"You’re scarin’ him," Chris Larabee said, still standing in the same position he’d claimed upon entering the apartment, just inside the doorway between the wall and a pillar. He could see everything and everyone, and not be surprised by unexpected callers. Larabee lit a cigarette as the other men in the room turned to him.
"They don’t scare me," Andersen protested even as a bead of nervous sweat rolled down his face.
Vin bit back a short laugh. "Really?" He leaned over the slumping man and ran the blade of his knife up the traitor’s jawbone collecting the bead of sweat and scraping the skin red raw. Andersen gasped. He hadn’t seen the knife in Tanner’s hands. Neither had Buck who watched the youthful good looks turn hard and cold, and the eyes gleam with deadly intent.
Wallace turned nervously to Larabee with some hope that the mercenary might be more sympathetic to his plight. After all, a mercenary’s faith and hope lay in money not lofty ideals of home and country.
Chris pocketed one hand and pushed himself away from the wall. "Like I said, Travis. You’re scaring him. Let him sit, catch his breath. Call your hound off and give the cowardly little shit a chance to talk."
Vin looked back at Chris. There was the glint of something in Larabee’s eyes that Vin recognised and he grinned - he liked the way this man thought. Turning back to Andersen, he snarled, pressed the knife in a little harder and then stepped back. Orrin Travis nodded. "All right," he agreed. "But remember Wallace, I’ve put worse men than you behind bars and had them shot for less than what you’ve done. I want a full confession."
Ezra gave Andersen a push. Buck helped the guilty man to the sofa by grabbing his arm and dragging him across the room. "Sit!" he ordered and moved to stand behind the now sitting man, looming over him with his hand – and the gun it still held – resting on the back of the sofa. Buck grazed Andersen’s neck with the gun barrel, just to let him know not to get too comfortable and leered as the man flinched.
Chris pulled up a straight-backed chair and placed it on the other side of the coffee table from Andersen. "Nathan," he said, keeping his voice low and even. "Maybe you could get Wally here a drink of water?"
"Sure," Nathan replied and walked over to the small kitchenette tucked away behind the wall-safe.
Orrin Travis made himself comfortable in the single-seater sofa to one side of Andersen while Ezra wandered back to the Telefunken and the brandy. He opened the door to the cabinet and changed the dial of the radio until music replaced voices and then closed the door and poured himself a drink. JD moved off the sofa and, at a gesture from Chris, drew up another unadorned chair to sit at the other end of the sofa. Andersen was surrounded. He glanced at Tanner who stood behind Travis.
Vin watched the traitor without blinking then, making a show of replacing the knife back into the leather scabbard strapped around his wrist and adjusting his jacket sleeve so the weapon was once again hidden, he stepped away from Travis and walked across to the closed balcony doors. Andersen could no longer see the man, but he could hear him; hear the curtains moving, hear wood scraping on the hard floor, the sound of a man settling into a chair and then a slow and steady creaking. He didn’t know what the last sound was and when he turned his head to look he came face to face with Buck’s gun. The creaking slowed but continued and not knowing what it was made Andersen break out in a cold sweat.
Chris let the smile at Vin’s deliberately noisy actions come to his face and settle in a relaxed, reassuring expression. The Texan sure looked comfortable in the rocking chair, pushing it back and forth, and slowing it down as it reached that point where the wood stressed and creaked. The blonde flicked his eyes around the room and a met a similar expression in each of the men’s faces, grim amusement. He felt the same. This was going to be fun. Let the game begin, he thought and held his empty brandy glass up to Ezra for a refill.
Ezra watched as Nathan brought back a glass of water for Andersen and decided that the others could do with refreshments as well. He picked up the crystal decanter and walked across the room to Chris, filling the glass held out to him before turning to Travis. He topped up that glass as well and continued around the room. The casualness of the scene relaxed Andersen considerably, until Ezra reached Vin and the rocking chair creaked suddenly and loudly as the Texan leaned forward. Andersen jumped and Chris chose that moment to begin.
"Tell us about the photograph, Andersen."
"It doesn’t prove anything," Andersen replied, keeping his voice steady even though his heart was racing. "It’s just a photograph of people on the street. I happened to be there too. That’s all." Andersen shrugged and settled back into the sofa. Buck’s gun was still there, digging into his neck now, and Andersen was forced to sit straight.
"Just happened to be there?" Chris repeated. "So, you’re not actually looking straight at McCluskey as if you’re going to puke right there… on the street?"
Andersen paled. "No. I… ah… I’ve had an upset stomach…" he glanced across at Travis who stared back at him as if he was a cockroach in need of crushing.
"Really? Looks to me like seeing McCluskey with Wilson has got you a little green around the gills."
There was silence. Andersen pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket to wipe his sweaty face. Shit! He jumped as he felt the man behind him lean in so close they were touching. A belt buckle stabbed into his scalp and he gasped, startled.
"Who’s Macdonald Wilson, Wally?"
Andersen could feel Wilmington leaning closer, bending and then squatting down behind him to rest elbows on the sofa back and play the gun barrel through his hair. The creaking noise from behind him stopped and was replaced by the sound of someone standing up. There was another sound he couldn’t identify. It was small and soft, sharp and cold. Andersen’s face started aching where Tanner had threatened him with a close shave.
"I don’t know any Macdonald Wilson," he answered. He decided he’d dress up lies with truth. "I only know McCluskey and only from photographs. I’ve never met him."
Chris looked at JD who was shaking his head. Chris turned back to Andersen. "Do you know our resident photographer?"
"Not until tonight, no, but I’d heard about him. He was the photographer at Café Americain the night Ferrari was killed. We believe he was the last person to see him alive and that he somehow obtained a photograph of Davis McCluskey the same night." Andersen avoided looking at Dunne and tried to maintain direct eye-contact with his interrogator, but Chris was looking at his brandy and concentrating on his cigarette. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one leg atop the other.
Andersen was relaxing again. "May I have a cigarette?" he asked Chris.
Chris nodded and passed his own packet across the table. Ezra stepped forward with a light, pressing his thumb down on the tinder to produce a bright flame. Andersen put a cigarette in his mouth and leaned toward Ezra’s hand.
"What else did McCluskey tell you?" Chris asked, his voice was no longer friendly and easygoing. The cigarette lighter went out.
Andersen froze.
"Who are you setting up for the fall?"
"You planning to kill your boss or someone else?"
"Who is Macdonald Wilson and how is he involved?"
"How are you passing information? Dead drop? Line? Pillow talk?"
Chris fired the questions one after the other not giving Andersen time to answer any of them, but building on the panic rising in the man’s features. Wallace started spluttering at the last suggestion and broke in shocked. "Pillow talk? With McCluskey? I never… I wouldn’t…"
"Then who with? Wilson?" Chris sat back in his chair again and Ezra reignited the cigarette lighter. Andersen accepted it with a nervous puff and breathed in so deeply that half the cigarette burned on that first breath.
"It’s not like that at all."
"So you admit to knowing Wilson?"
Andersen puffed on his cigarette again. God, he felt like the condemned man, against the wall and without a blindfold. Where the hell was a blindfold when you needed it, or a bullet?
"I’m not admitting to anything," he answered.
"Except knowing McCluskey," Ezra said gently.
Andersen was nodding his response before he realised it. "No!" he said, though he knew it was too late.
A gun clicked behind him, not Wilmington’s - that one was propped in his ear.
"I say we go back to scarin’ him," Vin said.
"Put away the gun, Tanner," Chris said with a scowl. "And the knife."
"Fine, but he ain’t gonna talk while you’re bein’ so all-fired nice so I’ll just stay back here and get ready for when you get tired of yappin’."
Chris pretended to ignore Vin and threw his cigarettes to Andersen. "Here help yourself."
Andersen did, fumbling a new cigarette out as he listened once more to Vin Tanner moving about behind him. A glance at Dunne and all his fears were slowly realised. Whatever Tanner was doing, it was shocking the hell out of the young photographer.
"What’s the rope and candle for?" JD asked Vin in a hushed tone.
Andersen forgot to breathe.
"McCluskey?" Ezra prompted, abruptly igniting the cigarette lighter in front of Andersen’s face.
"He found out about… he said he had pictures and an eyewitness… that he’d tell everyone, my wife, my parents, Orrin, everyone if I didn’t co-operate…"
"Found out about what?" Chris asked. "Macdonald?"
Andersen nodded. "At first he just wanted to know about Tanner. What he did before he came to the OSS. It was easy enough information to find out so I told him. But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to know everything about Tanner. I had to. You see that don’t you? I had to protect my family…" Andersen looked at Chris and then Orrin Travis, pleading for understanding.
"You compromised an agent’s mission… his life… to save your reputation?" Orrin asked. He was filled with disgust and showed it.
"It wasn’t just me, it was everyone. I was trying to save everyone. What’s one man against dozens?" Andersen was distraught.
"You told McCluskey where to find me?" Vin asked. "Did you know what he was planning to do? What he did do?" Vin’s words were clipped chips of ice in the still room as he moved around the sofa to face Andersen.
"Yes, he told me, but I couldn’t stop him. You see he’d been out making friends…"
"Wilson?" Ezra asked and again, Andersen nodded.
"Davis wanted Tanner dead. I told him he was in Marrakesh investigating the mood of Moroccans and the strength of the pro-Vichy government. Rommel was being held off at Tobruk. There was talk he might head south into Morocco. We needed to find out first hand if those rumours were true. If he did head south, the Australian forces would attack his rearguard… that was Tanner’s job. McCluskey didn’t seem to care about Tanner’s assignment. He didn’t ask any questions about that at all."
"So it was personal?" Chris said. He was watching Tanner for a reaction, but so far the Texan’s face was unreadable.
"I asked, but Davis wouldn’t say why he wanted Tanner. The next thing I heard was that Tanner was dead and I should keep quiet or Macdonald would be next. I hadn’t seen or heard from McCluskey or Macdonald since then. Not until today."
"Is Orrin McCluskey’s next target?" Chris had the feeling that Andersen still wasn’t telling them quite everything.
"I don’t know and I don’t know why he killed Ferrari or that other man. Like I said, I haven’t talked to him in weeks."
"Until today," Chris repeated.
"Yes, until today." Andersen turned to Vin. "McCluskey knows you’re alive. Your name was on the papers he stole from the native man. He told me himself. He’s very upset with his failure."
"Guess he misses occasionally after all," Vin said. The knife was back in his hand in an instant. Vin reached out and grabbed Andersen, pulling him up by his lapels and pushing the sharp blade into the man’s groin. Andersen nearly fainted as he felt the bite of the steel through the cloth of his pants. "But so help me, God, if I find out you haven’t told us everything you’ll find out the hard and painful way that I have never missed yet."
An hour later the interrogation was, for the most part, over. Andersen was pacing, short painful steps, behind the sofa. Every muscle was clenched tightly with tension and as his eyes flitted from one point on the floor to the rocking chair and back to the floor. He didn’t look up, didn’t acknowledge anyone else in the room; just paced and smoked, turned on his heel and paced some more.
Chris and Vin stood murmuring just inside the doorway. Ezra had been sent back down to the saloon to mingle. There was an undercurrent in the saloon; that dark and secretive world below the surface of bright lights and gay music where the leeches of society lived – the smugglers, profiteers, thieves and cut-throats. Ezra would tap into that current and learn whatever he could about anything. Casablanca was a melting pot of intrigue that Chris Larabee had no intention of drowning in.
"He still hasn’t said much about Wilson," Vin said. The knife and gun had been put away as tidily as the deadly persona, none of them visible on the lean, relaxed Texan as he leant back against the wall, his arms crossed lightly over his stomach. "Reckon he’s actin’ more nervous than needs be too."
Chris seemed as relaxed as Vin and in truth he was. The time for action was still to come and until then it was best to conserve energy. "You’re probably right. We’ll let him stew a bit then we’ll get back at him."
"Can’t afford to wait too long. No tellin’ what Mack’ll do next… or when. I got a feelin’ about this Wilson though. Andersen’s going to a lot of trouble to protect him, but he doesn’t look like he needs a whole lotta protectin’ in those photos."
"We’ll find out soon enough…"
Orrin Travis had taken over the rocking chair, sitting stiffly examining each and every one of the photographs. JD had produced more as the interrogation had continued, each one as damning as the last, and Travis took his time going over them. Nathan stood beside him, also looking at the photographs.
"May I take a look at those ones, Sir?" he asked. Travis handed him the ones he’d already looked at.
"That young man has an illustrious career ahead of him if he keeps this up," Orrin commented as Nathan took the pictures.
"As a spy or a photographer?" Nathan replied.
"I’d say both. I had no idea he was even there, but some of these shots must have been taken from only a few feet away and each of them as clear as a bell."
"He sure has a talent," Nathan agreed. He rifled through the prints until he came to the one he wanted, lips closed on an indrawn breath as he took in the serious features, the sullen mouth and the thin haunted face. Macdonald Wilson hadn’t changed much in five or so years and with this photograph, so much the same as the one buried in the trunk under his desk, Nathan was sure he knew who Macdonald Wilson was. Without another word to Travis, Nathan turned and strode across the room to Larabee and Tanner.
Chris saw him coming and straightened, a questioning look on his face. "What is it, Nate?"
Nathan held out the photograph. "I thought I was right before and now I’m certain…"
Vin pushed himself off the wall. "About what?"
"I’ve only been in Casablanca a few months. The doctor I replaced died suddenly. I asked around about it but no one wanted to talk about him or how he died. They’re real good at keepin’ secrets down in Bidonville." Nathan fidgeted with the photographs in his hands. "I’ve still got some of his stuff back at my place, clothes, a few letters and some photographs of him and his family." He paused to take a breath, his certainty swelled up inside him.
"Dr. Mack had a couple of sons. Two, and then later, one. I always thought the oldest one must have died – not too uncommon. The younger one’s in a photograph with his dad, only taken a few years ago." Nathan turned the photograph around so both men could see the faces.
"You got a point to all this, doc?" Vin asked.
"It didn’t click ‘til I saw these photos before and I didn’t want to say anything too soon. Everyone called him Dr Mack, but his full name was Wilson… Mack Wilson." Nathan tapped his finger on the face of Macdonald Wilson. "This is his surviving son."
"Are you sure?" Chris asked.
"Absolutely and the name clinches it for sure."
"Do you know anything else about this guy and his family?" Vin questioned, not doubting the doctor for a moment.
"Only that Dr. Mack’s death is a bit of a mystery and that he worked down at the missionary for years, knew a lot of people, but there’s not much to show for it and as soon as you mention his name, people clam up."
Vin raised his eyebrows. "You think there’s a few bones in the Wilson family closet?"
"Do you think it has a connection to the current situation?" Chris interrupted.
"Maybe not, but I’d still like to take a look at what Nathan’s got in that trunk," Vin said.
"Go ahead. I’ll stay here with Buck and Travis, see what else we can get out of Andersen."
Vin nodded. "Send JD down with Ezra. Two sets of eyes are better’n one and JD’s eyes are sharp."
The two men continued talking a few minutes more bouncing suggestions and ideas off each other as if they’d been doing it for years. "I’ve got some favours I can pull in from a friend at Rabat. I’ll give him a call see if I can’t rustle up some more information on McCluskey, maybe find out who’s employing him."
Vin was nodding. "Soon as I’ve finished with Nathan I’ll scout around, do some rat-huntin’."
They shook hands and Vin led Nathan out of the apartment and to the back entrance – leaving the saloon as stealthily as he’d arrived.
Chris walked back into the living area.
"JD, why don’t you go downstairs and relax awhile. If you see or hear anything come back up and let us know."
"Mr. Larabee, you don’t have to get rid of me. I can help out just as well as…" JD looked at Buck who had taken up lengthwise residence on the sofa. "Well, just as good as Buck here."
"I object to that objection," Buck said with a grin. "And you, kid, couldn’t fight your way out of a wet paper sack."
"I could too…" JD started to argue. "In Tangiers I spent a week at…"
"JD!" Chris interrupted, seeing Andersen had taken an interest in what the photographer was about to say.
JD snapped his mouth closed at the warning from Chris and glanced in the same direction that the mercenary was glaring. Andersen shrugged his shoulders and walked over to the curtained off verandah and wondered how easy it would be for him to escape – just push the curtains aside and run out into the night… but they were two stories above the street and he wasn’t yet prepared to end his life in such a melodramatic fashion.
Behind him, the men who held all the aces, for the moment, continued to talk in deliberately lowered tones. Andersen ignored them. He no longer cared what they had to say.
"Vin wants you in the saloon keeping an eye on things. Don’t get involved in anything, just watch. Might be an idea to keep an eye on Standish as well."
"Don’t you trust him?" Buck asked. "Maybe I should go down…"
"I trust Ezra… about as far as I could throw him… but tonight JD should just keep his eyes wide open." Buck started to get up. "No, Buck. Need you here. Vin and Nathan have gone to check on something. They’ll be gone for a few hours and we need to have another chat with Andersen."
Buck sniggered and sat back down. "Won’t be as much fun without Tanner play-acting in the background."
"Your chance to shine, Buck," Chris replied with an evil grin. "Keep an eye on him. I’ve got a phone call to make and then we’ll start."
There was a telephone in the apartment, but Chris thought the office downstairs a better alternative; background noise from the saloon would make it difficult for anyone to overhear what he was saying. He came down the stairs and stopped at the bar to get a drink and have a word with the Russian barkeep. Finding the saloon to be a major cog in the Free France network had been an interesting discovery that he intended to fully utilise.
Walking into the office, Chris left the door ajar so he could see into the saloon and let enough light in at the same time so that he didn’t trip over any furniture. He found the telephone sitting on top of a leather-bound ledger on the office desk and picking it up in both hands began to dial. He turned his back to the door as he began speaking.
Macdonald Wilson had planned to meet up with Andersen at the saloon. The American sent him a note earlier that he would be here for a meeting, but that he’d get away early. Macdonald didn’t know about the photographs of him with Davis or that his relationship to Andersen had been discovered. He did know though about the nosey photographer who had managed to capture Davis’s face on film. When he’d seen him with the tall, dark-haired man from the café he was instantly curious and when Ezra Standish had strolled into the gaming room and walked right past the two men, he’d been instantly intrigued. Ezra hadn’t appeared to notice the men, but the photographer wasn’t as circumspect. Buck Wilmington had asked a lot of questions that afternoon, all seemingly innocent and casual, but now seeing him here with the photographer and Standish, Wilson was suspicious.
Hadn’t Davis said that he’d seen Standish with that darkie doctor? And hadn’t they been in the company of a third American, all three of whom it appeared knew the photographer?
Macdonald was thinking hard. Davis had been present, though unseen, in the alley when Ezra Standish had been trying to escape the mob. When Macdonald had left Standish to take the fall for his cheating at the poker game the day before, Davis had later said he’d seen the American in the company of a small group of natives who had saved his hide. One of who was the man he’d stolen the travel papers from, papers made out to a man Davis had thought dead.
Macdonald had decided to have a look around and wandered back into the main saloon area to hover around the bar. He’d seen the new doctor by accident; just happening to be looking in the right direction when the man had been shown to a table by the head waiter. Once sitting, the doctor was hidden from view, but by the actions of the waiter, the doctor was not alone. A single empty glass was taken away and then, a short time later, two full glasses were brought back.
The lights dimmed just as Macdonald was starting to move away from the bar for a better view of the table and its occupants. He stopped moving to allow his eyes to get used to the sudden lack of light only to find, when he could see again, that the table was empty. The doctor and whomever he’d been with were gone; their empty glasses all that remained. Macdonald realised he should probably call Davis, but the man had been less than friendly the last time they’d spoke and he had no desire to speak with him again too soon. He decided instead to go back to the gaming room and renew his conversation with Buck, maybe go and make some apologies to Ezra. Perhaps even talk to the photographer – that would make Davis so mad… Macdonald smiled happily and headed back to the gaming room.
After an hour or so of wandering from table to table, losing a goodly sum at the poker table – the dealer was much too watchful for Macdonald to cheat – and losing another fair-sized amount at the roulette wheel, he gave up both his search and his losing streak and returned to the saloon. His suspicions were back in full force. All three men… no, five, he corrected himself remembering the doctor and his mysterious companion, had vanished. Perhaps he should call Davis after all.
Macdonald stopped a waitress and asked where he could make an urgent telephone call. The waitress directed him to the office. He was almost there when he saw a tall, blonde man enter and pick up the telephone. Davis had said the third American was blonde. Macdonald slipped behind a palm and darted a look around the room. The photographer was back standing near the huge doorman and looking around for someone. Macdonald followed his gaze and found Ezra Standish talking conspiratorially across the room with two Turks. Returning his gaze to the photographer, he saw the young man nod to the doorman and walk out into the room. Macdonald knew that behind the doorman’s position was the staircase leading up to the private rooms of the Americain. That’s where Wallace was having his meeting.
Macdonald left the saloon. There would be no getting past the behemoth guarding the stairs, but there had to be a back entrance and Macdonald’s suspicions had caught fire. He had to know what Andersen was up to. Davis had said not to trust him. He’d find out for himself first and then he’d make his telephone call.
The back stairway was obscured by the night. Moonlight splashed against the wall to be swallowed by the shadows that crept up the stairs; the midnight tide of darkness. The guard positioned at the base of the staircase was barely visible, an occasional swish of homespun robes as he paced a short distance from the stairs and back again to control his nervous energy. Last night his brother had been brutally murdered and he’d sworn his revenge to Allah. An eye for an eye and a life for a life. The murderer would not leave the city alive, would not, if he had his way, leave the city at all. His brother’s friend, the Amreeka, had assured the family that Tarak’s death would be avenged, and the family had agreed to help him. They had seen the deep anger that burned in the Amreeka’s eyes and knew there would be no escape for their brother’s murderer.
Caught up in his anger and grief, the guard turned again and paced away from the stairs. He didn’t hear someone approach him and was taken by surprise when he felt a diffident tap on his shoulder. He swung around and raised his gun, but he was caught off-balance and there was nothing he could do as a fist connected with his jaw and he fell to the ground dazed. The rifle was wrenched from his grasp as he tried to regain his footing, his brain was telling him to yell out a warning but his mouth refused to obey. He stumbled and slumped back down then looked up.
The last thing he saw was the butt of his rifle swinging down to meet his head. He never got to scream out and the dull thud of the wooden butt splintering through his skull extinguished the thought that perhaps his jaw was broken.
Buck watched Andersen staring through the gauzy curtains that partially hid the balcony outside. The OSS agent turned traitor had a definite fight or flight stance with more flight than fight, Buck figured. The poor guy had been caught up in something too big for him and was about to find out how easily he could be crushed by the weight of his own wrongdoing. What a sap! Buck thought. Still… a sap who was also an OSS agent…
"Step back from the balcony, Andersen," Buck warned. "We ain’t ready for you to leave just yet."
"I wasn’t planning on leaving, Mr. Wilmington," Andersen replied, trying to regain some sense of equilibrium in a world tilting around like a child’s spinning top. "Merely getting some air."
"Yeah, right," Buck said and began moving across the room to ‘help’ the agent back to the sofa.
Travis had stopped looking at the photographs and sat, unmoving, in the rocking chair. Andersen glanced at him for help, but Travis had only disgust for the man and looked away before getting to his feet and walking over to the Telefunken and the brandy decanter. Andersen’s shoulders slumped and he let Wilmington lead him back to the sofa.
Filling his glass, Travis took a turn around the apartment. He wanted to talk to Andersen, ask him why… how… but he didn’t know where to start. He’d trusted the man completely only to have that trust thrown in his face. True, Andersen had been blackmailed, but if only he’d come to him, trusted him, Travis might have been able to help. Instead, he’d twisted the truth around, let a man die rather than come forward, was willing to let more die rather than admit his complicity. He was getting old, Orrin decided - old and blind and slow. How could Tanner ever forgive him? And yet he had. Nothin’ to fergive, the Texan had drawled in the back room of the kif-house. You couldn’t have known and I couldn’t get word out.
Tanner had insisted Travis’s mission continue. He and some friends would take care of McCluskey. But then they’d found out about Andersen and things weren’t as clear-cut as they’d appeared.
Travis had gone to the door and looked out on the landing, listening to the music for a moment before returning to where Wilmington was standing over Andersen. Orrin still had his back to the door and Andersen was staring at him, his mouth gaping and then grinning. Just as Buck turned as well, reaching for his gun at the same moment, Travis felt cold steel slide across his throat and an arm lock around his neck.
Macdonald Wilson had searched the guard’s body and, as well as the rifle, had stolen the man’s knife and an old Webley pistol. With the knife snugly against Travis’s throat, he aimed the gun at Buck.
"Just thought I’d drop in," Macdonald said in a voice that sent chills down Orrin’s back. "Hope you don’t mind… Put your gun away please, Buck. I rather like you and would hate to have to kill you."
"Mac!" Andersen said. "What are you doing? They know everything… they have photographs…"
"Everything?" Macdonald asked. "Well, not quite everything, I’m sure."
"We know enough, Wilson. So why don’t you just let Mr. Travis go before you make things worse for yourself." Buck held his hands out in front of him in a conciliatory gesture, his gun still in his hand.
"On the contrary, Buckie, things can only get better. Wally, come here."
Buck tensed and gripped his pistol tighter, aiming it now at Wilson. "I can’t let you do that, Mac," he said. "Wally’s staying with us." Buck shifted in front of Andersen. "We were just getting friendly."
"Buck, look out!" Travis yelled abruptly.
Too late. As Buck registered movement behind him, a heavy crystal vase came crashing down onto his head knocking him unconscious. His knees bent as he crumpled to the floor, his gun flying across the room to hit the wall with a sharp retort as it went off.
"You fools!" Travis bellowed.
"Finish him!" Macdonald demanded.
"There isn’t time. Larabee will be back any minute, sooner if he heard that gunshot. We’ve got to get the hell out of here," Andersen yelled back.
Macdonald hesitated for only a moment before throwing Andersen the Webley and, grabbing Travis by the coat collar, moved the knife down until it was sticking painfully into the man’s side. "Do as you’re told," he ordered.
"I’ll go first," Andersen said and slipped out the door onto the landing, covering the stairs below with the gun. Abdul had started up the stairs, but froze when he saw the men coming out.
Larabee dropped the phone mid-conversation and raced out of the office, nearly colliding with Abdul on the stairs.
"Not another step," Andersen growled. "We’re got Travis and we’ll kill him if you come any closer."
"Let him go!" Chris yelled. "You can’t escape. There’s a guard at the back door."
"Not anymore," Macdonald hissed as he dragged Travis behind Andersen and backstepped to the landing door that led to the outside stairs and freedom. "Already taken care of. Let’s go, Wally," he added as he kicked the door open and disappeared into the night. Andersen fired the gun, clipping the wooden balustrade and sending mahogany splinters flying. Abdul and Larabee were forced back as Andersen followed Macdonald and made his escape.
"Goddammit!!" Chris yelled. "Go out and check the streets," he ordered Abdul. "We’ve got to stop them." He saw JD standing shocked a few feet away. Ezra was just coming out of the gaming room. Chris waved them on and then raced up the stairs to the back door. Carefully pushing it open, he was met with a waft of cool night air and nothing else. Andersen and Wilson were gone, and with them Orrin Travis.
"Goddammit!" he repeated.
He pulled the door closed and went to check on Buck.
"Oh, Lolita. Come to me darlin’…"
"Buck… you are so handsome and strong… and so big… kiss me forever."
"No problem there, baby, ain’t never letting you go… Lolita?… Where’re you going, sugarbuns?… What’re you doing?… Come back to bed, sweet thang…"
"Is he okay?" JD leaned over the prone figure of Buck Wilmington with an icebag and deposited it on the unconscious man’s head. Buck’s lips were moving; his hands were twitching.
"He’s coming to," Chris said with relief.
They’d found Buck collapsed on the floor between the coffee table and the sofa. Faux flowers were scattered across his back and on the chair. Chris had rushed to where Buck’s head and shoulders lay half under the table, JD got his legs. "Careful," Chris said, easing the unconscious man free of the furniture. "Ready and… lift."
Together they got Buck onto the sofa; his long legs hung limply over one end, but at least it was more comfortable than the floor.
"What happened?" JD asked. Buck’s face was pale and his lips slack.
Chris inspected his old friend for injuries, finding a huge sticky bump at the back of his head and turning it so there was no pressure on the wound from the sofa cushions. "Looks like someone cold-cocked him," he told JD. "See if you can find some water and a cloth."
"Is he all right?" Ezra asked, after pushing his way through the throng of people staring in through the doorway and closing the door in their faces. "Someone mentioned a gunshot."
"He’s not shot, but he’s got a bump on the back of his head the size of Texas," Chris replied. He’d started undoing Buck’s shirt buttons, the bow tie having already been discarded by Buck as soon as he’d left the saloon below.
Ezra nodded and started looking around the room. "And what of Andersen and Travis?" The southerner knelt by the end of the sofa, ignoring Buck’s feet hanging over the edge and peered underneath.
"Gone. Wilson came in, freed Andersen and kidnapped Travis at knifepoint. Must have taken Buck by surprise. It was probably Andersen who knocked him out, Buck was facing the door when he went down."
Ezra knelt up straight and looked at Buck. "If our loud and uncouth friend was not shot then who was?"
"I don’t know. There wasn’t enough light to see if Travis was wounded and Buck’s gun is gone." Chris finished with the shirt and looked at Ezra. "What’re you doing?"
"Looking for the object used to take down Mr. Wilmington." His eyes scanned the floor before moving up a level to the coffee and lamp tables in the room. "And I do believe I just found it." Ezra regained his feet and reached down to the coffee table that had seen so much use that night. Earlier it had held a heavy vase full of silk day-lilies, now the vase was empty – one of the flowers was crushed beneath Buck’s legs on the sofa, the rest were crumpled on the floor – and smeared with blood.
"Andersen," the two men said in unison.
"He was probably sitting right there when Wilson came in…" Chris continued.
"Providing enough of a distraction for Andersen to grab the vase and…" Ezra added, holding the vase in both hands and making as if to hit somebody with it.
"You think that’s how it happened?" JD asked coming back in with an icebag and a handtowel from the bathroom.
"We’ll know for sure once Buck wakes up. In the meantime, it’s a good enough theory," Chris confirmed.
"And if one presumes that Mr. Wilmington had drawn his weapon upon our miscreant’s entry to the apartment," Ezra paused and turned to JD. "Mr. Dunne, if you would?" Ezra gestured for JD to stand between the sofa and table and then continued with his re-enactment, bringing the vase down – carefully – on JD’s head who then sank to his knees his hands splaying out and dropping the icebag and towel. "Then it’s quite possible that he dropped said weapon and its whereabouts is less a mystery than supposed."
Chris frowned at Ezra’s dramatisation of what may have occurred. There was no doubting the southerner was clever, but could he really have worked all that out just from knowing what it was Buck had been hit with?
Buck moaned and JD retrieved the icebag and walked around the sofa while Ezra searched for the missing gun.
"Oh, baby… I’m burnin’ up with love for you tonight…"
"Let me kiss away your fever, my big American lover. You are sizzling tonight…"
"Kisses like snowdrops, touch that burns… Did you turn on the light? Lolita?"
"I love you, Buckie. Things can only get better…"
"What? Lolita? What’re you doing? Put down the gun!"
"You know I rather like you, Buck. I would hate to have to kill you…"
"No… No… Don’t Shoot! No!!"The icebag went flying as Buck sat up violently, his eyes wild, his breaths panting out a string of horrified denials.
"Buck! It’s okay," Chris said, grabbing the man’s shoulders and wrestling him back down. "It’s a dream. You’re okay. Buck, can you hear me?"
Buck looked from side to side, his gaze unfocused at first and then slowly clearing to stare at Chris. "That was one hell of a dream," he said. "My head’s killin’ me."
"That part’s real," JD informed him as he rescued the icebag from the floor. "We think Andersen must have hit you with a vase."
Buck started to move again, but quickly stopped when the movement sent stabbing knives of pain through his head and down his neck. "Shit!" he exclaimed, taking the icebag from JD and placing it gingerly at the back of his head. "Is that what happened? Bastard!"
"Found it!" Ezra’s muffled voice came from across the room.
"You sure it’s his?" JD asked.
Ezra brought the gun over to the sofa. "Mr. Wilmington, is this your gun?"
Buck cracked his eyes open and squinted up at the weapon dangling from Ezra’s finger. "Yeah, that’s mine. What the hell happened? All I remember is seeing Wilson and then… nothing."
Chris met the injured man’s gaze. "Wilson came to Andersen’s rescue. They took Travis with them as a hostage and escaped down the back stairs."
Buck groaned, but shuffling out on the landing and raised voices followed by the door banging open cut him off. It was Carl and Abdul. The big doorman’s face was distraught and he was wringing his fez hat between his hands.
"Did you find them?" Chris asked in a hard voice.
"We found only Ishmael," Carl began. Worry creased his features. "Dead… and his weapons stolen."
"Wilson did that?" Buck asked, starting to sit.
Chris forced him back down. "Stay put," he said. "We’ll handle it." Turning to Ezra and JD, he put a hand in his pocket and pulled out a two-shot derringer. "You two go find Vin. He went with Nathan to his clinic over in Bidonville… JD, take this." Chris passed the gun across the sofa to the photographer, but JD shook his head.
"I’m fine," he said.
"Take it," Ezra said. "Those two shots may be the ones that save your life." The southerner flexed his arm and a derringer popped out of his sleeve and into his open hand. "Always have back up," he added with a grin.
JD reached under his jacket and around to his back. When he pulled his hand free it held the pistol he’d been carrying around with him since he’d started freelancing in Africa. "Yeah, but with six shots I can save both my life and yours."
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