I inspected the top of Bessette’s desk. Green blotter, pack of cigarettes, keys, a fountain pen, and some sealed envelopes that he must have been addressing. No open letters. I glanced at the envelopes. The top one was for Madame Mireille Bessette, Marseilles, stamped and ready to go. Another was to Jules Bessette, Blackpool, England, sealed but no stamp. Was there mail service between Vichy territory and England? So Bessette kept up with his relations and had, what, a brother or cousin in England?
Twenty-eight-one-thousand, twenty-nine-
one-thousand . . .
Damn it! I was looking for a password, not evidence that Bessette was a family man. I turned to the filing cabinet, and opened the top drawer. It was too dark to see clearly, but there were so many files, each with a tiny heading in French, I knew I’d never get through them all, much less understand what was in them. I looked in each of the four drawers; more of the same. The French Army runs on paperwork, like ours. I pulled out a few files from each drawer and flipped through them. Lots of reports, charts, numbers, carbon paper.
Sixty-six-one-thousand,
sixty-seven-one-thousand . . .
I put the files back, closed the drawers, and sat at the desk. I tried the drawers on the left and found the usual junk: paper clips, rubber bands, dust. The large bottom drawer held a bottle of cognac and a revolver. What a surprise.
Eighty-four-one-thousand, eighty-five-one-thousand
. . .
I urged myself to hurry! Were those footsteps?
I checked the middle drawer and rummaged through notepaper, an old newspaper, and a few receipts from a place called Le Bar Bleu. A blue matchbook from the same place. A street map of Algiers: I checked it for notes or marked locations, but there was nothing.
Ninety-nine-one-thousand, one-hundred-one-thousand.
The right-hand drawers were all that remained. Blank paper in the first, nothing in the second. I pulled at the large bottom drawer. It was stuck. I pulled again. Locked! There had to be something in there.
One-hundred-twenty-one-thousand . . .
I grabbed the keys and fumbled through them, looking for a small desk key. I found one and tried it. No go. There was another, and it worked. The drawer opened and I saw about a dozen thick file folders piled up. Why keep hundreds in the open file cabinet and lock up these? It had been so long since I saw a clue I almost didn’t get it.
One-hundred-
thirty-five-one-thousand . . .
Damn! I wished I knew French! I couldn’t make heads or tails out of this stuff. Then one file caught my eye. It was labeled “Ordres de déplacement.” Deplacement? Did that mean travel? Travel orders? I put the file on the desk near the candle and looked through its contents. The forms looked familiar. These were all carbon copies, but they were duplicates of Villard’s travel orders that we’d seen at the Gardes Mobiles headquarters. I couldn’t make out the order they were filed in, so I just pawed through them. It was right at the bottom. Orders to Captain Luc Villard for the transport of twenty-five prisoners via the Bône supply depot, Captain Gauthier, commanding. Next to his name, there was one handwritten note.
Le Carrefour
.What was that, the name of a bar? Or the password? Wait a minute—I looked at the matchbook more closely. “Le Bar Bleu—Bône” was written on the back with a phone number. I stuffed the matchbook in my pocket along with the orders.
One-hundred-sixty-one-thousand . . .
Time to go! I put the files back and shut the drawer, eased around the desk, and listened in the hallway. I heard laughter, then footsteps coming up the stairwell, so I went for the other staircase at the end of the corridor. Then it hit me. I’d left the keys in the lock, but I’d found them on his desk! I turned and tried to get traction on the slippery floor. I almost fell, regained my balance, darted back into the office, grabbed the keys out of the lock and tossed them onto the desk, then ran out into the hallway, not even stopping to listen this time. I had to get out now under my own power or Bessette’s office would run out of rugs. I made it to the stairs and turned the corner just as I heard the sound of boots in the hallway and Bessette’s loud voice. It was close, but I beat him by a second. And I had a password, or the name of either a good restaurant or a carpet wholesaler.
Ten minutes later I was up on the roof and headed back to friendly territory. The prospect of an army cot actually sounded good to me. Kaz and I didn’t have a room, but they had given us beds at the end of a hall where we could sleep and stow our gear. It felt like home, and I was glad to still be in one piece to enjoy it.
DAWN WASN’T FAR OFF and I was torn between getting a couple of hours of shut-eye and waking Kaz to tell him about the murder. There was enough light at our end of the hall for me to see that Kaz was already awake, sitting on his cot, leaning against the wall.
“Billy . . . ” he said, almost in a whisper. He didn’t sound right.
“Kaz, you okay?” I asked as I knelt next to him. He didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He was drenched in sweat and hot to the touch. His eyes were focused somewhere else.
“Billy, I waited for you.” He was talking to me but looking straight through me.
“I know you did, buddy. I knew I could count on you. Now tell me, what’s the matter?”
“My arm . . . ” He looked down at his bandage, then his head rolled back and his eyes shut. He was breathing in quick little gulps, as if he couldn’t get enough air. The bandage was loose and hanging by a few pieces of tape. I lifted it up to get a look, and brushed my hand against his skin.
“Ahhhhh!” he gasped, sucking in air between clenched teeth. His eyes were wide open now. I grabbed for my flashlight and shined the light on his wound, careful not to touch him again. Even lifting the gauze seemed to cause him pain.
It looked awful. The skin was swollen and red all around the wound, filled with bumps or blisters, a few oozing dark brown matter. Kaz had waited for me, all right.Waited instead of going to get his arm checked like I’d told him to. It had been bothering him earlier in the evening, but he wanted to see me return safely.
I knew I had to do something, but I couldn’t move. I stood frozen for seconds, maybe minutes. I felt horrible. The weight of Kaz’s pain crushed the breath out of me. He had been shot rescuing me, and now he looked like death itself. Forcing myself to move, I pulled on my boots and put on my web belt, my .45 in its holster. I tightened his sling as best I could, and knelt to pick him up. I was careful not to touch his bad arm. Fortunately, he had passed out. He was light as a feather. There really wasn’t much to this little guy, and I was scared that whatever was wrong with his arm was going to get to his bum ticker, if it hadn’t already. Kaz had suffered enough in this war, and mostly because of me. He would still be in London with Daphne if he hadn’t gotten involved with my last investigation. I couldn’t bring her back but I could do my best to keep him alive. And then, I’d do whatever it took to get him back to London.
I left a message for Harding and five minutes later I was in a jeep, hightailing it down the coast road, one hand on the wheel and the other on Kaz’s shoulder to keep him from falling over.
“Hang on, buddy,” I said, “we’re almost there. Kaz, can you hear me?”
Nothing. I slammed the accelerator to the floor and skidded right at a sign for the 21st General Hospital. They were just setting up the main medical center for this area. I thought Kaz would stand a better chance here than at a field hospital or aid station, even if it wasn’t fully operational yet. More doctors, more drugs, more of whatever he needed, I hoped.
I pulled up to a brick building that it might have been a school or government offices before we moved in. In the courtyard stood trucks with red crosses painted on them. On either side were tents, more trucks, and piles of supplies under tarps. Even this late—or early—there were lights on and people moving around. The main door opened and a sergeant with a cigarette clamped between his lips pointed at me.
“Hey Mac, move that jeep outta here! Emergency vehicles only!”
“That’s Lieutenant Mac to you, Sarge, and this is a goddamn emergency.”
I jumped out of the jeep and ran around to Kaz’s side. The sergeant came close enough to check my rank and look at Kaz. It didn’t take him long to react. He tossed his butt, hollered some orders, and in a minute had Kaz on a stretcher and inside. He didn’t bother apologizing for talking to an officer that way, which actually made me think he was okay.
We went down a long dark hallway into a well-lit room with empty beds along one wall, and a few doctors and nurses standing around.
“Hey Doc, got some business for you,” the sergeant called out. The stretcher bearers transferred Kaz to a gurney as the doctor moved in for a look.
“Who brought him in?”
“This guy.” The sergeant nodded his head toward me. He was dark-skinned with jet-black hair and thick eyebrows, and sounded like he was from somewhere deep in Brooklyn. His three stripes sported a rocker, so he was a staff sergeant, and obviously in charge, even though the doctor was also a lieutenant. Second louies were a dime a dozen in this Army, but experienced NCOs were worth their weight in gold and they knew it. This one sure did. The doctor put his hand on Kaz’s forehead as he listened to his heartbeat with a stethoscope.
“When was he wounded, and when was the bandage last changed?”
“Just yesterday morning,” I said, “and no one’s looked at it since the medic fixed him up. It started bothering him earlier this evening. What’s wrong, Doc?”
He didn’t answer me as he snipped off the bandage and Kaz’s sleeve. A nurse came over with a tray full of instruments and bandages. He wrinkled his nose as he pulled up the last layer of gauze.
“Jesus Christ! Wet gangrene.”
I would have liked a better bedside manner, and maybe a doctor who looked a bit older. This one had barely a few years on me, which meant he didn’t have a whole lot of experience. He had blond hair and was trying for a mustache, probably to make himself appear closer to thirty. He had the good teeth of the well-to-do and looked like he’d just stepped out of Harvard Square.
“Doc, are you sure?” I asked, “I didn’t think you could get gangrene that quick—”
His eyes snapped up to look at me and give me the once-over. “And where did you get your medical degree?”
“Sorry, Doc . . .”
“And don’t call me Doc. I didn’t get a medical degree from Harvard to be called by a nickname. It’s Doctor Sidney Dunbar, and your friend will be very sorry that he didn’t get proper medical attention after that medic bandaged him up.Tight bandages in hot weather are a breeding ground for infection. They cut off the blood supply, allowing the Clostridium bacteria to thrive, leading to necrosis and the death of tissue.”
“So how bad is—”
“Sergeant,” the doctor interrupted, “we’ll need the penicillin. Now. Nurse, move the patient into a room. You, get out of our way.”
The last part was for me. They scurried off as a couple of orderlies appeared to wheel Kaz away. I stuck with him, and wondered what the hell penny cillin was, and why they couldn’t at least offer him the dime cillin.
They moved Kaz into a hospital room. The concrete walls were whitewashed and you could see where the fresh paint had dribbled down to the bare wood floor. There was a damp, antiseptic smell in the room: cleansers, paint and dust all mixed together. It was furnished with three beds, nightstands, and a table with a white porcelain tray filled with instruments I didn’t want to look at. They laid Kaz on the middle bed and left. His face was drained of color now. I sat on an empty bed, watching Kaz breathe and praying that each breath would be followed by another. Finally the sergeant came into the room, holding a small cardboard container.
“Don’t mind Doctor Dunbar, Lieutenant,” he said. “He’s a little on edge.”
“I’m glad he’s so involved with his patients. I’m Lieutenant Billy Boyle, by the way.” I stuck out my hand and he shook it.
“Joe Casselli. Don’t think that Dunbar is a humanitarian. He’s pissed off that we have to use some of this precious stuff.”
He held up the container. In U.S. Army regulation stencil, it said PENICILLIN. FOR INTERNAL USE ONLY.
“What is that stuff?”
“It’s what is going to save your friend’s life,” said Dunbar, striding into the room. “No thanks to you or whatever lame-brained unit you’re with. Don’t you know anything about first aid and hygiene?”
“We’re attached to Headquarters,” I said vaguely.
“Which Headquarters?” Dunbar asked as he signed a form Casselli held out for him.
“Uh, Allied Forces Headquarters. I’m Boyle, this is Lieutenant Kazimierz.”
There was a silence as Dunbar and Casselli both looked at me, then each other. Casselli gave a little shrug.
“I don’t have time to play games, Lieutenant.We’ll find out later if you don’t want to tell us. Then I’ll file a report with your CO letting him know that someone’s incompetence has obligated us to waste a valuable resource.”With that,Dunbar took the penicillin from Casselli. He drew it off with a syringe and injected Kaz, who gave no sign of feeling the needle.
“You called it penicillin?” I asked, keeping my eyes glued to Kaz. “Never heard of it.”
“We’re the first hospital in a combat zone to have it,” said Dunbar. “It’s a real wonder drug. It kills a wide range of bacteria, all of them deadly. Including Clostridium, which is what’s causing your friend’s gangrene to progress so rapidly.”
“It’ll stop that?”
“It should.” For the first time, Dunbar didn’t sound so cocky.
“Should?”
“Listen, Boyle, this is brand new stuff.We know it knocks out bacteria like nothing we’ve ever seen. I just don’t know if it will kill the bacteria fast enough. If it’s already spread throughout his system, it may be too late.We wouldn’t need to worry if you had brought him in sooner.”
“It’s worked every time so far, right Doctor Dunbar?” said Casselli.
“Yes. Everyone we saw yesterday is stabilized.”
It took me a second to get what he was saying. “You mean you used this for the first time
yesterday
?”
“I said it was brand new, didn’t I?” Dunbar sat on Kaz’s bed and began cleaning his wound. He poured alcohol over it but Kaz didn’t open his eyes or even flinch.
“This wound has to be debrided,” Dunbar said. “Sergeant, would you find a nurse and ask her to bring the instruments? Boyle, you wait outside.”
“Debrided?” I asked as I moved toward the door.
“We have to cut away the dead tissue. Nothing to worry about, just not pleasant to watch.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I went into the hall and sat on a bench. In a minute Casselli returned, followed by a nurse carrying a tray of shiny sharp instruments. By the looks of them I was glad Dunbar had kicked me out.
“You look like you could use a cup of joe,” Casselli said when he appeared. “Don’t worry about your buddy. Dunbar may be a jerk, but he’s a good doctor.”
“Is he always in such a bad mood?”
“Well,” Casselli considered, “I can’t say he’s ever in a good mood, but this is worse than usual. He lost real bad in a big poker game last night. Not for the first time, either.”
“Officers gambling? Isn’t that against regulations?” I asked with mock innocence.
“Yeah, right. Our CO is a regular along with Dunbar and a few other guys. They’ve been playing for pretty big stakes lately. Getting close to the shooting war can have that effect.”
“How big?”
“Sawbuck ante.”
“Wow. Must make for some really big pots.”
“Yep. Dunbar used to do pretty good for himself. Since we left England though, his luck’s run out. He’s in fairly deep to the CO and a surgeon.”
“He looks like he’s from money. May not be a big deal.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. You want some joe or not? I’m buying.”
“Coffee sounds great. Lead on.”
The mess hall was a beehive of activity. Tables were being set up for breakfast and the smell of fresh coffee floated out to us. Cases of food and supplies were being unloaded from trucks and carried through the mess hall into the kitchen by GIs in olive drab T-shirts. Double doors leading out into the courtyard stood wide open and the trucks were backed up to them, endless stacks of food and who knows what else being handed down and carried in.
“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” said Casselli as we helped ourselves to coffee from an industrial-sized urn.
“What is?” I asked.We headed for a table and sat.
“Just think about it,” said Casselli. “We’ve only been here three days and already have a whole supply system set up, this General Hospital in operation, field hospitals up the line, all while we’re keeping the guys at the front supplied. Tons of supplies are moving down that coast road every hour.”
“I took all that stuff for granted. It’s always just . . . there,” I said, shrugging my acceptance of enough beans and bullets to get the job done.
“I guess I’ll take that as a compliment to supply sergeants everywhere in the ETO,” Casselli said. “Nobody thinks about us until they run out of gas. Or coffee. Or if the phones don’t work. The lines were all dead when we got here, and Walton blew a fuse. We ran almost a thousand feet of wire to get him his telephone. All in a day’s work.”
I raised my cup to him. “Here’s to the unsung heroes,” I said. “Supply sergeants and miracle drugs.”
“That penicillin stuff is really something,” Casselli said excitedly, leaning forward. “We’re the first general hospital to get it. They’re just starting to mass-produce it in the States. Scientists have know about it since 1929, but they were never able to produce more than a teaspoonful, until some outfit called Pfizer figured it out last year.”
“Showing off again, Joe?” A honey soft voice came from behind us. Casselli jumped a bit, and his face went a little red. He stood up like a small child caught at something by a teacher.
“Lieutenant Boyle, this is Captain Morgan, head of Nursing for the 21st,” said Casselli.
“Why Joe, we’re never so formal here, are we? The name is Gloria Morgan, Lieutenant Boyle.”
“Billy Boyle, ma’am,” I said as I stood up.
“Well, Billy, your Polish friend is indeed lucky. Without this new miracle drug Joe was telling you all about, he’d most likely be dead in twenty-four hours.”
Gloria Morgan had my attention, in more ways than one. She was the kind of woman who took over a room with her presence. She had a pile of wavy brown hair tied back and deep brown eyes up front. Her face was wide, more striking than pretty, high cheekbones and a strong chin gave her face a determined look, even when she was just standing there. She looked at me with a bit of a smile on her lips that made anything she said seem like good news, delivered with just a trace of a soft southern accent. She was probably in her mid-thirties, maybe even forty, but it was apparent that she was in great shape, even in the Army fatigues she wore. I struggled to say something, to stop staring at her.