Blonde Bait

VIII

Hal's house was a shingle and brick job with big picture windows, neat and new, like all the other houses on the block. The street seemed empty and, making as sure as I could that I wasn't seen, I quickly ran up the few steps. For the first time I noticed it was a two family house. I rang the bell with ANDERSON above it, and didn't hear a sound.

A man turned into the street from the avenue. I pressed the bell again. No sound. I had to get off the street but fast. I tried the door. It was open. Stepping into a two-by-four hall I was confronted with two doors. I cleverly pushed open the door which had a mat with a large “A” before it, walked up a sharp flight of stairs to another door. I knocked. A child's voice said, “My goodness, you know it's open, Mommy.”

Opening the door I saw a little girl of about five with long colt legs standing naked in the middle of a large and shabby living room. There were many paintings on the walls, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase, a sewing machine, a typewriter. And in one corner a big chair in the process of being reupholstered. Part of it was down to the frame with chisels and planes and a pot of glue beside it. It was a large, low-ceilinged room, shabby only because of the beating the modernistic furniture had taken—from the little girl, probably. I expected the kid to yell when she saw me, instead she asked calmly, “Are you the company Mommy is expecting?” She had a cute pixy face.

“I hope so. Where is your mother?”

“Close your eyes.”

“Why?” .

“My goodness, you should know boys must not look at girls without their clothes on. I am ready to take my bath. You close your eyes.”

I shut my eyes. “Where's your mother, honey?”

“Got ya covered!” a shrill voice at my right said. I jumped and my heart seemed to explode. I spun around to see a boy of about seven standing behind the couch with a toy machine gun in his hands. I gave him a sickly grin. He looked so much like Hal it was startling. He said, “Gave you a scare, didn't I?”

“Yeah. Where...?”

“Please close your eyes until I get into the bathroom,” the girl said.

I turned away from her and faced the boy, who gave me a burst of sparks. The little girl said, “Your eyes are still open!”

Shutting my eyes I told her, “Why don't you go to the bathroom and stop talking?” I half opened my eyelids.

“You are not my Daddy. I don't have to do what you say,” she said.

The boy gave her a burst. “You'd better be in the tub before Mama comes back, Bessie.”

“You shut up, Francois. Mommy told you about pointing that gun at...”

“You'd better call me Frank!” He advanced toward her with another burst of sparks, and with mock screams she ran into the bathroom and slammed the door. All the racket didn't help my head. The boy came back and gave me a man-to-man grin, showing a couple of buck teeth. “Girls are a pain. Gee, I wish I had a face as tough as yours. Did you bring me any presents, Mickey?”

“Well, I'm going to send you both presents in the mail. How did you know my name?”

“Pop talks about you a lot. He has a picture of you as a boxer. Gee, I don't know, can you send anything big through the mail? Like a wagon, or a sled? We almost had some snow the other day and I told...”

Somebody was rushing up the stairs and we both turned to face a small, woman, racing into the room, she was young, her face serious and sort of fleshy, with big bright eyes, and wild dark hair cut close to her head. She was wearing old jeans spotted with paint and a blue sweatshirt. On second look she was fairly stocky.

Holding out a small hand she said, “Ah, you have to be Mickey! I am Colette.”

I shook her hand and she rattled off some French which I think meant she had about given me up, then added in English, “What took you so long? I was afraid you were lost. I went down to see if the bell is working. It is not. I stopped in to tell them downstairs. Ah, I was sure you had gone away after receiving no answer.” All her words came out in an eager rush.

“Mister Johnny lives downstairs. He owns the house,” the boy said. “He has a real gun and he's a police sergeant.”

In French Colette told the boy it was bad manners to talk so much and to get ready for his bath. He said, “Aw, talk American, Mom,” and ran out of the room as she raised her hand.

In my best Haitian French I said, “I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs.—Colette.” While I knew I couldn't waste much time here, it was a relief to feel really welcome.

“I shall call you Mickey because I have heard so much about you. Some place I have pictures of you and my Hal. Every time we see the horrible fights on television, Hal talks about you, wondering where you are. You made a big impression on him.”

“Yeah, that's good,” I said with a foolish grin. Since she was talking English I gave up my bastard French. That I'd ever made any sort of impression on Hal was news to me. “I hate to—that is, I'm in a hurry, so...”

Her eyes took in my torn shoe, my ripped clothing and she asked calmly, “What happened to you?”

Her calmness did it, helped me type her. Colette was one of those take-charge babes, the sweet and very efficient gal who can do everything. That kind would drive me to drink, but I suppose if you only saw her one week out of five, or whatever Hal's schedule was, it wasn't too bad. I said, “The question is, what hasn't happened to me. I've been in a series of accidents ever since I hit New York this morning. I'm the original accident-prone slob. I won't even bother telling you about them, you'd only think me a liar. The main point is, I lost my wallet and every cent I had. Can you lend me about ten bucks? I'll return it by mail in a few days.”

“Of course. But take off your coat and rest. You look tired. I shall fix you some food.”

“That would be great, but I'm in a big rush. I have to make a phone call right away, so if you'll give me the money...”

“Use our phone,” she said, pointing to it.

“No, I think it best not to.”

“Ah, so it is like that.” She looked at me with renewed interest, as if I was another problem for her to solve.

“Nope, it isn't anything crooked. The real trouble is I don't know what it's all about. If you'll let me have the money, I'll be on my high horse.”

“You can't go out like this. Your shoes. I think you wear about the same size as Hal. At least come and see if a pair of his will fit you.”

The little girl opened the bathroom door wearing a pink robe. Colette said, “You are to watch TV in your room and not to disturb us. Tell Francois. Both are to stay in your room.”

The kid nodded without saying a word and marched off. Colette told me, “Please excuse the state of our house. With my painting and the children, I have little time for household work.”

“All those paintings on the wall yours?”

“But of course. You like them?”

“Sure.”

“The house is a mess. We are fixing the chairs.”

“I didn't know Hal was so handy with wood,” I said, following her into the bedroom.

She laughed. “He is all thumbs. I do that myself. So much to do. We couldn't have two boys or two girls. Soon we will need an extra room and rents are terrible. Maybe when we move, I shall be able to have a studio of my own. Here, sit on the bed and try these on.”

The bedroom was more of this modern furniture that looked as if it would stick you any second. I sat on a hassock and opened my coat. I suppose we both wore startled expressions. She was staring at the blood on my neck and I was staring at a framed photo of several teenage boys and girls, all wearing armbands and holding machine guns. The pig-tailed gal with the burp gun cradled in her arms was Colette.

She dropped a pair of Hal's shoes she'd taken from the closet and came running over. “You are hurt!”

“Hit my head in falling,” I said, still staring at the wall photo. “Were those real guns?”

“We must...” She turned and followed my eyes to the picture. “Oh, that, I was with the Maquis—the French underground—during the war. Off with your coat. And your shirt.”

“Don't bother. It's merely a bruise.”

“Nonsense. I will fix it. I teach First-Aid to the mothers at the school. Undress!”

I peeled off my things, stripped down to my pants at her urging. She said, “You are also big and strong, like my man. Wait, I will get the boy from the bathroom. You are certain you do not need a doctor?”

“No.”

“One second, then.”

She dashed out of the bedroom and I went over and examined the picture. You got the feeling this wasn't any posed shot: these kids had used the guns.

Colette called to me and I passed the boy, now in a neat blue robe, and he asked, “Do you have to take a bath every night, too?”

I winked and he said, “You can float my atomic submarine, if you like.”

Colette had me bending over the tub while she expertly cleaned the bump on my head, even shaving some of the hair away. Then I sat on the John as she took off my shoes and socks, taped the blisters my torn shoe had caused. All this attention was embarrassing.

While I washed, Colette brought in shoes, socks, an old car coat, a heavy shirt, and a pair of slacks. Even the shoes fitted and when I dressed I looked my old self. I topped things by using Hal's razor for a fast shave. When I stepped out of the bathroom she clapped her hands. “You look like the new man! Here is some brandy and I will make supper...”

“I have to leave, make that call,” I said, sipping the brandy slowly. It was rich and smooth.

“I forget, here is money. Enough?” She pulled four five dollar bills from her pants pocket.

“Swell. I will send the money and the clothes...”

“It is of no matter. Are you sure you are not in real trouble? You can sleep on the couch for a few days if you like, wait until Hal comes home.”

The brandy was a tonic and I felt almost good again. “No. And thanks—for everything. I'm not in real trouble. I became a busybody, involved in trying to find a sour ball, it seems.” I suppose what really made me feel so good was the twenty bucks. There wasn't anything to stop me from reaching Rose. I was done, forever, playing detective. I could even joke about it now.

“Comment?”

“A kind of inside joke. I wanted to find a clown named Sowor. A German. Sounds like sauerkraut. But it turned out he's dead. Really a crazy story—there's some Oriental chick, Me-Lucy-ah, also in...”

“She is a girl?”

“Sure, sort of a pidgin-English babe. You know, Me-Tarzan? In her case she must be a hot number, you say Me-Lucy and add a sigh.”

“How do you spell it?”

“Come on, Colette, I can barely say it. Why?”

“The dead man, how do you spell his name?” There was a new eagerness in her voice.

“My trouble started when I asked for a Willy Sowor. S-o-w-o-r. Why are you interested?”

“He was a friend of yours?”

“I never saw him in my life. I only wanted to ask if he could tell me anything about a guy called Fedor, who...” I'd been feeling so good I'd let my big mouth run away with me, again. I stared at Colette, full of suspicions.

“Mickey, don't you know what Melouza is?”

“Some gal who... You know?” My guts began to tighten. Would I ever get out of this endless trap I'd walked into?

Her big eyes were bright with excitement as she nodded. “You're pronouncing it correctly, but it is not a woman. It is—or was—a village in the mountains of Algeria. A terrible crime took place there.”

“A village? What crime?”

“Mass murder. Every man, woman, and child in the village was deliberately hacked to pieces. Mickey, how can you be involved in this?”

“Involved? I didn't know it was a town until now. And I can't wait to forget it. Look, I hate to cut this short, but I have to go. Where's the nearest public phone booth?”

“Go to your left on leaving the house. Turn at the corner and you will see a newspaper store. Can't you use our phone?”

I shook my head. “Thanks again for everything and tell...”

“Mickey, make your call and then return here. I must make you something to eat. I'm a fine cook. I will also give sandwiches to take with you.”

“I can't...”

“I insist! I will be insulted if you do not at least try my cooking. What's another half hour or so? Don't be rude.”

“Well, let me make this call and see... er... what's doing.” I walked to the door and she grabbed an old cap from the closet and said, “Wear this to protect your wound. Please come back. It isn't the food alone. There is something important I must discuss with you, about Hal.”

“I'll be back,” I said, inspecting myself in a mirror near the door. I looked like Joe-Average-Citizen in Hal's old clothes. But I couldn't disguise my size.

It was very dark outside and that helped my nerves, until I realized the darkness could be a cover for whoever was after me. Had the superintendent reported to the cops that he'd been slugged? He must have. The police might still be checking the neighborhood. But I was too excited at the thought of talking to Rose to think of anything else. Not even the astonishing news that Me-Lucy-ah was a city in North Africa. Like the rest of the merry-go-round I was on, it didn't make much sense. Of course, Colette could be wrong, too.

I cased the newspaper and candy store as best I could, walked in and bought a couple of cigars to get some change. Dialing long distance and the boatyard, I waited anxiously for the guy to call Rose to the phone. It seemed to take an awfully long time. I sat there restlessly; an icicle of uneasiness growing inside me. It melted in a flood of warmth with Rose's throaty, “Mickey?”

“Yeah. Honey, I'm in the big city and on my way....”

“Oh Mickey! I've been worried out of my living mind! You should have been here hours ago. Anything wrong?” There was a kind of thickness in her voice. Maybe it was the phone connection. Or, Rose had hit the bottle and was cranked-up.

“No, no, everything is jake. I had a small accident I...”

“You're hurt!”

“No, honey, I lost my wallet. I had to scrounge around to get enough money to even phone you. But I'm set now and I'll be on my way in a few minutes. How're things at your end?”

“Quiet, except for worrying about you. Please, Mickey, make it fast. Darling, I want you to be near me so. Oh, Mickey, I'm lost without you!”

“Sit tight, babes, and don't get lost in a bottle. We're not in the clear yet, for all I know,” I said, maybe blushing—I was that pleased. For some silly reason I told myself Hal could have his Colette with all her bright efficiency. She could never be half the woman Rose was.

After telling her to stay on the Sea Princess and be careful, that I should be out by midnight, I hung up. I started to dial the bus terminal when I saw a short squat man standing to one side of the booth. He kept glancing at me. I got this sudden lump of suspicion until I noticed he wasn't wearing a tie under his overcoat. He looked as if he'd rushed out of his home to make a call.

Still... I thought of the poor janitor I'd clobbered. I'd been pure lucky, but another slugging and I could be jammed-up. I decided to bluff, play 'em like you got 'em, as poker players say. When I got the bus terminal I hung up and opened the booth door. “You waiting for the phone?”

“I certainly am!” he shrilled. “I have an important business call to make but that doesn't stop my daughter from tying up the phone. It's a plain outrage when a man can't use his own phone for...”

I stepped out of the booth. “Make your call. I have to use the phone again.”

“I have to make several calls. I shall make one and let you...”

“That's okay, I can wait.” I lit a cigar and walked over to the phone books, figuring they might have a map of New Jersey in them. They didn't. When Shorty left the phone I dialed the bus terminal and found the last bus to Asbury had left a half-hour before. The clerk was a talker and when I said I had to get there, he gave me directions for taking a train to Newark, then connecting to a train or bus going to Red Bank. A cab from Red Bank he said would only be a few bucks. I phoned the train station and found I had ninety minutes before the next train to Newark, and after that, they seemed to run every half-hour.

I sat in the booth and smoked. I had enough money, it would be safer for Colette and myself if I didn't return. She was making this food, and Lord knows what she expected me to tell her about Hal. I didn't want to be a crude jerk but this wasn't the time for playing at manners. But I did have time and hanging out at her place was better for me than the streets.

I thought about buying her kids a box of candy: that might be like a guy borrowing money to bet against you in a crap game. I walked toward her house slowly, looking up and down the street to see if I was being followed, and feeling like a guy who hasn't the smallest idea of what he's doing.

She had some long-haired junk on a record player and said the food would be ready in a moment. I studied the chair she was fixing, and wondered why you never heard of women carpenters. She called me into a kitchen full of a hundred gadgets and I sat down to a plain cheese sandwich and a cup of coffee. She had also packed some food in a bag for me to take, which was fine—it would make me look a working stiff on his way to the night shift. When I finished the sandwich she insisted I have another cup of Java but I said I had to go.

“Your call. Everything is all right?”

“Sure. Listen, I'll send you the money.”

“Mickey, you can't leave! A few more minutes, please.”

“Colette, I'm a lousy gossip. I don't know what you think I can dish out about Hal, but I don't know a thing that...”

“That was a lie to make certain you returned. Mickey, you must stay a few more minutes. It's very important! Somebody wants to talk to you. He's on his way here.”

“Somebody is coming? How did...?”

“I phoned Jacques. You must talk to him about Melouza. You can trust him.”

“Aren't you the real live doll!” I said, trying to keep my voice down, remembering the cop downstairs who owned the house. “I don't trust anybody! In the last dozen hours I've been shot at, slugged, and pushed around. From now on my sole hobby in life is keeping my nose clean! Did you tell him my name?”

“I think I said Mickey. You can trust him, trust me. You must!”

I could see the red line of danger streaking toward us; once they knew my name and the boat, we were finished! I started for the living room. Colette flung herself on my shirt. She said fiercely, “I trusted you! When you came here I didn't ask if the police were after you, or if you were bringing danger to me and my children! You are Hal's best friend, why should I harm you?”

I stared down at her for a moment without talking. I mumbled, “You don't understand, I can best help you and your kids by taking off—now.”

“Mickey, you are the one who lacks understanding. I don't know if you are only pretending or you really don't know what this is all about. Jacques is a good man, very smart, a member of one of the French diplomatic staffs. He will know what to do.”

“Do about what? Colette, if you have any sense, let well enough alone.”

“No, no, you see I know a little—about Willy Sowor, and more about Melouza. Mickey, you may have something very big for us.”

“Who's 'us?'”

“The decent people of the world. The true story of Melouza is so important!”

“Important? I don't get your message—what are you trying to sell me?”

“To wait for Jacques, he can tell you much more than I know. Mickey, you have nothing to fear from either Jacques, or myself. Believe that!”

“Damn it, how do you know what I have to fear?” I asked, pushing her away, wondering if Hal had mentioned what I'd told him in Haiti about Rose. Two other ideas were rattling around in my sore head. I had wanted to see Sowor to find out what Rose was in. Strange as it seemed—and nothing about this set-up could actually surprise me any more. Colette and this Jock could give me the info. The other idea, the bigger one, was that if I ran now, Colette might give this Jock my real name. And then he would trace me to the boat, the island. Ruin our last hiding place.

Colette was standing with her back to me, blocking the door neatly. I said, “Sure I trust you, I have to. But one thing I insist upon: under no circumstances are you to tell this Jock, or anybody connected with him, my full name or anything about me. I have my reasons. A deal?”

“Deal? Of course, anything you wish. Mickey, I would no more hurt you than I would expect you to harm me or my children. I...”

“But you can be hurting the hell out of me without knowing it! Like now, asking this Jock in without first even asking me.”

She looked away for a moment. “I simply refuse to believe you are on the other side.”

“The other side of what?”

“Of humanity and everything that makes life worth living.”

I never was good at riddles. “I don't know about sides, but let's settle two things: no mention of my real name, and I'll wait ten minutes for this...”

There was a knock on the downstairs door. Colette actually raced down the stairs and returned with a compactly built guy dressed like a conservative fashion-plate. His face was vaguely familiar as he took off his homburg and black overcoat with the velvet collar. He stared at me, blowing on his finger tips, as Colette talked to him in runaway French. His hair was completely white and the tired eyes had tiny wrinkles around them, yet I had an idea he wasn't much older than me, maybe younger. He nodded as Colette talked, now rubbing his thin hands together slowly. I once knew a knife thrower who had hands like that; sort of delicate but strong, like thin steel wire. Sitting on the couch, he pointed toward a chair and said, with a kind of clipped, and perhaps phony, British accent, “Now let us talk, Monsieur Mickey.”

As I put it down, the accent reminded me of the old man in the turtleneck. This Jock was staring at me and I looked him smack back in his eyes. And knew where I'd seen the face before: he was one of the Maquis in the snap on the bedroom wall, although his hair hadn't been white then. And from the way he'd been standing in the picture, he'd been their officer. I said, “Okay. You do the talking.”

He gave me a weary smile. “As you wish, Monsieur Mickey...?”

“Mouse,” I added, brightly.

“Ah, yes, Monsieur Mouse,” he said without a smile. “Very good. He is a jovial chap who tries to make the world laugh. But enough of small talk. It will save us both time, and I understand you are in a hurry, if you will kindly tell me why you were trying to contact the late Monsieur Sowor?”

“Nothing to it: I was looking for a gal I once knew. She'd mentioned Sowor. As I told Colette, it was an easy name to remember, being she said the guy was a German... Sauerkraut. Of course I thought it was spelt s-o-u-r, but took a chance this Willy Sowor might be the same guy, might know where this gal is now. Or where Me-Lucy-ah is and she might know. I thought she was an Oriental gal. Colette says she's—it's—a town. Very confusing.”

“Indeed. It is hard to believe anybody could be that naive in these times. But the woman you look for, why do you want to see her?”

“Talking about being naive—what does a fellow generally want to see a babe for? We spent a hot week together in Canada last year. I'm all for an encore, if I can find her.”

“Is her name Rose and was her husband Josef Fedor?”

“Her name is Mary and we didn't talk about a husband.”

He waved his manicured hands as if clearing the air, and I thought I saw the outline of a shoulder holster. “Was she a tall, statuesque woman? Beautiful? An actress?”

“She was a big blonde and very pretty. Come to the point. What's this all about?”

“Basically it is about good and evil, right and wrong, Monsieur Mouse. In the early summer of 1957 while civil war was being waged in Algeria between the French army, the colons, and the Algerian 'rebels,' the world was shocked to learn the entire population of an obscure village of mechtas—the mud huts found in the Algerian mountains—had been ruthlessly slaughtered. It was the village of Melouza. Over three hundred people, including children, had been literally butchered: throats slashed, bodies hacked. Paris claimed the 'rebels,' or the FLN as they are known, were responsible for this madness because the people of Melouza were said to lean more toward the Algerian National Movement, a group far less nationalistic than the FLN. Understand, I merely state what was charged, not what happened.”

“Sure,” I said, wondering how this could possibly have any tie-up with Rose. She was neither French nor Arab. If she'd ever been in Africa, even with a USO show, she would have told me.

“The FLN charged Melouza was a village of no known political sympathy or importance. They claim French soldiers in the uniform of the FLN were the mass killers, that it was done to terrorize other Algerian villages from aiding the FLN. They said that in a raid on an Oran cattle fair the year before, French soldiers were alleged to have been captured disguised as FLN guerrillas. These are all mere charges. To this day the truth is unknown.”

“But what's all this to do with me, or the gal I knew?”

Jock held up a thin finger. “Monsieur, let me first fill you in on the European scene before 1957. There were many stateless men roaming about. Ex-Nazi soldiers and the victims of the Nazis still snarled in the red tape of rehabilitation camps. There were exiles from various countries. There were many decent men, along with out-and-out adventurers, and scum. All had one thing in common: they were desperate and hungry. Many such men enlisted in the French Foreign Legion and fought in Indochina, in Algiers, wherever they were sent. Being desperate they fought bravely, ruthlessly, and many of them died. Now it is known that a unit of chasseurs, about a dozen Legionnaires, were in the area of Melouza, which proves nothing, you understand, and is merely a fact. Among these Legionnaires were Willy Sowor, a former tank driver in Rommel's Afrika Korps; Josef Fedor, who had been an officer in the Hungarian army; a Dutch thief named Gootsraat; a Turkish carpenter known as Subec; an Italian called Massina, born in Libya; and an Egyptian thug known as Lister. There were others, but these names we know. The Algerians accused this squad of the Melouza massacre. This has never been proved. It has also been established that several detachments of FLN were in the area at the time of the killings, too.

“In giving you a detailed picture, I am trying to stick to as many facts as we know. The duty tours of the men mentioned expired shortly after the Melouza incident and they were discharged from the Legion. They were said to be well fixed. However, it is possible they had found jewels or money—a great deal of looting goes on in these 'small wars.' The men quickly scattered over the Middle East, Europe, and America. And within two years they had all been killed. Perhaps more than a coincidence.”

“Killed or murdered?” I asked.

Jock gave me a thin-lipped tight smile. “Two were actually killed in bar brawls. Fedor was openly murdered. Sowor was killed by a car, perhaps an accident. The Turk is said to have drunk poison by mistake in Athens, and Subec was knifed by a brothel keeper in London. However it should be obvious all these men were on the run. They were constantly on the move and...”

“On the run from whom?” I cut in.

“Again, I have no proof. Certainly the agents of the FLN wanted to put their hands on them, perhaps other Arab groups. It might also be certain French officials didn't want these men to talk. Mind you, Monsieur Mouse, this is speculation on my part. That is the picture, a horrible crime and the six suspected men on the run— and dead. Some time ago it was rumored Fedor had written a book, an expanded diary. We know now it was a fact and not a rumor. This diary has never been found. The truth about Melouza may very well be in its pages, then again, it can also be pure fiction, or a pack of lies. Or it may have nothing to do with Algeria. It is said Sowor arranged to purchase this diary for $50,000. I have no proof of where or how he was able to raise this sum of money, or what parties he was acting for. The fact is, all this could have been blackmail on the part of Fedor. We are certain Sowor gave Fedor the money and then Fedor somehow doublecrossed him and never handed over the diary. It is assumed this was the reason Fedor was stabbed to death. Now we also know Fedor married a minor American actress. As the situation stands, his wife, the diary, and the money have vanished. For a time we thought she and the diary had vanished into the sea last year, and the search for the diary was given up— only to be revived today.”

“Why?”

“From several indirect sources we have learned various groups have a sudden, renewed interest in the diary. It is rumored Rose Fedor was seen last night, with a beefy man. You could be easily called beefy, Monsieur Mouse.”

“I guess so. And so could about twenty thousand other guys within shouting distance,” I said. “I don't get this bit about the various groups. Why should so many people want this diary?”

“I told you, the diary can prove a bombshell—or a dud. A great many people are interested in finding Rose Fedor—with the hope she will lead them to the diary.”

“Of course I still don't know what this is all about, but—are you one of the people looking for this—! what's her name—Rose?”

“I am.”

“Do you, or they, think she killed her husband?”

“Oh, no. Fedor's death is of no consequence, it is the diary we all seek. Of course, we are not positive she has it, but she must know more about it than anyone else. To get on, Monsieur Mouse, I am certain that this Mary you met was Fedor's wife, Rose. No one else would know about Sowor and Melouza.”

“From what you've said, gangs of people know about them.”

Jock gave me a patient tiny smile. “Perhaps. Let me put it this way: no other American woman would know. Sound better?”

“Maybe,” I said cautiously. Having gone this far I wanted to pump him for all the info I could get. “We were only together for a week and crocked most of the time. But I did have an idea she was jumpy.”

“Did she have money?”

“Hard to say. We didn't live big and I paid the tabs.”

“Did she ever mention what she was 'jumpy' about?”

“She gave me a cock and bull story about the rough time the police and some private dicks were giving her. I didn't pay much attention, figured it was drunken chatter. I mean, the police don't chase you if you haven't broken the law and Mary didn't act like a crook.”

He offered a pack of cigarettes around, then lit one himself, as he said, “I imagine she has been having a rough time of it at the hands of various law agencies.”

“But you just said they don't want her for her husband's murder? This stuff about cops chasing you for the hell of it... well, you know, that really doesn't happen outside a bad movie,” I said, knowing I was doing a good job of playing the jerk.

Jock laughed politely. “Monsieur Mouse, you have the layman's faith and naivete concerning the 'law.' There is such a thing as the unofficial law. A crude example; there isn't any actual law stating a rich man's house shall receive more police protection than a poor man's shack. Yet we all know that without being ordered to, the police will keep an eye on the rich house, perhaps even look in on it several times a day. Another raw example: a policeman would hardly give a traffic ticket to a known politician. Yet I am certain there is actually nothing in any police manual the world over ordering this. Nor would the politician even have to suggest any possible consequences to the police officer. In brief, that is the unofficial law, and in various forms you will find this in all law agencies, no matter at what level. There are unofficial government... eh... moves, which would account for the 'law' harassing Fedor's wife if...”

“Say, while I don't know if Mary is the babe you're talking about, I do recall that when she was gassing about being pushed around, she mentioned a Federal man pulling a gun on her. Of course, that's so much hot air, but—well, it's odd she mentioned it.”

“My dear chap, that may not be hot air—as you quaintly call it—at all, but the unofficial government I am attempting to explain. It works the same way in all countries. I believe Colette has told you I am in the French government, yet at this very second I am acting in a completely unofficial capacity.”

“But a Federal dick?”

Jock held up a hand. “Another simple example: you are a Federal agent and let us assume I am a high official in a friendly foreign embassy. We meet at a cocktail party. In the course of conversation I say my government is much interested in having a talk with a Rose Fedor. That is all. A harmless request. Oh, I might even butter up the request by saying it concerns an internal problem in my country. But you see, no official orders or requests are made, nothing on paper. If you are such a high law or police official, you will pass the word along, pick up Rose Fedor, and your men will do so without having the slightest idea of what it's all about.”

“Look, Mr. Jock, take it easy. Sure, I can see you— or anybody else—buying off some local cop to do a favor. But isn't it a little far-fetched to think of a big Washington official starting a manhunt merely because of some bar conversation?”

“On the contrary, only a national figure could do it, or would be in a position to meet a high foreign official! Nor did I say a manhunt was started. They would merely send out a routine check for the whereabouts of Rose Fedor.”

“Routine? With a gun?”

“I don't believe the gun part,” Jock said, “Unless it would be used to frighten her. Remember, our high embassy man might have become friendly with an ordinary government law agent. He might even tell this policeman there's an under-the-table reward of a few thousand dollars for finding Rose Fedor. Or the law agent will try very hard to find her—on his own time—because he feels a word from an embassy will help his promotion. I assure you the same thing would happen in my country if an American official talked to a French police officer. What you must understand is that the police officer is not necessarily delinquent in his duty. On the contrary, he may feel he is doing the 'right thing.'”

I shook my head, said innocently, “That's hard to swallow.”

“For you, yes. In fact you may be sure the imaginary police official we talk about will feel the same way. Being a layman he—and you—will never question why Rose Fedor is wanted, because in his own mind he can not conceive of a government doing anything 'wrong.' Unfortunately, 'good' or 'bad,' 'right' or 'wrong,' are by themselves actually meaningless words. But I am wandering from the subject. Yes, I am looking for Mrs. Fedor, although not with a gun. But certainly in addition to possible law agencies hunting for her, there are also the FLN and other Arab parties, and there probably are fanatics in most of the groups involved. Neither last nor least are the hired hunters, or investigators, the private police, in the pay of some oil companies.”

I was impressed: Jock knew his stuff, was giving me a rundown of what I'd been through. I said, “Geez, this is getting involved. What's an oil company have to do with all this?”

Colette threw back her head and said something in French that could have been a couple of cuss words. Jock motioned for her to be still. “My dear Monsieur Mouse, you do seem to have been living in a hole. Do you never read the papers? In the Sahara desert, oil deposits have been found which may well surpass anything in the Middle East, by-pass Suez. And it fits. Again, let us suppose such a private detective informs the police he is working for one of the large oil companies, do you doubt the local police—without receiving any instructions or orders to do so—will heartily cooperate with the private investigator?”

“Could be,” I said, wanting to shout he was darn well right. “But, somehow, after all this time, Mrs. Fedor and the diary... I mean, why are they still important?”

Jock gave me that slightly annoying laugh of his. “The search for Rose Fedor has become an international, if unofficial, cause celibre. The diary will be of prime importance as long as Algeria remains unsettled, and that can be a matter of years. As I told you, the search had practically died down, until yesterday.”

I nodded and kept pumping. “About the importance of this book: are you saying the French army knocked off this village and are now trying to hush things up?”

“Jacques does not know,” Colette said, as if to keep in the conversation.

He shook his head. “Colette is correct, we have no proof of the killers' identity. When you say 'the French,' or 'the English,' or 'the American,' by themselves the words are also without meaning. It is the same as saying the sky is blue, which it is not, for the sky is composed of many shades of color, even of blue. Democratic governments likewise are a mosaic of different shades of political opinions. While this is a 'good' thing, it may also result in some government official doing terrible things in the name of 'righteousness,' and without it being an official policy of the government. We live in complex times and ironically, as the power of weapons increases, in the same ratio so does the power of the individual, A lieutenant piloting a plane with a bomb can start a world war at his whim. For all we know, Budapest was the result of a trigger-happy Russian tank driver, or Korea caused by a frightened machine-gunner. It is frightening but true that a drunken officer at a guided missile base can set the world afire. The military mind is such, the world over, that they cannot admit an error, a mistake, and feel they must either back up or bury any such action of then-men. It is possible Sowor, Fedor, and the others wiped out Melouza in a moment of drunken rage. The idea may have been entirely their own. But for me, that is far too simple a view.”

“What's that mean?”

“It is also possible, if they were involved in this horror at all, they were ordered to wipe out the village by a superior officer. What one must understand is: that such an officer although doing a monstrous act is not necessarily a monster. Indeed, he can be a sincere person convinced his act of terror is for the 'good' of his country. Do not smile, sir, in the history of your own country Indians were massacred and robbed, and not always by scoundrels. Some men, fine family men and upstanding citizens, felt that only by taking—stealing—the Indian lands could America win the West and grow powerful. Many Indian chiefs, far from villains, were just as certain the slaying of settlers and wagon trains was best for their tribe. In our complex world, nothing is all black or entirely white. Everything depends upon the point of view. A murder to one man can easily be a matter of necessity to another. Am I clarifying the picture or fogging it for you?”

“I'm kind of mixed up. Maybe because it's hard to believe this cloak and dagger stuff, officially or unofficially. Do you think the Algerian rebels killed the people in Me-Lucy-ah?”

“We all have opinions on the subject, but no proof of anything, hence the importance of the diary. Let me try again to clear the air. Myself, I am a liberal in my politics, I respect all humanity. Now let us imagine I am an officer sent to Algeria, in command of an area. Regardless of my orders, I would make an unofficial effort, completely on my own, to understand the problems of the Algerians, perhaps seek out a compromise. I am not doing this for power, or glory, or greed, but with what is known as the best intentions. The net result may be success, the saving of many lives. Then again, I could also be making a tragic mistake. If my opposite number among the FLN is a brute, a fanatic, my act could cause the death of hundreds of my men. Reverse the coin. I am a rockbound reactionary, I am a colon raised in Algeria, fearing and hating the Arabs. To me, then, the Arabs seem to threaten the very life of my beloved France and thus the rebels are but rascals and savages to be given no quarter. Therefore, I might, on my own, and with the most sincere intentions, order the massacre of a village. All this is the consequence of individual action. History is full of men who did horrible acts in the guise of patriotism. No doubt many of Hitler's concentration camp beasts felt they were doing a dirty job but one necessary for their Germany's survival. Trusting one's judgment can be a bad gamble for others.”

I sucked on my cigar; it was dead. Relighting it, I asked, “How did Sowor and Fedor get into the USA?”

“Perhaps as tourists, or they might have smuggled themselves across the border. Again, they may have been special guests.”

“Now what does that mean? Are you accusing Uncle Sam of playing potsy in this mess?” I asked.

Jock let me have another weary smile. “I am not insulting your country. The truth is, in my own way, I greatly admire the USA. What I meant is this: assuming the men were involved in this and whether their higher officers agreed with their action or not, if the army backed them, then it would be a simple exchange. I do you a favor and you do me one. These are dirty times with dirty wars and incidents going on all the time, involving every big power. Your CIA is authorized to bring in a hundred aliens per year into the USA, regardless of quotas or immigration rules. France has about the same set-up. So I, if I represented a high army department, might ask the USA to do us a favor and let two or three men into the country, no questions asked. In return, France allows several of your men to live in Paris—also no questions asked. In short, the USA knows nothing of what Fedor and Sowor might have done, and doesn't ask. Mind you, this is merely a supposition on my part, I have no proof.”

I told him, “Suppose you find the diary and it says your country did the killing. What will you do with the book?” I wanted to get his “in”; his pitch.

“Whatever the diary may say is nothing. It must prove a Frenchman, or French policy, was responsible. If that should be the case, I assure you we moderates would use it as a weapon to oust the fascist element among the colons and the government. We would insist the guilty be punished. Naturally, in such a case, if the diary landed in the hands of the other side, they would be anxious to destroy it.”

“Suppose the Algerians got it?”

Jock shrugged. “Monsieur Mouse, the Algerians, like the French—and all peoples—are also made up of various political elements. It would again depend on what the diary proved and which faction possessed the book. As I have told you, no country is entirely good or bad. As for myself, we moderates, we haven't any selfish motives in this. It is my belief that such a massacre, no matter how high or low the reason, was a terrible crime. Those guilty, whether French, Algerians, or men from the moon, must be exposed and punished. To prevent any other such killings.”

“And for that, for what the diary may say, all this cops and robbers stuff has been going on? After all, the massacre was years ago, who gives a damn now?”

Colette said, “You do not mean what you say, Mickey!”

Jock said sadly, “I trust you are not that cynical, Monsieur. Or so ignorant you do not understand the power this expose will have. The leveling of Lidice, another obscure little town, did as much toward the eventual defeat of the Nazis as did all the strategic bombing by the Allies. World opinion is a tremendous weapon. That is the great importance of the diary.”

“Then how come the oil companies are so hot after it? They're not in politics.”

He waved the stub of his cigarette in the air, as if pointing out my nose to me. “Obviously, since they are interested in the oil concession, they must play all sides to insure ending up with the winner. They would use the diary to blackmail, if necessary. Even de Gaulle wants...”

As he talked on, I tried not to smile. Poor Rose. Poor me. Running all this time and carrying the hot potato with us in those “letters.” Like a mutt trying to escape the clatter of a tin can—tied to his tail. There was such an easy and simple solution. All Rose had to do was drop the letters—publicly—and we'd be safe.

Glancing at the clock on the desk, I stood up, cut Jock off with: “Well, if I ever see this Mary again and if she is Rose, and if she has the diary, I'll try to...”

He gave me a sharp laugh. “Monsieur Mouse, do not be insulted when I say, frankly, I think you are a liar. I also think you know very well where Rose is. Here is my card. I want you to please...”

“I don't give a damn what you think—I don't know where she is, or that Mary is this Rose!”

He gave me a mock bow. “Let me put it this way: keep my card. If you should ever come across such a diary... well, I've tried to impress upon you its importance to the world—to the safety of mankind. All I ask is if you do come across it, bring or mail it to me. I am a true Frenchman, and what is more important, above all else I consider myself a true humanitarian— in the fullest civilized meaning of the word. If the diary proves anything, I swear to you, I will see justice done, in any case. You must trust me to do that. As we are strangers, you must take Colette's word for my character, for my...”

“Save the pitch. I keep telling you I have no idea where Rose or such a diary can be.”

“All we ask is if you do see her,” Colette said, “to convince her to send the diary to us, to Jacques. It can save many lives and in the wrong hands result in much misery. Mickey, you must do that!”

Jock blew a cigarette ring and then a short puff of smoke through the center of the ring. He was good at it. He said, “There is one other thing you should know, the diary is worth $10,000 to me.”

“How come the price has gone down?” I asked.

He jumped to his feet. “So! You have the diary and have been offered more!”

“Relax, I know from nothing about any diary, or girl. You said before Sowor had once given $50,000 for it, so I made a wisecrack. That's all.”

Jock made with the mock bow again. “If I ask you to believe me, of course I must also return such trust in you. Frankly we are not as rich as the others. Ten thousand dollars is all we can gamble. Remember, the diary may be only hot air.”

I pocketed his card. “I'm not selling anything. I mean, I haven't anything to sell. But as you said, if should luck up on this gal you think is Rose, I'll give her your card,” I said, sure of one thing: Jock and Colette were do-gooders out to save the world... and I was too. I wanted to save the little island world Rose and I had. The only way to do that was to mind our own business, and keep the boat and Ansel's island our secret. “But as the horse players say, this is all very 'iffy.'”

Jock shrugged. “We ask no more than that you try.”

There was a moment of silence all around. I picked up the bag of food and headed for the door. “Thanks for everything, Colette. You'll have the money back in a few days.” I waved at Jock.

He said, “I have a car outside. Can I drop you anywhere?”

“No thanks.” I opened the door.

He said softly, “Please do not forget me, Monsieur Mouse. As for Rose, at least tell her to come and talk to me. What sort of a person is this Mary, who I am sure is Rose?”

Walking down the stairs I called back, “She's just a girl who doesn't want to be a pain in the neck to anybody.”