. But you are a lieutenant. When you are a general, you will feel otherwise.”

He spent a good deal of time watching the court, all of which was visible from where he sat. He had chosen well. The court had but one entrance for the public, although for the fortunate ones who lived close there were no exits, as I later discovered.

Not only could he not be approached from behind, but anyone emerging from the passage was immediately visible to him, while they could not see him until they actually entered the restaurant.

On our second meeting I surprised him and put myself in a doubtful position. I was simply curious, and my question had no other intent.

“How did you like Chabrang?”

He had started to lift his glass, and he put it down immediately. His right hand slid to the edge of the table until only his fingertips rested there. His tone was distinctly unfriendly when he replied, “What do you mean?”

“When I asked the countess if you would be here, she said you were in Baghdad—on the way to Chabrang.”

“She said
that
? She mentioned Chabrang?”

“Yes, and I was surprised. It isn’t the sort of place people hear of, being in such an out-of-the-way place, and only a village—a sort of way station.”

His right hand dropped into his lap, and his fingers tugged at his trouser leg, which clung a bit too snugly to his heavy thigh. “You know Chabrang.”

It was not a question but a statement. His right hand hitched the pant leg again. Suddenly I realized what was on his mind, and I almost laughed, for I’d been away from that sort of thing too long and had become careless. The laugh was not for him but simply that it seemed like old times, and it was kind of good to be back.

“You won’t need the knife,” I told him. “I am no danger to you.”

“You know Chabrang, and there are not fifty men in Europe who know it. Am I to believe this is pure coincidence?”

He had a knife in his boot top, I was sure of that. He was a careful man and no doubt had reason to be, but why that was so I had no idea and told him as much.

“It was my only way out,” he said. “They found me, but they were looking for a man who was carrying a great lot of money, and I had nothing but food, weapons, and some butterflies. They let me go.”

“I believed it was a way out for me, too,” I said, “but I was not so lucky. I had to turn back.”

He turned to look at me. “When were you in China?”

“It was long ago.” I have never liked dates. Perhaps because I have a poor memory for dates in my own life. “It was in the time of the war lords,” I said.

He shrugged. “That’s indefinite enough.”

We talked of many things. He gestured widely. “This is what I wanted,” he said. “I wanted time—leisure. Time to read, to think, to see. Some people make it some ways, some another. Mine was through war.”

“It is no longer regarded with favor,” I suggested.

He shrugged again. “Who cares? For ten thousand years it was the acceptable way for a man to make his fortune. A young man with a strong arm and some luck could go off to the wars and become rich.

“All the old kingdoms were established so. All the original ‘great families’ were founded in just such a way. What else was William the Conqueror? Or Roger of Sicily? Or their Viking ancestors who first conquered and then settled in Normandy? What does Norman mean but Northmen? Who were Cortés and Pizarro? They were young men with swords.”

“Ours is a different world,” I suggested. “Our standards are not the same.”

“Bah!” He waved his fork. “The standards are the same, only now the fighting is done by lawyers. There is more cunning and less courage. They will sell you the arms—”

“Like Milton,” I said.

He stopped with his fork in the air and his mouth open. “You know about Milton,” he said. “I am beginning to wonder about you, lieutenant.”

“Everybody in China knew that story. Perhaps I should say everybody in our line of business or around the Astor Bar. It was no secret.”

“Perhaps not. Perhaps not.”

Such stories are repeated in bars and tearooms, over bridge tables as well as in the waterfront dives. Milton had been a well set up man in his early forties, as I recall him. A smooth, easy-talking man, somewhat florid of face, who played a good game of golf, haunted the Jockey Club, and owned a few good racehorses, Mongolian ponies brought down for that purpose. He had been a dealer in guns, supplying the various war lords with rifles, machine guns, mortars, and ammunition. As a machine gun was worth its weight in gold and as some European nation was always liquidating its stores to replace them with more modern weapons, Milton did well.

He reminded me of a first-class insurance salesman, and in a sense that was what he was. The weapons he sold were the kind of insurance they needed.

He might have become enormously wealthy, but he had an urge to gamble, and he had a blonde. The blonde, some said, was none too bright, but she had other assets that were uniquely visible, and nobody really inquired as to her intelligence, least of all Milton.

A day came when too much blonde and too much gambling left him nearly broke, and she chose that moment to say she wanted to go to Paris. She pleaded, she argued, and he listened. He was willing enough, but the problem was money.

At that moment an order came for six thousand rifles, some machine guns and mortars, with ammunition for all. Milton had only six hundred rifles on hand and insufficient cash. Such deals were always cash on the barrel head. He agreed to supply what was needed.

Long ago he had arranged a little deal with the customs officials to pass anything he shipped in a piano box, and as a piano salesman he seemed to be doing very well indeed.

Knowing the kind of people with whom he dealt, he also knew the necessity for absolute secrecy in what he was about to do, so with one German whom he knew from long experience would not talk, he went to his warehouse, and locking the doors very carefully, he proceeded to pack the cases with old, rusted pipe and straw. Atop each case, before closing it, he put a few rifles to satisfy any quick inspection. Yet the greatest thing he had going for him was his reputation for integrity. He supervised the loading of the piano boxes on a Chinese junk and collected his down payment of three hundred thousand dollars.

He had taken every precaution. Through a close-mouthed acquaintance he had bought two tickets on a vessel that was sailing that very night.

“Pack an overnight bag for each of us,” he said. “Nothing more. And be ready. Say nothing to anyone and I’ll buy you a completely new wardrobe in Paris.”

Now, his rifles loaded on the junk, he drove at once to his apartment on Bubbling Well Road. He ran lightly up the steps carrying the small black bag. “Come! We’ve got to move fast! There’s not much time to catch the boat!”