The Tortured Tourists
Chapter 7
As the Citroen carried him on his blindfolded way to
Marseilles, Fleming was concentrating on the routes and distances.
Yvette was driving, and he was seated beside Gerault in the back.
He knew that the dim interior of the car would not permit any
perception of his blindfold by those outside the vehicle. Darla
had told him about the tinted glass.
He began orienting himself as soon as the car started down
the lane of the farm, and tried to guess at distances and speeds
as they proceeded. By the time he began to smell the sea smells
that announced their approach to Marseilles, he was fairly certain
that he knew the entire route he'd traveled.
In late 1945, he'd been a young artilleryman with the 66th
Infantry Division, and he'd logged a lot of time on the roads
between the big port city and the towns and villages of the
Camarguc the back country of Provence.
He'd had a lot of adventures in the short months spent here,
and much of it was refreshed in his memory as he sniffed the
unchanged atmosphere of the filthy harbor district.
Somewhere around here was the surprisingly clean little cafe-
if it still stood where he and several of his buddies used to come
late at night to get sandwiches. They were nothing more than
tomato and onion slices on the dark "black" bread which was the
only staple bakery product available in the area. But those
sandwiches had tasted great with the beer they smuggled into the
billets.
And somewhere not too far away was the spot where he and
Fabrini had almost been caught by the MP's. They'd been out on
the town, having a few drinks and trying to find a couple of
young, pretty girls who might also be clean by the soldiers'
standards.
Fleming had just finished buying a black market Beretta
pistol from a Senegalese soldier, with whom he'd bargained for
almost a half-hour before arriving at an agreed price. Fabrini
had been forced to interpret for them, though he'd been leery of
Fleming's having the pistol on him while they were on pass. It
could go hard with anyone a GI at least caught carrying a weapon
on pass there.
Just as Fleming had wrapped the tiny pistol in his
handkerchief and stuffed it into the inside pocket of his "Ike"
jacket, Fabrini had spotted the patrol moving toward them from the
other side of the street almost a block away.
They'd panicked, and as they turned and ran in the opposite
direction, they'd become separated. When Fleming had caught his
breath, huffing and puffing in an alley next to a ruined building,
he looked around him, and discovered that he was right behind a
temporary post of the Military Police. There was a jeep parked in
the alley, and he could hear voices from within the alley entrance
way. Fearing that he'd be surprised by a pair of MP's exiting to
climb into the jeep, he looked around for a place to ditch the
gun.
Frantically, he'd clambered up a pile of broken pieces of
concrete until he reached the top. He spotted the jagged opening
of what had been the approximate center of a stone chimney. He
wrapped the handerchief-covered pistol in the raincoat he'd been
carrying over his belt, and dropped it into the opening. Then
he'd half-stumbled half-climbed back down the pile of concrete to
the alley.
When he'd gone back to the billets, and discussed it with
Fabrini, they'd come to the conclusion that there was little hope
of retrieving the gun without the help of heavy equipment or a
company of men. When they'd casually meandered past the site the
next day, they confirmed their estimate.
Fleming had finally managed to get another Beretta before he
left for the States, but it was an older model. The one he'd
abandoned had been brand new, still coated with its sticky packing
of thick grease or whatever it was that the manufacturer or
arsenal had used to preserve it.
The big Citroen came to a halt, and Fleming's blindfold was
removed. He was able to see that they were parked inside some
kind of garage. The three walls around them were bare. The floor
was entirely clear except for a small steel drum in one comer.
The light which came through the big door behind them did not
penetrate the windows of the car, but the smells and sounds told
Fleming that they were in the waterfront district.
"You will return here in exactly twenty-four hours," ordered
Gerault. "And you will wait here until you are contacted. I need
not tell you that you will be observed during that time. One of
the reasons for the large amount of the ransom we demand is that
we have many people in our pay.
"You will go to only those places I tell you. You may go to
the bank, of course, where I know you have connections. That is
necessary to arrange for the money. And you may stay at your
hotel tonight. If you wish to eat at any place other than your
hotel, it will have to be Le Cafe Noir. Any other stops will be
suspect, and your family will suffer for your attempts to be
clever. Understand?"
Fleming nodded, and then the door opened and Gerault shoved
him outside. He just had time to step backward before the Citroen
backed out with a roar into the alley, and sped off into the
bright morning sun. He stood there, gathering his thoughts for a
few moments. Then he stepped out of the garage and looked around.
He couldn't recognize the immediate neighborhood, but the smell
and direction of the wind told him which way the harbor lay. From
this, he could orient himself, and find his way to the hotel.
He'd decided against taking a taxi here.
The only plan he had in his mind was still half-formed. And
it had a prime requisite: he couldn't be followed! He had to
shake off anyone who might be trailing him. They would be
prepared to follow him on wheels, he was sure. The European idea
of moneyed Americans almost assuredly would lead them to believe
that he'd never walk if he could ride.
So he intended to walk until he had spotted his tracker or
trackers or convinced himself that there were none. Then he'd
catch a cab and initiate his plan. They might not be prepared for
this, and if he could do it innocently enough, they might not
suspect anything.
He paced casually down the alley to the street, then turned
and headed along the sidewalk, watching from the corners of his
eyes and trying not to appear interested in either the people or
places around him. Most of the pedestrians at this hour were
longshoremen, dock workers, market workers and truckers. The
fishermen had long been gone, out to catch the morning tide and
look for the seafood that would feed Marseilles and many other
cities tomorrow.
He was specifically trying to detect anyone who seemed to be
on the same route as himself, and traveling at the same pace.
What was a normal rate of walking speed to an American, he knew,
would be inconsistent with the stride of the average Frenchman, so
it did not take long for him to spot the short, wiry character who
appeared to be hurrying on his way to some office.
He'd never seen a Frenchman that eager to get to work. Those
short legs were really pumping to maintain the pace that the long-
legged Fleming was setting.
He spotted the ideal setup almost a block away. One of the
old-fashioned pissoirs on the sidewalk was very close to a bunch
of marketing trucks parked at the curb. He assessed the layout as
he neared it, and tried to gauge the relative pace at which the
pursuer trailed him. He slowed a little as he approached the
trucks and the men who moved about them.
Just as he neared the center of the busy area, he sidestepped
into the pissoir. It was accessible from two sides, and he knew
that his tail would not dare give away his presence by pulling to
a halt and waiting or tracking him inside. He heard the click of
the heel plates worn by so many small men as the bloodhound walked
on past the iron structure
As expected, he found that the slope of the terrain was such
that, if he stayed near the end of the pissoir where he'd entered,
the top of his head would not be visible to the pursuer as he got
down the street a few paces.
He took advantage of the facilities, and as he mentally
counted off the seconds, he urinated in the long trough. When he
had counted what he thought was about the right amount of times he
backed slowly out of the entrance through which he'd come, keeping
the sheet metal bulk of the pissoir walls directly centered in
line between his own position and the sidewalk beyond.
He reached the mouth of the alley he'd included in his plan,
and rejoiced in the accumulation of trash cans and crates piled
out from the building next to the alley entrance. They electively
blocked all view of the distant sidewalk which was not covered by
the pissoir farther down.
He dashed up the alley and chuckled to himself. By the time
the pursuing Frenchman decided that his quarry could not have had
such a full bladder as to take all this time, and tracked back to
find out what was up, it would be too late. And it had been
engineered so that he couldn't be quite sure whether it was
intentional. Fleming may have walked into that block specifically
to use the pissoir, or may have decided while using the facilities
to take a different route.
They couldn't very well get nasty about this kind of thing.
He hastened through the alley and came out on the next
street. As he crossed the street, heading toward a likely-looking
place to catch a taxi, he slowed to a crawling walk. Just inside
the alley entrance was a familiar spot. His pulse raced, and the
hair at the back of his neck bristled as he thought of the
possibilities. Then he dashed on into the alley and stopped
before the vacant lot. Of the concrete rubble that had been there
almost twenty-three years ago, only a few of the smaller pieces
remained. And the big old chimney had been knocked down until
only a little over three feet of its former height still stood
above ground. And there were two fair-size pieces of concrete
lying against its base. He strolled over to it and walked around
it. There was little hope that his cache remained after all these
years. Not that the pistol would be likely to be usable after the
long exposure to the rains which must have poured down that
chimney.
But he couldn't resist the feel of the treasure hunt. The
memory of that day came back to him as he reached his arm down the
maw of the broken stone structure, trying to reach the bottom. He
felt the tips of his fingers encounter a piece of stone, smooth
all over excepting a slight ridge where the cement had held it in
place before it toppled or was knocked out.
There was no hope whatsoever of his getting a grip on the
stone to pull it out. And even if he could, he then could not
reach lower to feel around for the bundle which just might still
be there. And he couldn't fool around any longer, because his
tail might accidentally run across his path again. He had to get
out of here!
As he started to leave, heavy-hearted, he knew he'd been
foolish to waste the time on such a hopeless longshot. Before he
could reach the alley, he heard footsteps approaching. There was
no sound of the heel plates, but if that were Fleming tailing
someone, he'd be walking on his toes about now, anyhow. He
quietly tiptoed back to the chimney and got behind it, keeping it
between himself and the alley. He was down on his hands and
knees, peering between the base of the chimney and the craggy hunk
of concrete which leaned against it. He tried not to breathe
loudly.
The figure moved into sight and on up the alley. It was a
gendarme. Fleming started to move, but caught himself in time.
He couldn't take the risk of being spotted talking to the law.
He'd have to make contact with them where he couldn't be seen.
He watched as the figure disappeared up the alley, then his
eyes took in something that made his pulse pound again. The light
coming between the chimney base and the concrete chunk had shown
him the reddish-brown outline of a rusty iron door.
Of course! This was the cleanout-access for the chimney! He
struggled with the rough surface of the concrete. It was pretty
heavy for one man to move, but he managed to shift it enough so he
could pull open the corroded iron door. It shrieked in protest at
being disturbed after so long a time. The brittle hinge pins
broke, and he grabbed to keep the door from falling loudly to the
ground, where chips and pieces of cement could make the ringing
sound that might bring unwanted attention!
He reached inside and felt something dank and slippery. He
pulled at it, and the pieces of stone inside the chimney opening
rattled as their foundation was shifted. Then it was in his
hands. He peeled away the slimy, musty layers of the raincoat,
and the grayish-white of the Irish linen handkerchief was exposed.
He unwrapped the pistol and rewrapped it in the handkerchief he
carried in his pocket. Then he shoved the old wrappings back into
the chimney hole and got to his feet. Stuffing the pistol into
his coat pocket, he returned to the alley and headed in the wake
of the now-vanished gendarme.
He caught a taxi two blocks farther from the spot where he'd
intended to hail one. And soon he was at his hotel. The desk
clerk looked at him strangely, then gave him his key.
"There 'as been some Concern for you, Monsieur Flam-meeng,"
he said. Fleming wondered why a first class hotel would have desk
clerks whose accent was stronger than that of a hoodlum like
Gerault. He forced a smile.
"We decided suddenly to take a short trip in the country," he
lied, not knowing belt what the clerk might be on Gerault's
payroll. Even if he weren't, Fleming didn't want anything to
occur which might bring the Surete to the hotel. That would be
bad for Ann and the kids! "They are staying with friends for
another day or two. I had to return on business." He smiled
again as he headed for the elevator.
The gingerbread grillwork of the iron-caged elevator moved
downward past his eyes as the car moved up to his floor. Then he
was in his suite, going into every room to make sure that he was
alone.
He sat on the chaise longue near the Winslow by his bed, took
the package from his pocket, and unwrapped the handkerchief. As
he looked at the gummy surface of the pistol, he realized two
things. The preservative had done its job. The metal was still
in excellent shape. Blat what good would it do him? The
preservative itself told him it was new, fresh from a factory or a
miltary arsenal. Such guns do not come loaded!
And where could he obtain ammunition for it without being
spotted?
Fleming, you're a damned fool. You keep proving that to
yourself every time you turn around. You took the risk to get
this useless gun without even thinking about ammo. Christ! Have
you ever gotten rusty!
He sat there with the gummy weapon in his hand, marking time.
The bank would not be open for a while. Idly, he activated the
clip release, and felt the slow response as the preservative clung
to the clip, impeding its ejection. Then it was in his palm, and
the weight of it made his heart pound inside him.
He looked at the top of the clip, gave a little yip of
delight, then went to the drawer of the nightstand beside the bed.
He opened it and removed a can of lighter fluid and a couple of
handkerchiefs.
Reseating himself on the chaise, he began to clean the gummy
preservative from the weapon with the petroleum product, thanking
his lucky stars that he'd decided against making the trip with
butane lighters.
By the time he'd cleaned the entire weapon, stripping it down
with the sure hand of a gun lover, removing the goop, then
covering every part with a fine film of oil from his electric
shaver kit, it was a beauty. But it wasn't new!
That dirty, double-crossing Senegalese! He Cosmolened this
damned gun to make it look like a new one, fresh off the line!
But he didn't know that it wouldn't come from the factory loaded.
The sneaky sonovabitch! But he may have saved my ass, he and good
old Lady Luck!
He finished reassembling the little Italian marvel, and then
worked the slide, ejecting cartridge after cartridge. It had been
loaded with four rounds in the clip and one in the chamber when he
disassembled it. Another stroke of luck. With four instead of
the six rounds the clip normally held, the spring had not been
under complete compression, and it was forcing the top cartridge
into exactly the right position each time, right up to the last
round.
He reloaded all five in the clip, slammed it into the handle,
and cocked it, throwing the top round into the chamber. Then he
flicked on the safety, wiped the outside again to remove all
visible oil, and put the gun in his hip pocket.
He went into the bathroom and shaved and washed, performed a
few other functions, and then dug up some clean clothes. He
changed quickly, then went to the phone and had the switchboard
get the bank for him.
In less than fifteen minutes, he had completed initial
arrangements for picking up the funds he requested. He would have
to go down to the bank at two o'clock to pick up the money.
Then he flaked out on the bed for a while, resting as he
tried to visualize all the possibilities of what might occur in
the next twenty-four hours or more. The longer he thought, the
shakier he became.
He called room service and ordered up some whisky, ice and
soda. When it came, he built him self a triple load, and as he
sipped at it appreciatively, he thought with guilt of the others,
chained in the musty cellar back at the farm.
