The afternoon was waning by the time Chris and Nathan got back to the city. Nathan dropped Chris off at his hotel and went home, desperate for something to eat and sleep, in that order. Somewhere between the measly breakfast he’d consumed just after dawn and now, he’d forgotten to eat and his stomach was grumbling in disgusted protest. He waved goodbye to Larabee and drove off as fast as traffic would allow.
Chris ambled up to his room, weary right through to the bone but still wound tight; too tight to get the rest he needed. He could lie down, he figured, but would probably end up in another deep and philosophical conversation with the overhead fan… or he could just go down to the saloon, but which one? Ferrari owned the only two he’d visited so far and Ferrari was dead. No, he’d get the concierge to send up a bottle and he’d just stay in his room… probably safer anyway.
He paused outside his door… his open door… and listened. A glass clinked, shoes scuffed on the floor, humming… hell, it was the noisiest damn burglar he’d ever heard. Chris pulled his gun from his belt, put one foot to the door and slowly pushed it open; standing back from full view as the gap between door and doorframe widened he aimed his gun at the intruder.
"Bout time, pard," Buck Wilmington drawled as he sloshed whisky into a glass and held it out to Larabee, still standing in the doorway. "Was about ready to go see how many bridges I could mend with Lolita before dinner."
"And after dinner?" Chris asked as he stepped into the room and closed the door. He accepted the drink and slumped into a chair.
"Why after dinner, comes dessert…" Buck broke off with a suggestive leer. "And then supper, a midnight picnic on our own little island." Chris groaned and Buck laughed.
"You definitely haven’t changed, Buck."
Buck laughed again. "You mind putting that gun away now, Chris? I haven’t been in town long enough for you to want to shoot me."
Chris grinned. "Yet…" And holstered the gun, leaning back further into his chair and crossing his ankles, as relaxed as a cobra.
"How’d you get involved in all this, Chris? I can’t figure it out. Ain’t nobody paying you, nobody pissed you off enough to need bloodletting, no connection to you at all as far as I can see, except maybe that situation with the doc. What’s the deal?"
"No deal," Chris replied. "Just woke up one day and decided to do good."
"Yeah, right… is it the doc? Or is that Texan? You and him seem to be good buddies."
"Both maybe… I don’t know, what does it matter?"
Buck shrugged. Chris was resting his head back on his chair, the glass still half full sat ignored in his hand. "Probably doesn’t. I was just wondering what I’m getting myself into cause it sure as hell ain’t Lolita…"
Chris chuckled. "Good ol’ reliable Buck," he murmured almost drifting off to sleep. "Always thinking with his…"
"Not always." Buck smiled and retrieved the glass from Chris before it spilled. "Why don’t you go hit the sack? We’ve got a dinner date tonight, can’t have you looking less than your best."
"I’m not in the mood for socialising, Buck," Chris warned.
"Oh, we’re not going to be socialising. Apparently Orrin Travis wants to have a tete-a-tete and we’re all invited, all seven of us…"
"Six. Sanchez isn’t coming," Chris said, getting to his feet. "Where and when?" He pulled his jacket off and unclipped the holster from his belt. Bed sounded like a good idea after all, especially if he wasn’t going to be getting any sleep tonight.
"Café Americain, after dark. We’re to meet upstairs in the private apartment. Our contact’s name is Carl."
"The Americain is staying open even with Ferrari dead?" Chris queried. "Who’s taking over?"
"Don’t know, maybe this Carl guy. All I know right now is what I told you and now I’ve done that I’ve got to get going. I’ve got kid-minding duty and I’m late."
"You’ve got what?" Chris took the glass of whisky from Buck and emptied it in one swallow. It was just enough to take the edge off his nerves. He was close enough to being able to rest now that maybe he’d even get the sleep he needed.
"Vin doesn’t seem to think we should let JD out of our sight. The kid tell you he got some shots of Travis this morning?" Chris shook his head no. "Well, seems he did. We went with him to develop the film. You ever been in a darkroom, Chris? Stinks of sweat and chemicals… anyway, guess which murdering psychopath was in the background of every photograph?"
You may not be an angel
‘cause angels are so few
But until the day that one comes along
I’ll string along with you…Fingers tapped on tabletops, patented leather shoes tapped on the tiled floor, smiles, glitter and laughter trickled through the air. The orchestra lifted the cares of its audience and let them flow away with the music. Sam, on piano, sang as if he hadn’t just lost his best friend, his beaming smile lighting the room nearly as much as the hot lights overhead.
I’m looking for an angel
to sing my love song to
and until the day that one comes along
I’ll sing my song to you…Carl darted around the room taking orders for drinks; a champagne cocktail for table number 19, two lagers for table number 6 and so on, chatting to the customers, asking them questions, listening to the chitchat that ebbed and flowed with the music and rising spirits.
"I’ll have the money tonight," he overheard as he passed table number 8. "Once I roll over my wallet for twice the amount in the gaming room…"
"Do not burden me with the details, signor. The last train leaves at midnight. Be at Platform One with the correct amount or you’ll be enjoying an extended stay in Casablanca."
Carl caught back a sigh before it could pass his lips. So many fools thought they could earn their way out of Casablanca at the tables; it was laughable. So many fools ended up not going anywhere.
The waiter glanced toward table number 28 hidden away in the middle of the room but guarded by a pillar, a palm and a half-wall of lattice. The design of the room allowed for several discreetly placed tables that were well utilised by those that needed, and paid for, as much discreetness as they could get. One of the gentlemen noticed his look and tapped the edge of his glass. Carl responded with a nod and made his way back to the bar.
"Two brandies please, Sasha," he said to the barman.
Sasha pulled two glasses out from beneath the bar with one hand and the bottle of brandy out with the other. "Is a good crowd tonight, Herr Carl? Yes?" The Russian barman half-filled the two glasses and placed them on Carl’s tray.
"Yes," Carl answered. "And they all want to know what happened to Rick… Where’s Rick? We miss him so… they all say. Is he murdered like Signor Ferrari? They want to know. No, no, no, I tell them, but what do I know? I know nothing."
"A sad business," Sasha agreed. "I miss Mr. Rick too, not Signor Ferrari. Not him." Sasha shook his head, but Carl had already turned away to deliver the drinks.
Leaning close over table number 28, Carl mumbled, "Your drinks, gentlemen. I’ll just put these on your account. Your friends have not yet all arrived; the tall moustached gent, the photographer and Mr. Standish are in the gaming room," Carl paused to place a glass in front of one of the men. "One remains outside on the café terrace." Carl nodded in the general direction of the door leading out to the terrace. "The two acquaintances of the late Signor Ferrari, may God bless his soul, we are still waiting on." Carl straightened. "Enjoy your drinks, good sirs. Is there anything else I can get you?"
"You’ll let everyone know when they do get here?" Chris Larabee asked. He’d heard Buck arrive with JD some time ago, but had yet to lay eyes, or ears, on the others. He and Nathan had met, like the night before, at the bar.
"As soon as it is time the lights will drop and the orchestra will start to play Begin the Beguine. That will be your signal to go upstairs to Mr. Rick’s apartment. I will inform the others."
Carl moved off then, beaming at an elderly couple across the room.
"You think something might have happened to Travis out at Fedala today?" Nathan asked Chris. The two had been sitting there long enough for Chris to pass on what Buck had told him.
"Let’s hope not," Chris replied. "Things are twisted around enough as it is. Gives me a headache thinking about it."
"I can give you something for that," Nathan said with an amused smile.
"Oh yeah?"
Nathan pointed to Chris’s glass. "Sit back, drink up, light a cigar and listen to the music. We got awhile, might as well take the chance to relax and pretend we’re just here for the company."
Chris picked up his glass and clinked it against Nathan’s. "Whatever you say, doc."
The band had started on a new tune and Chris sat back to listen.
"All of me
why not take all of me…"
Outside the saloon, the shadows in between the bright glow of the saloon lights were deep. At the edge of the terrace, where civilisation met a wild jungle of potted palms and creeping ivy, Vin Tanner sat waiting and thinking. After leaving JD with Buck, Vin had met with Tarak’s brothers back at the kif-house and told them what he could and what he suspected; promising them justice in return for cooperation and help. They all wanted Tarak’s murderer, but Tanner wanted the person paying McCluskey as well. And some answers, he thought, thinking of Andersen’s role in events and Marrakesh. Came damn close to buying the farm, Vin acknowledged, twisting his shoulder and feeling the pull of still tender flesh. Only it had been Pedro that had bought it in his place, and Vin had never suspected why… until today when Orrin Travis had informed him of the outcome of his reported death, and JD had shown him those photographs.
After enlisting the brothers and organising a network of watchful eyes, Vin had sought out Ezra Standish and found him in the lounge of his hotel deep in conversation with two men: Herr Heinze, the German consul and Captain Tonelli of the Italian army, Standish had told him later. Tonelli was a friend of Lieutenant Casselle who, apparently, liked to talk. Ezra already knew most of the happenings of the day including Travis’s visit to Fedala. The Italian had been at the Palais de Justice when the Americans had arrived, met with Casselle and left again shortly after in a police car.
Heinze and Tonelli wanted to know who Travis was; this tidbit of information the only thing Casselle had either chosen not to impart or had not known and so they had come to Standish looking for answers, not realising that they were providing more information than they were receiving.
Vin sat on the terrace, in the dark, thinking back on what Ezra had told him. Carefully steepling his fingers together under his chin, he realised that he’d never got around to asking Ezra how he’d managed to get so close to the enemy. A car pulled up to the terrace, its doors opening before the last beat of the engine turned into silence. Andersen and Travis stepped out and Vin found himself wondering instead just who in Casablanca was the real enemy.
The American nodded to the dealer and a single card was pushed across the table. The poker table had been quiet all night but the American had stayed, winning every third or so hand and losing the rest. Not a big loser though. Not like most, the dealer knew. He slipped the next player three cards that were greeted with a dramatic groan. The American, at least, knew how to keep his thoughts, and his cards, to himself. The rest of the hand was played out, the American winning enough this time to cover his previous losses, and still his face remained fixed with the same passive, almost bored expression it had worn all night.
Music filtered in from the main saloon and the American stood to leave. He thanked the other players at the table and politely farewelled the dealer holding out his hand to shake.
"Au revoir." The dealer shook the American’s hand once and waited until the man turned and left the table before pocketing the sizeable tip he’d been passed.
A new game was dealt out, bets were made, new cards delivered… groans issued.
"House wins," the dealer said.
The doors dividing the gambling room from the rest of the club opened and the music grew louder.
When you begin the beguine…
A silver tray holding a cut crystal decanter of brandy and matching glasses sat on the end of a Telefunken cedar cabinet. The Telefunken had been switched on and the volume left low. A white ceramic lamp had been lit. The soft glow of the lamp and the muttering voices from the radiogram gave the room an eerie effect. One could almost believe that its former owner might walk back in at any moment. Rick Baine’s presence could be felt in every corner; the scent of his cigars, his aftershave, and a book left open and forgotten on the small desk he occasionally used for private correspondence.
Ferrari had planned on keeping the apartment as a secondary residence, a place to keep the occasional guest and conduct private business. He’d thought to use it in his upcoming meeting with Travis. He would never have guessed that the apartment would most certainly be put to such use, but that he himself would be too dead to attend.
The door stood wide open, the landing outside was dark; staff still used the apartment to access the safe, though only Carl and Sam knew the combination. In his breaks, Sam strolled upstairs to check on things, sometimes leaving the door open behind him, other times closing it on the noise and rabble to grab a few moments of peace and quiet. The lack of light on the landing and a single candle at the bottom of the stairs effectively hid the comings and goings from the saloon below unless one specifically entered the archway that divided the ‘back’ rooms of the saloon from the ‘front’, and to do that one also had to pass Abdul.
Rick Baine had the talent of attracting fierce loyalty amongst his staff and Abdul was no exception. Mr. Rick had met the big Arab’s son not long after the American’s arrival in Casablanca. The son, one of many siblings with a sick mother and a father unable to find enough work to feed his hoard, had been begging. Mr. Rick had shooed the boy away, but later found out who he was, where he lived and offered the father, Abdul, a regular job. And when Abdul’s wife had died, Mr. Rick had seen to it there was enough money to pay for a funeral.
Even with Rick gone and not likely to return, Abdul’s loyalty was strong. Mr. Rick had said to mind Sam and Sam had said only to let certain people through the archway and up to the apartment. They had all been pointed out or described - some would be coming up the back stairs, eight in all and no one else.
Hidden behind the fronds of a palm and leaning against one of the thick columns holding up the roof was a cheval mirror. Its surface was polished every day and its wooden frame gleamed. It was an antique that had travelled through Europe, its owners having sold it in Casablanca for much less than its actual worth to raise money for papers that would get them safely to Lisbon. The positioning of the mirror was such that Abdul could see anyone on the landing or stairs behind him, even if it was only one more shadow in the darkness. He knew every shadow there was and could tell at a glance if one was out of place.
The door to the back stairs had opened and closed without him hearing, but the candle behind him had guttered with the draft that movement had caused. The shadows danced and Abdul, his face a stony mask and his arms folded across his chest, waited.
Vin Tanner ghosted in the back door and stood on the landing in much the same way he had when he’d first approached Rick Baine. He almost expected to see the man in the doorway to the apartment and shook the feeling off. He had enough ghosts to deal with without adding Baine to the list. Behind him, Orrin Travis and Wallace Andersen entered, keeping to the shadows and waiting for a sign from Tanner before going any further. The man had barely said a word since their arrival and Travis found the taciturn silence unnerving.
Vin pulled a silver cigarette case out of his pocket and began to move to the stairs. He didn’t look at Travis or make any sign that he wasn’t the only one on the landing. The silver case was flicked open as his foot hit the top step, a cigarette was out and between his lips by the third step, Travis and Andersen were moving across the landing by the time Tanner reached the seventh step. At the bottom of the staircase, Vin struck a match against the wall and lit his cigarette. The match flared brightly; Abdul could see the Texan’s features clearly in the mirror. The man he saw was in no way recognisable as the Berber who snuck into the Café the day before. He was barely recognisable as the American who had met with Carl and Sam just a few hours before. If it hadn’t been for the pre-arranged signals, Abdul would not have known the man at all. Gone was the rugged, worn appearance and the clothes that had been thrown on without particular care or forethought. Vin had shaved, procured a pristine dinner suit and had a haircut. His hair, still unfashionably long and threatening to curl under his ears at any time was slicked back from his face. He looked young and rich and as far from who he really was as a person could get.
Taking his time, he staggered slightly to give the appearance of being drunk and weaved his way to the arch. By the time he had reached the waiting sentry, Andersen was helping himself to a brandy and Travis was lighting a cigar.
Abdul watched the American come. He looked drunk; walking slowly, watching carefully, pausing momentarily under the arch, then moving past to a table that had a full view of the band but was set back out of the reach of the stage lights. Once seated, Vin extinguished his cigarette, flipped open the case again and, laying the case on the table, pulled out another cigarette.
The doorman looked across the room to the Russian barman and catching his eye, uncrossed his arms and refolded them. Sasha began mixing a champagne cocktail. He speared a maraschino cherry and a stuffed olive, dropped the decoration into the glass and left it in the centre of a drinks tray. Carl brought a new order to the bar, saw the tray with the single drink and the cherry/olive combo, took it and delivered it to Sam at the piano. Sam played the current song through; an instrumental piece he’d written himself, then without pausing began the intro to the next song. As the piano tinkled the first notes the rest of the band joined in, the lights dimmed and Sam began to sing.
When they begin the beguine
It brings back the sound of music so tender
It brings back a night of tropical splendour
It brings back a memory evergreen...Nathan finished his brandy and stood, tapping Chris on the shoulder as if to say goodnight, he left the room heading straight to the staircase and up to the apartment. He figured that he was no spy and if he tried to act like one he’d attract more attention to himself than if he just acted like himself; straightforward, to the point, no hiding behind false words and half-truths shrouded in lies.
I’m with you once more under the stars
and down by the shore an orchestra’s playing…Chris remained at the table listening to the music. Buck and JD wandered past, stopped by the bar to order fancified cocktails, drank them amid loud voices and laughter and then left the Café by the front door. Chris knew that once outside they would disappear into the night to circle around the saloon and go up to the apartment via the back stairs.
And even the palms seem to be swaying
When they begin the beguine.Ezra came past, stopping at one table and another to greet various people, passing a small packet, Chris noticed, to a table of French Legionnaires and sharing a glass of champagne with Italian army officers at yet another table. Chris decided that the man was an enigma and had more facets to him than the Hope diamond, every one different depending on the light. After Tobruk, Larabee would have sworn the man to be nothing more than a low down coward, but watching him operate now as smooth as honey, Chris wondered who the real Ezra Standish was; a bold, brash enigma. The southerner made eye contact. His gaze locked with Larabee’s in that moment recognising a shared history neither man was proud of then sliding away again. Chris looked down at his glass. The brandy was dark in the poor light, like blood in his hand… blood on his hands. He swore and downed the rest of the liquid in one swallow.
He was tired. Tobruk had been too close. Chris had sworn to himself that if he got out of that one he’d retire, and if he hadn’t missed his connection to Lisbon he’d be in the States by now; home, a man of leisure instead of a man of intrigue and blood.
So close and so far.
God, but he wanted the farm.
Vin was the last one up. The band had moved into a new tune, lively and upbeat, people were dancing, swinging around the dance floor and crowding the room. Abdul kept his stony silence at the bottom of the stairs, the dance floor having been extended to reach the archway.
Travis was sitting on the sofa, photographs spread across the coffee table in front of him. The photographer sat beside him explaining each shot; the time of day each was taken, the light, distance, angles. Travis was amazed at the depth of the young man’s knowledge and passion for his craft, at the broad leaps the youth was able to take from point A to point C and beyond without needing to stop at point B. He looked up to see Vin Tanner watching from across the room. Travis had been waiting for him, but hadn’t been aware of his presence until then. Dunne looked up as well and was suddenly uncomfortable. So the boy has something he’s hiding, Travis thought. From Tanner?.. . No... Travis watched the byplay between the two men. They were confidantes… as much as one could be with a secretive man like Tanner. So not Tanner… and not Wilmington judging by the watchful eye the older man keeps on the boy…
JD’s gaze broke from Vin and slid around the room until it reached Wallace Andersen then back to Vin and on to the table. And then Travis knew. It was the photographs, he realised. There was more that he wasn’t showing and it wasn’t because of Vin or any of the other oddly assorted band of men the Texan seemed to have joined forces with. And if it wasn’t any of them then it must have been either himself or Andersen. Travis kept his eyes glued to the photographs on the table. Andersen.
Buck Wilmington had seen Tanner come in, whisper something to Chris who turned his head to answer him showing mild surprise at the change in the young Texan - and young he certainly appeared, nothing like the hard dangerous man the mercenary had met in the market place yesterday.
"Whoa, lookit what the cat dragged in?" Buck exclaimed. "Boy, you sure do scrub up good. You sure you’re old enough to be out with the big boys?"
Chris sniggered at Buck’s reaction even as Vin’s eyes flashed from annoyance to smooth mockery. "Buck, you look a might peaked. Better sit down before those old bones give out on ya."
"He’s not ill. He’s jealous," Nathan chimed in. The doctor had only just met Buck Wilmington but found the man openly likeable and friendly, completely the opposite of Chris Larabee.
"Indeed," Ezra spoke from beside the Telefunken. "We’ve not known each other long, Mr. Wilmington, but even I detect a decided green tinge beneath all that facial hair."
"Ha!" Buck began. He’d picked up the looks exchanged between Vin and JD, the faint trace of a nod from Chris, and puffed his chest out ready to continue the noisy debate as cover for what the others were planning. He lifted his hands and began to pace. "I’ll have you know…"
Wallace Andersen was disgusted. He didn’t know these men, didn’t trust them, didn’t think any of them were capable of anything but loud and raucous boasts. Vin Tanner was the only one who worried him. Even Travis, he thought, was controllable and easily led.
"Really, man," he cut across Buck, narrowly avoiding one of the tall man’s waving hands and turning as he spoke to confront the overly loud American. "Must you carry on as if we’re ensconced in some bawdy brothel instead of meeting to discuss a very serious matter? There are far more important issues at stake than your virulent sex life…"
Ezra moved up to the pair offering little comments that kept Andersen’s outrage vocal and his attention away from Travis and the photographs. Vin had told him of his suspicions regarding the OSS man’s aide and they had agreed that a diversion would be necessary to separate Andersen from Travis long enough for JD to show Travis the second lot of photographs.
Nathan stayed out of the conversation, but moved to stand between the sofa and the three men arguing, blocking Andersen’s view should he turn back to see what his boss was doing.
JD pulled a slim package from under his jacket and laid it on the table. Unwinding the string that sealed the packet he retrieved one of several photographs held inside and passed it to Travis.
Travis looked from Vin to Chris Larabee and then let his eyelids slide shut. The mercenary had said very little since walking into the apartment, but he hadn’t needed to. Travis knew who he was, had said so. Larabee had merely nodded, shook his hand and commented that he was more careful how he chose his fights nowadays. And this was what he called careful? Travis sighed. He didn’t need to look at the photograph to know they had evidence, evidence that his own growing suspicions had been right. He could feel Tanner’s eyes on him, Larabee and Dunne’s as well, willing him to look at the irrefutable proof they’d just handed him. His eyes opened and met Tanner’s. There was anger there and guilt and sorrow.
Buck’s voice reverberated around the room. There wasn’t much time.
Travis’s expression became apologetic and he looked down at the photograph in his hands. It was the one showing Wallace looking straight at Davis McCluskey. McCluskey was smiling and patting the breast pocket of his jacket. There was a third man. McCluskey had his arm around the man’s shoulders. It was a vaguely threatening, vaguely affectionate hug that could mean anything or nothing. There was no doubt that the action meant something to Andersen. His face was twisted with surprise, anger and jealousy. It turned Travis’s stomach.
"Who’s the third one?" Travis asked JD, keeping his voice low and his body still. It was all he could manage in the face of the deep nausea invading his body. God, he wanted to throw up, he wanted to rage and yell, and drive his clenched fists into the table, pound them into Wallace Andersen for betraying him, into Vin Tanner for being the catalyst of that betrayal, into JD for taking the damning photographs and into Chris Larabee simply because he was there and he knew. Travis blinked and forced himself to listen to JD.
"Buck said his name is Macdonald Wilson."
"I don’t know the name."
"Neither do we," Vin said.
Behind them, Nathan could hear every word. They didn’t notice him flinch or turn to look over their shoulders at the photograph. After dropping Chris off at the hotel earlier, Nathan had done exactly what he’d planned; gone home, ate and slept. A friend of Vin’s had come by with a message that there was to be a meeting. The messenger did not know any English and Nathan’s French still wasn’t all it could be so all he could find out from the man was a place and time, and while Chris had told him a great deal downstairs in the saloon, Macdonald Wilson had not come up. He was just about to say that he knew the name, knew it well in fact, when Andersen pushed past Buck and Ezra and approached Travis.
"What’s going on?" the angry man demanded. Some instinct for survival had set his nerves racing. Wilmington and Standish were crowding him on purpose, he was sure of it and when he’d looked up to see a shocked Nathan turn to the sofa, he was certain. He was being kept out of whatever was happening around the coffee table, from whatever was in those photographs. That could mean only one thing and it wasn’t good. His stomach lurched and cramped. He needed a drink and a piss, and he needed to get the hell out of here.
"That’s what I’d like to know, Wallace," Travis replied, standing and shoving the photograph toward his aide. "Explain this!"
Andersen refused to touch the photograph. He could see it plainly, his own face betraying him in cool shades of grey. McCluskey, so careful to remain unphotographed caught for the second time and by the same photographer - this time sentencing them both. But they don’t know about Wilson, Wallace assured himself. They couldn’t possibly…
"I don’t understand… I don’t know what…" he didn’t know what to stay so he slammed his mouth closed on the stammering words. His eyes searched desperately for an escape. He wasn’t supposed to get caught, wasn’t supposed to be under suspicion at all. His hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a gun and he knew what he had to do.
"Get back… all of you," Andersen threatened. He aimed the gun at Travis.
"That’s not very wise, Mr. Andersen," Ezra said, sidling up from behind. "You’re considerably outnumbered… outmatched and… "There was an audible click of another weapon and Andersen felt hard metal press into his back. "Outwitted."
"Or just plain out," Buck said, his own pistol in his hand and pointing at Andersen’s head.
Andersen’s hand went limp and his gun swung loosely on one finger. Ezra reached around and took it, tucking the weapon into his belt.
Travis pushed the photograph into his aide’s hands. "I want to know what you and McCluskey are planning. I want to know why and I want to know who else is involved… and I want to know all of that right now."
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