Assignment Madeleine (4 page)

He ignored his French. “Do you speak English, mademoiselle?”

“A little. Well enough, I think. Is it necessary?”

“It may be, later on.”

She put away the comb and pursed her mouth to apply
lipstick. “Brumont has told you all about me, I presume.”

“Some of it. We are in the same business and we are to
collaborate.”

She moved her lips to smooth the lipstick. “You are not a
stupid man. You know I am badly frightened. I wish to be out of this business,
as you call it. Those men would have done unpleasant things to me, given the
opportunity. They want to know about L’Heureux. Brumont no longer trusts me, I
know. And I don’t trust you. In a way, it is a fair enough basis for our mutual
effort.”

Durell smiled. “You’re very frank.”

“Do you think so?”

“Not really. A fine actress, let’s say.”

She laughed, stood up, and took his arm. “Then we are
agreed. You distrust me. I distrust you. I am not very fond of Americans, you
know. I saw too many of them, years ago, in Africa. You expect me to—what is
it, double-cross? Yes. And you take me for a foolish woman who is in love with
the wrong man. You condescend toward me. But perhaps for the moment we can
arrange a truce. You
are
taking me to
Marbruk, are you not?”

“If you wish.”

“I am ordered there by Brumont. It will be interesting to
have you as a traveling companion and—collaborator?

“Let’s call it a truce until the plane, then. At five
o’clock.”

They went out into the hallway. The two policemen on duty
there stepped aside to let them leave. Durell was very conscious of the girl’s
spectacular beauty. He was also aware of the wire-tight condition of her
nerves. Under her smile were taut little muscles and faint smudges that
cosmetics couldn’t hide.

“Do you mind,” she said,
 
we stay together until we are on the plane? I have a few things to
pack—you may come up to my flat—and perhaps we could have an
apéritif
and lunch together.”

“I have a date waiting for me at Jacques’ place,” he said.

“A girl?”

“My girl, yes.”

“An American?”

“Yes.”

“This complicates things for you.” She laughed. “Perhaps it
would be embarrassing for you it I went with you, but I promise-”

“It will be all right,” Durell decided.

The cool August rain still fell over Paris. A mist hung over
the Seine, obscuring the bridges and the Notre Dame spires, softening the walks
and statues and stone stairways going down to the river bank. A man in a black
beret leaned over the stone balustrade, staring at the dappled surface of the
river, and when they passed by, Durell heard him straighten and saunter after
them as they walked to the first crossing. He decided the black beret was
Brumont's agent, and he would have to be more than usually careful at Jacques’
place.

The café was a short walk from the river, on a narrow
cobbled street edged with dripping trees. A striped awning sheltered the tables
outside. Three men were visible within, at the zinc-topped bar, and through the
shutter door they could be heard arguing volubly about taxes. Deirdre Padgett
sat alone at a table on the sidewalk under the awning.

As always, Durell’s heart lurched when he first
glimpsed her, and all his resolutions to keep her out of his lite grew dimmer.
He knew her intimately. There were no secrets between them except those of his
work, and she had come to accept this, even if she refused to understand it.
Her raven hair was touched by the soft mist, and she wore a small suede beret.
Her winged brows were inquiring as she saw Durell approach with Madeleine on
his arm.

“Sam. . . .”

He kissed her and drew a chair for Madeleine and introduced
the two girls. Deirdre was cool and aloof; then her eyes warmed again as she
touched Durrell’s hand.

“Were you waiting long?” he asked.

“I only just got here, darling. You never waste time, do
you?”

He laughed. “You mean Madeleine? She’s part of the job I
came here to do.”

“Not very distasteful work, is it?” Deirdre asked. “Or am I
making unpleasant noises. I thought we were going to have the afternoon
together. Alone, I mean.” She picked up her small glass of vermouth. She wore a
pale gray dress trimmed with white piping, under a transparent rain cape. “I
suppose I should be used to this by now. But I’m downright jealous about
anything where you are concerned."

“I’m sorry, Dee. There’s no need to be.”

“Should I trust you?”

“No.” He grinned. “Definitely not.”

Madeleine spoke in her throaty French. “Please do not be
disturbed by my presence, mademoiselle. Monsieur Durell is only interested in
protecting me and convicting my friend of murder.”

Deirdre looked quickly at Durell. “Something you can talk
about, darling?”

“No,” he said.

“We travel as custodian and prisoner,” Madeleine added,
“although neither wishes to admit to the relationship. I am a foolish woman who
chose to fall in love with one who may be considered the enemy. But not by me.
I shall never agree. But in any case, you may forget about me, mademoiselle, if
you wish.”

Durell said, “If you ladies plan to use your claws, go right
ahead and help yourself. I think I’ll have a word with Jacques about lunch.
Excuse me.”

He went into the cafe to where the three Frenchmen were
arguing at the bar. Through the dim window he saw the man in the black beret
hovering at the corner. Jacques, a dark obsidian mass behind the bar, simply
nodded to Durell and went on talking to his customers. Durell finally
asked to consult with Madame Jacques about the lunch he wished to order.

“Of course,
m’sieu
. In the
kitchen, if you will.”

He went through a curtained archway to the rear of the cafe.
There wasn’t much time, with Deirdre and Madeleine outside and Brumont’s shadow
on the corner. It would have to be quickly and naturally.

A hallway painted a queasy brown led into the kitchen.
Madame Jacques looked up from her cast-iron coal stove and nodded. She was
stout, gray, and mustached. “Up the stairs,
m’sieu
.”

Durell turned up a narrow flight of enclosed steps to
the floor above. At the top of the stairway was a green door, and he
rapped on it in a quick, simple signal. Footsteps approached from the other
side and it was opened.

“Hello, Hal.”

“Welcome to Ears West.”

They shook hands. Hal Remington was a middle-aged expatriate
who looked more Parisian than the New Yorker he had originally been. A poet and
an artist, he had come to Paris in the late Twenties when a large colony of
Americans had made it their adopted residence. Remington had a short, forked
beard, a flat face, and bright intelligent eyes under bushy gray brows.
He locked rather lie an aging and sardonic Mephistopheles, gone a bit to seed. The
room was a rat’s nest, cluttered with two studio easels, clothing scattered
everywhere, and unfinished canvases stacked heavily against the plastered
walls. There was a huge desk with an ancient Oliver No. 9 typewriter standing
among a heap of squeezed-out tubes of pigment. A wardrobe closet stood open,
and in the bottom section, built into a drawer, was a compact and powerful
radio transmitter and receiver. On the window ledge that overlooked the cobbled
street, two wet pigeons huddled and argued for space beside a pair of
high-powered binoculars.

Durell looked out the window and discovered he could see the
front entrance of Madame Sofie’s salon.

“Quite a view,” he said. “Comfortable here, Hal?”

“I get some work done. And Madame Jacques has graduated from
the Cordon Bleu kitchens.” Remington kissed paint-stained fingertips. “At
last, after fifty-odd years, I find myself at peace with the
stomach. I am never hungry. As a matter of fact, amigo, I grow fat sitting up
here like a spider in one of your webs.” Remington looked out of the window,
too. “One of Brumont’s boys followed you here. That all right?”

“Don’t underestimate the
Deuxieme
Bureau,” Durell said. “They watch us and pick up tips from American tourists at
Madame Sofie’s. And they know we watch them, in turn, from here. Friendly
rivalry for now. Anyway, it wouldn’t surprise me if Jacques takes a pay check
from Brumont as well as from our Embassy. Nice, clean competition.”

“As long as were allies,” Remington said.

Durell’s eyes darkened. “Let’s hope that never changes.”

Remington lit a Gauloise. “Business has been slow, you know.
I’ve even done two paintings this month. Only two couriers through last week,
and a couple of cut-out assignments. I used to think your business had a lot of
excitement in it, Sam, but so far it’s been a bloody bore. But the pay is good
and I’m getting fat as I said. You’re here about Orrie Boston, aren’t you?”

Durell nodded and sat down. “What do you have on him, Hal?”

"Orders for you, somewhere.” Remington rummaged through
the rubbish on his huge desk. “Came in by code from Washington two hours ago.
Yours not to reason why, friend, yours just to do or die.”

“Don’t be so cheerful. Let’s have it.”

"You are to bring Charles L’Heureux back alive,”
Remington said.

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

“Suppose he’s really guilty? Suppose he killed Orrie?”

“We think he did. I’m sorry, Sam. That’s the word we got
from Marbruk. I knew Orrin Boston, too, don’t forget. We had some high old
times every time he made it into Paris.”

“You'd better brief me on the background,” Durell said.
“What I got from Brumont may he out of perspective.
 
There’s a girl involved in it, too—one whom
Brumont uses but doesn’t trust. I have to take her on.”

Remington nodded and chuckled. “The Sardelle, She snuggled up
to our Charley and liked what she found between the sheets.”

“Anything on her I could use?”

“No. About L'Heureux, he’s important because of what he
knows. Washington thinks he can be made to talk if he’s pulled out of Algeria,
where every rebel group wants to ventilate him a bit and maybe carve off
special pieces of anatomy. Our Sardelle would be heart-broken if that
happened.” Remington ran fingers through his forked gray? beard. “You’ve
been in North Africa before, haven’t you.

“With the old Lincoln Unit of the OSS. Making ready for the
landings at Algiers,” Durell said.

Remington dragged at his cigarette. “Two angles to this, but
they both tie to friend Charley. You know how it is sometimes, a man in the field
has to make use of whatever human material is at hand. Orrie Boston found our
Charley popping up in his work and finally put him on the payroll to keep
an eye on him. Did Brumont give you a rundown on L'Heureux?”

“There were a number of G.I.'s who turned adventurer in the
Mediterranean area after the war,” Durell said.

“And on the surface, all of them good patriots.” Remington
nodded. “Modern-day buccaneers to some people. Looters, smugglers, murderers,
dope-runners to others. L’Heureux was all of the latter and then some.”
Remington’s light tone was belied by the hardness of his bright eyes.
“L'Heureux probably was running guns to the rebels when Orrie contacted him.
Any chance to talk to the rebels has to be seized on—they resist contact and
demand prior independence like a bunch of fanatics. Anyway, Orrie figured
that our Charley was playing oft two factions of the rebels against each other.
Brumont wants chapter and verse on all that. He expects to get it, when you
deliver L’Heureux to Paris. We’ll cooperate on that. As for Washington, your K
Section wants to wash its own dirty linen and take L’Heureux apart for
information and then suitable penalties—when he’s been squeezed dry.”

“Just what was Orrie working on?”

“His last report was optimistic. He’d been in contact with
Hadji el-Abri. Negotiating a compromise conference with the French Army.
Unheard of, these days. If L’Heureux hadn’t killed him, maybe the rebels would
have done the job. The rebels won’t allow any parley.”

“You seem damned sure L’Heureux killed Orrie.”

“We’ve got the commandant’s report, that’s all.”

“And the motive?”

“Two points, possibly. One, Orrie got the dope on the game
our Charley was playing and faced L’Heureux with it. Or maybe L’Heureux took
our pay and a check from the rebels, too, and got word to stop Orrie Boston
from meddling and playing the part of the neutral intermediary.”

“And second?”

“Second, and much more specific, is a matter of over
two hundred grand in American currency, lifted off a courier of ours in Cairo
tour weeks ago.”

Durell was startled. “I didn’t hear about that.”

“Nobody has. It was money from another section—not itemized
in the national budget, you can be sure-and it’s being sorely missed. At the
time, there was that regular crisis in the Mideast, you remember, and people
recommended stepping lightly. No protests were made aside from routine
remonstrance to the police, and nobody mentioned anything so mundane as a
quarter of a million American dollars.”

“I gather it was traced to Algeria,” Durell said drily.

“Right. Via our friend Charley.”

“He hijacked our own man?”

“Not personally. He was here in Paris then. Doing some odds
and ends for the rebel terrorists in metropolitan France, we think. That’s how
Madeleine got put onto him.”

“Then what ties L’Heureux to the missing money?”

“We don’t know, but Orrie Boston did, and maybe that’s why
L’Heureux killed him. It will be up to you to get to t e bottom of that one,
too.”

“And the missing money?”

“It would be nice to get it back, I'm told.”

“No idea where it is?”

“Sure. Algeria."

“With the rebels?”

“With L'Heureux, we think.”

Remington crushed out his cigarette. He used a pink ceramic
bowl that looked remarkably and repulsively organic. “Algeria is important to
us, Sam, because it’s part of the tug-of-war between East and West. What we
would like is a peaceful, amicable solution that will suit both the French and
the Algerians. It’s not our business to meddle here. But a man like L’Heureux,
with the morality of an alley cat, can do everybody much damage.