Assignment Madeleine (2 page)

“What's the bad news ?” Durell asked.

“Orrin Boston is dead,” Hanson said. He was watching the
models on the ramp. “One of our own men killed him.

Durell's face did not change. None of the sick dismay
welling up in him showed through his gamblers impassive expression. But it was
difficult to imagine Orrie Boston as dead. He had told himself to expect
it, to be ready for it and accept it, as he had accepted such news before. But
this was harder to take. It was almost impossible. He didn’t believe it yet.

Brumont said quietly, “He was a friend of yours,
m’sieu
?”

“A very good friend.”

“It is the war we fight, of course. I am sorry.”

“Was he careless?” Durell asked.

 
“He was betrayed, as
Hanson suggests. By your own man.”

“Who?”

“The Happy One,” Brumont said.

Durell looked at the
Deuxieme
Bureau expert. Brumont was short, dark, and stout, with a thick moustache and
heavy jowls. His hands were small and pale, the nails neatly manicured. He wore
the Continental dark herringbone suit with wide, pointed lapels, the usual
crushed black felt hat, a striped silk shirt, and a loosely knotted dark tie.
His eyes were like small dark stones, examining Durell.

“The murderers name is Charles L’Heureux,” Brumont said. “An
American of Canadian extraction, I believe. Do you know him?"

“No. Where is he now?”

“In military custody in the town of Marbruk, where the FLN,
the Algerian rebels, staged their massacre some time ago. You know of the
crime?”

“I read about it,” Durell said. He looked at Hanson.

‘When and why did Orrin accept Charley L’Heureux to work
with him?”

Hanson still watched one of the models moving on the ramp.
He looked like a college boy in a burlesque house.

L’Heureux worked in Algeria for the past month. I don’t know
if you ever heard of him. He wasn’t assigned to your section.”

“No, he wasn’t,” Durell said.

‘Well, anyway, he was one of our ex-G.I.’s—he’s a French
Canadian from Maine, by the way-who stayed over here after the war. No
youngster now, of course. We have a file on him over at the Embassy—not a
very shining record, you see, but a useful man in your sort of business. ‘There
was a curl of condescension in Hanson’s voice. L’Heureux is smart, lots of
guts, supposed to have been in the old black-market rackets working the
Mediterranean area after the war. But he was never caught or convicted at
anything. Knows North Africa like the palm of my hand-which I’d like to use on
that babe over there: The brunette, I mean.”

“You son of a bitch,” Durell said. His voice was thin.

“You just said Boston is dead and—”

Hanson’s eyes moved in shock and surprise. “He is.”

“Then get your thoughts out from between your legs and let’s
hear more about it.”

“Now, wait, you needn’t get sore because I don’t weep tears
about Orrin Boston—”

“Please, gentlemen,” Brumont said.

“All right.” Durell sat back, the anger in him sinking to a
controllable level. “Let’s hear about L’Heureux and Orrin.”

“You people hire characters like Charley L’Heureux, but he’d
never be accepted for the Foreign Service, I assure you,” Hanson said stiffly.
“A black-
marketeer
, an adventurer, a man suspected by
Brumont’s people of more than one murder, a man with an Arab wife—maybe several
of them—what do you expect, using him in a sensitive spot like Algeria?”

“How long was he on the payroll?”

Hanson shrugged. “A year or more, so far as we know. He was
located here in Paris until recently, and then Orrin sent word up, asking specifically
for L’Heureux. Boston said he was working as an intermediary, contacting the
Moslems and dissident groups within the FLN, and he needed L'Heureux' help. He
also implied there was something sour about L’Heureux and he wanted to keep an
eye on him, and the best way to do that was to have L’Heureux assigned to him.
So it was done, and who’s to blame for what happened?”

“What did happen, exactly?’

“Apparently L’Heureux never got over his old habits. He was
running guns to various Nationalist factions as a sideline to his work for you
people. A rotten apple in the barrel, all right. Orrin must have gotten a line
on the activities L'Heureux was directing from up here and had him sent down to
pin the mark on him once and for all. But L’Heureux was smarter and quicker.
All we’ve got is the wire from Marbruk, from the French commandant there.
L’Heureux and Orrin had a fight and Orrin was killed. L’Heureux was
captured trying to get through to rebel guerrilla lines and he's in solitary
confinement at this moment.”

“Why hasn’t he been brought here?”

Brumont said quietly, “It is a delicate situation. Such an
order was given, in truth. Naturally, the French authorities wished to take
part in this, but after consultation with your Embassy, we felt it might be
best to let you wash your linen in private, as you say. We will waive all
extradition rights to L’Heureux. He is all yours.”

“But he’s still in Marbruk?”

Brumont nodded. “There has been some serious fighting
in that area. The telegraph lines are down, the radio from Tunis is jammed, and
we get only garbled messages from the military post where it happened. At the
moment, no one can be spared to escort L’Heureux back from the frontier. Unless
you wish to wait a few days for the situation to clarify itself, you will have
to go and get him yourself. You can do whatever you wish with him, then.”

Hanson interrupted impatiently. “Your orders are to bring
L’Heureux back to Paris for questioning. You can check with McFee on that.”

“I will,” Durell said. “But if he killed Orrin Boston, I
wouldn’t mind seeing him dead, myself.”

“That’s exactly how McFee said you’d feel. I spoke to him on
the trans-Atlantic wire just an hour ago. He said you’re to call him back on
this. But L'Heureux has to be returned alive and talkative.”

Durell lit a cigarette. There was a lull in the procession
of manikins moving on the ramp. From somewhere there came a piped Piaf recording
into the perfumed salon. Then a girl stepped out from behind the sequined stage
curtain and began to walk down the ramp, heading toward them.

“Here is Madeleine,” Brumont whispered.

“Where does she figure in this?” Durell asked.

“Madeleine works for us. She was assigned to L’Heureux long
ago.” Brumont smiled and ran a thumb apologetically along the pointed lapels of
his coat. “Naturally, we keep an eye on your people just as you do with us. No
apologies are necessary, eh? Madeleine Sardelle operated for us to gain
L’Heureux’ confidence. She did well. She reached his bed and became his
mistress.”

“But L’Heureux is from in Algeria.”

“Yes, and she was there until last week, with him. Then he
sent her back to Paris and she resumed her normal occupation here.” Brumont
looked thoughtful. “She left L’Heureux before Orrin Boston was killed, but she
insists her subject is innocent. She is quite passionate about it, and I
charged her with having fallen in love with L’Heureux. She admits this. Now I
do not trust her, and it is unfortunate, because Madeleine was a fine
operative for us. It is possible that, with a woman, loyalty can be shifted
because of emotional attachments. Madeleine set her own trap for L’Heureux,
perhaps, and was caught in it herself. In any case, she must now be regarded as
a double agent. She must be considered as having no sense of values where
L’Heureux is concerned, yet we must continue to use her as if we trusted her.
It is a dark and devious game we all play,
m’sieu
.”

Durell looked closely at the girl. Madeleine Sardelle was a
redhead, with wide brows and large gray eyes and a frightened mouth. Her
cheekbones looked faintly Slavic. The fall suit of checked wool that she
modeled hugged a long-legged, high-breasted Parisian figure. Her first
few steps were graceful, and then she seemed to stumble and her hand moved
hesitantly to the silk scarf at her throat. She looked quickly at Brumont, then
her eyes touched Durell and lingered on him for a moment before jumping to the
arched foyer entrance to the salon. A dark-faced man in a blue suit stood
there, a raincoat over his arm. The girl’s mouth opened and closed. Turning, to
exhibit the clothing she modeled, and it seemed to Durell that she was
trembling, but he couldn’t be sure about it at this distance. From the corner
of his eye he saw the green-haired Madame Sofie walk quickly toward the
dark-faced man in the foyer entrance.

Brumont made a small sound. “A magnificent woman,
non
?“

“A very frightened girl,” Durell muttered.

“Of course. She understands her danger.”

“What is she afraid of?”

“If her first reports are true, L’Heureux played
between rival factions of the Algerian rebels." Even here in Paris, they
employ their gangster tactics,
m’sieu
. They murder,
kidnap, terrorize. She has appealed to us for protection. It seems that
L’Heureux not only crossed Monsieur Boston and your organization, but he also
double-crossed the rebels in some way. We do not know the details. It will be
up to you to ascertain them—that is, if you wish to go to Marbruk rather than
wait for the situation to be clarified—”

Brumont suddenly interrupted himself and lurched to his
feet. Madeleine Sardelle had halted in the white-carpeted circle at the foot of
the ramp. She looked wildly at Brumont, and at the man in the foyer entrance
still talking to Madame Sofie. Then she turned and ran back along the
ramp to the curtained stage, plunging through the velvet draperies with a
backward glance of pure terror.

“Quickly,” Brumont snapped.

Durell was already on his feet. The man in the foyer slapped
Madame Sofie and turned to run out of the salon. Durell ignored him. He
raced up the ramp to the curtained stage, while the small group of patrons
stared at him in startled surprise. The curtains gave him a moment’s trouble,
and then he dove through them.

“Mlle. Sardelle!”

A frightened brunette in scanty lingerie stared at him in
confusion and then pointed. “That way,
m’sieu
. Is she
ill?

Durell ran to his left. He heard a dim shouting from the
salon beyond the curtains, but he didn’t pause. From the wing of the stage, a
corridor ran in both directions, lighted with low-power yellow bulbs. He yanked
open the first door he came to and found himself stared at by four models
in various stages of undress. The girls looked at him with cool, professional
eyes in masked faces. He muttered an apology and said, “Mlle. Sardelle?”

“The second door to the right,
m’sieu
,”
one of the girls said. She took off her brassiere and turned her smoothly
tanned back to him, but not very quickly. “She is always the lucky one, eh?”

Durell hacked out and heard the girls laugh. He was almost
at the second door down the hallway when he heard Madeleine Sardelle scream.

Chapter Three

Glass crashed somewhere behind the solid panels of the
dressing-room door. Durell tried the door knob, shoved hard with his shoulder.
The door was locked. The girl screamed again, the sound ending in a quick sob
of anguish and terror. Durell stepped back two paces and slammed at the door in
a low crouch, hitting the panel just below the latch. It snapped with a
splintering of wood, and the door slammed wildly backward as he drove inside.

As he crossed the threshold he dropped low, touching one
hand to the floor.

His method of entry saved him from the wild shot that came
his way. The bullet went high into the corridor behind him. There were two men
in the dressing room with Madeleine Sardelle, and the redheaded girl was
struggling in the grip of the taller of the two, who had a hand clamped across
her mouth to prevent another scream. The second one had the gun. With a glance,
Durell saw there were no others on either side of the doorway. The girl must
have thrown something at her attackers. She had missed and shattered the window
behind her instead, and the man who held her was now trying to back oil: with
her in that direction. There was no time to see any more.

The one with the gun wore a cap and a turtle-neck sweater of
fuzzy gray wool that smelled of the rain and acrid sweat; his face was thin and
sharp, a peculiar sallow brown as if he had been deeply tanned and was in the
process of losing that tan because of indoor living. Or hiding. His eyes were
wild. He tried to jump aside as Durell’s momentum carried him into the room.
The gun went off again, and again the shot went wide, and Durell caught him with
stiff fingers rammed into his belly. The man grunted, and Durell chopped
at his neck and sent him spinning against the lighted mirror on the wall. The
gun hit the floor. The man’s shoulder smashed the electric bulbs circling
the mirror in a quick series of popping bursts of glass. Durell kept moving,
spinning on his toes.

Madeleine still struggled in the second man’s grip. She
managed to bite the man’s hand at the same moment that Durell tore her free.
There was a scrambling sound behind him and something clubbed at his back. The
wind went out of him. He heard a sharp command in Arabic. Durell pushed the
girl aside and swung to face his assailants. Something slammed into his stomach
and as he fought up again, e smaller of the two men picked himself up from
among the broken mirror shards on the floor and shouted in a high,
lisping voice. Again, Durell thought it was Arabic. Then both men moved toward
him ' e darting snakes. He kicked at the first and his heel shattered
ones in the man’s face, but the other was equally adept at judo. A telegraph
pole smashed into Durell’s ribs and he went down. He tried to grab at the
second man and failed. The other’s face went dim and the room whirled and
darkened as he fell. He saw the taller of the two kneel and help his companion
to his feet. He pushed up as both men crowded out through the broken window.