The Unusual Suspect

A Casablanca Fanfiction

Author's Notes:

The inspiration for this story came to me from reading a non-fiction work titled Destination Casablanca: Exile, Espionage, and the Battle for North Africa in World War II by Meredith Hindley, published in 2017. I was fascinated to learn that while there are many differences between real-life wartime Casablanca and the version that we see in the classic Warner Brothers film, there are also a surprising number of instances in which the makers of the film got things factually right. This was presumably often by chance, since as Casablanca was filmed during World War II, the film-makers could not have had access to the government files and espionage records that were major sources for Hindley as she was writing her book 75 years later. I decided to write a Casablanca fanfiction that would focus on my favorite character from that film, the inimitable Captain Louis Renault, and that would explore some of the real-world people, places and events that I'd encountered in reading Destination Casablanca.

My goal in this story is to blend the two sources: the classic film that we know and love so well, and the historical Casablanca as revealed in sources such as Hindley's work. Many of the characters who will appear or be mentioned in this story, namely Jewish activist Helene Benatar, French General Antoine Bethouart, Vice-Consul David King of the U. S. Consulate, Consul-General Theodor Auer of the German Armistice Commission, and American expatriate singer and French Resistance agent Josephine Baker, are all figures from history who were indeed in Casablanca at the time in which this story is set, and whose characters and activities I've attempted to present with historical accuracy.

I was also fascinated to learn how physically different the real city of Casablanca was at the time in which the famous film is set, from the impression we are given in Casablanca. In the film, we basically only see a stylized version of the Ancienne Medina-the Old Town area of Casablanca. In reality, in the early 1940s Casablanca was a modern city of around 350,000 inhabitants-not counting the vast numbers of refugees who fled there escaping the Nazi advance, just as we are told in the voice-over at the beginning of Casablanca. My other major reference source in writing this story has been Casablanca: Colonial Myths and Architectural Ventures (Jean-Louis Cohen and Monique Eleb, 2002) which revealed to me a very different Casablanca from the labyrinthine warren of ancient, twisting alleyways that is so memorably depicted in the film. I've had great fun attempting to mesh the characters and events of the classic movie with the physical reality of the city of Casablanca as it truly was in those days when so many desperate refugees could only "wait ... and wait ... and wait."

One final note: It seems logical to assume that for the most part, all of the characters in the film are speaking in French. Naturally, German characters would speak to each other in German, and Rick and Sam presumably speak to each other in English, but for the most part, I'm assuming that the main body of the dialogue of the film should be understood as being spoken in French. I find rather annoying the literary convention by which, in order to show that characters are speaking in a particular language, certain easily recognizable words are thrown into the dialogue-for instance, inserting "oui, mon capitaine" and suchlike into dialogue that is theoretically ALL being spoken in French, but is actually written (or spoken, in the case of the film) in English. So, for this story, the reader should assume that all the dialogue is actually being spoken in French, except when otherwise specified. In order to make that policy as consistent as I can, I've tried to completely avoid the use of randomly interspersed easily recognizable French terms. So, for instance, characters will say "miss" rather than "mademoiselle," "Mr." or "sir" instead of "monsieur," "yes" instead of "oui," etc. The only exception to this rule that I've allowed myself is in the case of place names. Perhaps it's illogical, but I couldn't bring myself to give up the flavor and sense of place that I feel is provided by using the actual French place names. So, they alone are not translated into English-well, place names along with La Marseillaise, the title of which seemed just ridiculous to translate, and phrases such as "a propos" which have become so common in English usage.

All of that being said-I hope someone has been willing to wade through this enormous note in order to get to the story itself! Or, at least, I hope someone has skipped the note in order to get to the story.

I am, of course, making no money off of this-Rick Blaine, Louis Renault and company are the property of Warner Brothers, I assume-but they are also the emotional property of all of us who feel that we know and love them.

Chapter One:

Thursday, December 4, 1941—Night

The beautiful dream that they could run away together lasted for less than a minute.

One of the patrolmen drove Louis' car around to the small airport parking lot. Lieutenant de Garmeux used the telephone in the airport's office to ring Casablanca's central police station with the shocking news of Major Strasser's death. Others of the squad set out in their patrol car to escort the body of the late and unlamented Nazi major back into town.

Through occasional rain puddles glimmering in the airport lights, Louis Renault and Rick Blaine strolled toward Louis' car. And Louis wished the stroll could last a great deal longer than it did.

By the time they reached the car, they would have to face reality.

Already the proposal he had made to Rick a few moments ago, that they join the Free French at Brazzaville, had the unreal feeling of a scheme two boys would hatch together. It was every bit as joyful, and every bit as impossible, as a plan to join the circus or become pirates. The surreal thought struck Louis that they ought to have come up with this plan while perched in a tree house, or playing in a log fort they had built in the woods—not standing on the fog-shrouded tarmac of an airport where one of them had just committed murder.

The policeman who had moved the car, Patrolman Levesque, got out and saluted as his captain and Mr. Blaine approached. As an excuse to get the young man out of earshot, Louis turned to Rick and asked, "You have luggage here at the airport?"

"Yeah," the American nodded. "A couple of suitcases."

"Find Mr. Blaine's suitcases and load them into the car," Louis ordered young Levesque.

"Yes, Captain," Levesque answered, saluting again.

As soon as the youthful policeman was too far away to hear them, Rick said, "This isn't going to work, Louis."

"What isn't going to work?" Louis asked—although he felt fairly certain he and Rick had been thinking the same thing.

"Running away to Brazzaville. It won't fly. You and me, vanishing the same night Major Strasser turns up with a bullet in his heart … we might as well take out an ad in the paper announcing we killed him. Next thing you know, every German agent in Africa is going to be on our trail."

"I know," Louis sighed. He took out his cigarette case and tamped a cigarette against it. When his own cigarette's smoke was joining Rick's, swirling away into the airport fog, he asked, "Have you an alternate plan?"

"Yeah," Rick told him, scowling. "I think you have to arrest me after all. If you let me escape, it'll put you in the hot seat with Heinze and his Gestapo pals. No point in both of us taking the fall for this, when one will do."

"Really, Ricky," Louis said in exasperation. "How many times do you feel the need to sacrifice yourself in one night?"

"Well?" Rick asked, sounding equally exasperated. "You got a better plan? We're not pinning the murder on Laszlo," he added, with sudden ferocity. "I didn't go through all of that to get him out of Casablanca, just for him to be arrested the second he lands in Lisbon."

"No, no, Ricky, don't worry. We won't pin the murder on Laszlo. No," Louis continued thoughtfully, as bits and pieces of a plan started coming together in his mind, "I think I've an idea that should get the two of us through this, without requiring the sacrifice of either of us."

Rick grumbled, "Then your brain's working better than mine is. I guess I already used up my ration of thinking for one day."

Louis watched a puff of smoke that he sent to join the fog. Then he said, "Instead of Brazzaville, what would you think of joining the Resistance here in Morocco? I think I know how we can get you in touch with the right people, who will smuggle you out of town. And if I also throw in my lot with the Resistance, I could potentially be of far greater use to them as prefect of police, than as just one additional piece of cannon-fodder. And," he added, "it will save us the 5,000-mile trek to Brazzaville."

"Your man's coming back," Rick pointed out. "If you've got a plan, Louis, then go for it."

Louis nodded. "The plan begins with quite a large gamble," he said. "Wish me luck, Ricky."

The American told him quietly, "I always do."

Patrolman Levesque hurried up with a suitcase in each hand. He put down the suitcases and saluted, and Louis gestured for him to stow them in the trunk of the car.

I think I know why I feel I can trust this kid, Louis thought. With his wisp of a mustache and his puppy-dog eyes, he reminds me of my little brother.

Naturally, Patrolman Philippe Levesque was not Etienne Renault. Louis told himself, A chance resemblance is a remarkably stupid reason for me to trust this young man with Rick's life—and with my life, as well.

But he had other causes for believing it a reasonable bet to trust Levesque. The kid had not always been as discreet as he should be in expressing his political beliefs. Ordinarily, that might have been a reason not to place his trust in the boy. It meant, however, that at least Louis had some insight into Philippe Levesque's politics.

With the suitcases stashed in the trunk, Levesque stood awaiting his next orders. Louis felt rather sorry for him, considering the shock he was about to get.

"Levesque," Louis addressed him in tones of command, "I am going to put to you a question, and I will need your honest answer. Your reply to this question may have more impact than you can guess on your own life, on mine, and on the lives of a great many others."

As was no surprise, the young policeman stared at his captain in alarm. "Yes, My Captain," he said warily.

"Where do you stand upon the question of a Free France?"

Now Levesque looked as though he had eaten something rotten. His hesitation dragged on, and Louis began to wonder if he would need to prompt the kid with a further question. Then Levesque clearly decided it was time to take a stand for his principles.

"Sir," he said with vehemence, "I believe that our countrymen who fight for a Free France have more honor than we do. I believe our government betrayed us when they chose to bow down before the Germans. I believe it will someday be the duty of all true Frenchmen to fight against our oppressors. Until we do, we will be unworthy to bear the name of Frenchmen; we will be only Germany's slaves. Sir," he concluded rather lamely, obviously wondering whether he was now about to be fired, arrested, or deported—or perhaps all three.

That, Louis reflected, was a more spirited speech than he had expected Levesque to give. He thought, So much the better.

"Good," Louis told the young man, with a smile. "That is approximately what I'd hoped you would say." While Patrolman Levesque blinked and digested that news, Louis' words sped onward. "Mr. Blaine and I need your help tonight. You have your bicycle at the police station, do you not?"

Trying not to look too surprised at this seemingly out-of-nowhere question, Levesque said, "Yes, Captain."

"As soon as you and Lieutenant de Garmeux get to the station, I want you to take your bike and meet Mr. Blaine and myself by the school just off the Boulevard Marechal Foch, at Rue Lamoriciere and Rue Dunkerque. You know the place?"

"Yes, Captain,"

Taking a guess as to which area of the school buildings would be most secluded from prying eyes, Louis went on, "We will probably be in one of the parking lots; most likely the one on the Rue Dunkerque side. Tell no one where you are going. If de Garmeux or any other officer asks, you may tell him that I have sent you to conduct surveillance on the Gestapo's villa in Anfa. You understand?"

"Yes, sir," said Levesque. "I understand enough."

"Very good. Then we will see you shortly. And Phillippe—thank you."

This time when Patrolman Levesque saluted, he did so with a broad grin. Just before hurrying away, he said, "It's an honor to be of service."

Louis and Rick watched as the young policeman hastened to join Lieutenant de Garmeux, now waiting at the main hangar beside the car that the late Major Strasser had driven to the airport.

Rick remarked, "I hope you've got more of a plan than me taking that kid's bike and bicycling out of Casablanca."

Louis decided not to dignify that comment with a direct answer. "Get in the car," he ordered. "I'll tell you about it on the way in to town."

Before getting into the driver's seat, Louis trod out the remnants of his cigarette. He retrieved the stub and stashed it in his cigarette case. Rick, meanwhile, started in on a new cigarette as Louis drove out through the monumental airport gate. Knowing Louis' dislike of cigarette smoke within a tightly-sealed car, Rick cranked his window down halfway.

As they headed north along the Route de Magazan, Louis began, "I believe you know Mr. David King?"

"Dave King, from the U.S. Consulate? Sure. He spends a lot of time at the café."

"Has he ever sounded you out about becoming involved in the Resistance?"

"He's danced around the idea a few times. I always shot him down before he could get far with it. Always told him I stick my neck out for nobody."

Louis nodded. "I believe he has made similar attempts with me. He's been careful not to say anything incriminating, but he made various leading comments about Vichy, which if I had answered in kind, would likely eventually have led to some practical proposition. What I have heard from sources of my own leads me to conclude that Mr. King is organizing Resistance cells—or at the very least, groups of like-minded individuals who will be willing to fight or take other practical action if the opportunity presents itself."

Rick snorted quietly. "That's not much of an incentive to join him. If your sources know that much about what he's up to, chances are the Germans' sources know it, too. And so do the Germans."

"Oh, I am certain the Germans suspect his activities, but I think they have nothing definite they can pin on him. I hope."

"Okay," said Rick. "So Dave King is organizing Resistance cells, and you think he can smuggle me out of town. What's your plan for keeping me alive and free until you can hand me over to him?"

As Louis drove, Casablanca's city lights glowed steadily brighter in the distance ahead of them. Those lights, of course, were nothing compared to what they had been before the war. But still the city formed an oasis of light, beckoning them onward out of the blackness about them.

"For a start," Louis said, "we're going to pin the blame for Strasser's murder on you."

"Seems reasonable," said Rick, "since I'm the one who killed him."

Louis' mouth quirked in amusement. "That should indeed serve to aid the story's believability. My story," he went on, "which I will tell in my official report and will recount to anyone who questions me, is that when I told my men to round up the usual suspects, you were still aiming your pistol at me. To save my life, I naturally complied with your command not to order your arrest."

"Naturally."

"Still threatening me at gunpoint, you ordered me to drive you into town. As I am doing now. I drove, following your directions, until we reached a secluded spot near the city center. And then—instead of meeting Patrolman Levesque, as I trust we will soon be doing—at that point in my fairy tale, you knock me out with the butt of your pistol, deposit my unconscious form upon the roadside—gently, I hope—and you steal the car."

"Right," Rick grunted. "And in reality, what's happening instead is …?"

"What's happening instead is that Levesque loads his bike into the car and drives away, and meanwhile you and I walk home and I smuggle you into my apartment. I then telephone the station, order another car to pick me up and also issue an order for your capture for the murder of Major Strasser, for assault on a police officer, and for the theft of a police vehicle. While squads of police are combing the city for you, you of course are safe and snug in my apartment. Sometime tomorrow I will contact Dave King and arrange for him to come over to my place and spirit you away."

Not sounding impressed, Rick said, "So while you and Dave King are playing secret agent, all I get to do is cool my heels in your apartment?"

"Only for a day, Ricky. Look on it as an opportunity to catch up on your sleep; I'm sure you haven't had enough of that lately. Anyhow, you'll have plenty of opportunities for playing secret agent soon. Before you know it, you'll be running about Morocco performing heroic exploits like a character in some boys' adventure magazine."

"Unh-hunh. Let's get back to Levesque. What's he going to be getting up to while you're tucking me in at your apartment?"

Louis felt his shoulders tighten in tension. This next part of his plan, he knew only too well, was one of which Rick was not going to approve. "Levesque," he answered, "is meanwhile driving to one of the beaches. He drives the car out into the surf and abandons it—and he, of course, rides his bicycle back into town. When, eventually, the car is discovered, your baggage is still inside, but there is no trace of you. The obvious conclusion which everyone makes—including, I trust, the Gestapo and all of their friends—is that you have walked out into the ocean and drowned yourself."

"No," said Rick.

"Oh, come, now, Ricky," argued Louis, striving not to show how badly Rick was worrying him with that one word. "I put myself through this remarkable process of creation, birthing a beautifully elegant scheme which enables us to save your ass, and all you have to say about it is 'no'?"

"No one's going to believe a story like that. Who the hell commits suicide by walking out into the sea?"

"Rick, trust me, everyone will believe it. It's the sort of thing that happens all the time in the movies."

"That's just what I mean. That kind of stupid crap only happens in the movies."

"I assure you, you are thinking about this all wrong. It's because it is such a movie-like scenario that people are going to believe it—particularly since you are an American."

"You think Americans are congenitally more prone to walking out into the sea than anybody else?"

"What is the most frequent contact most people have with America and with Americans? American movies. All they know about Americans is what they see the characters doing in your films. Because a character in your circumstances would act this way in a film, it will seem perfectly natural that you would act this way, as well."

"In my circumstances?" Rick growled, even as Louis mentally cursed himself for having spoken that phrase. "What circumstances am I in?"

Louis attempted to manoeuver his way toward some not-too-incendiary words. Carefully he said, "Delayed reaction to having killed a man; perhaps a decision that you will deprive the Germans of the satisfaction of taking their revenge on you … and whatever emotional disturbance you may have felt as a result of Miss Lund's departure."

"Emotional disturbance," Rick repeated. "How very delicately worded." He sucked in a last deep inhalation from his cigarette and then flicked its stub out the car window. "Jesus, Louis," he muttered crossly. "I don't want anyone to think I'm the kind of chump who'd kill himself over a broken heart. That's what the God-damned dicky-bird does in The Mikado!"

Louis internally smiled. The fact that Rick retained enough pride to be offended at what people might think of him seemed to Louis a very good sign. If he was this touchy about his image, it showed there was no real chance of him actually committing some act of self-destruction.

As for The Mikado, Louis didn't have even a nodding acquaintance with it. He couldn't, however, see any reason why The Mikado or its dicky-bird should be permitted to invalidate his argument.

"You see, Ricky," he said, "it is precisely as I'm telling you. This sort of storyline is so prevalent because people find it believable. It is exactly the kind of act that will fit in with their expectations."

Rick observed, still sounding sulky, "Your ideas of what's believable must be pretty damn different from mine."

Rick's continued resistance to his plan was starting to make Louis feel ever-so-slightly sulky himself. "Well," he demanded, "have you a believable idea? A way to make the Nazis think you're dead and there is no point in searching for you, without requiring that we produce your corpse?"

Rick sighed and said with very ill grace, "No."

"Then until you do have one," Louis decreed, "we will move forward with implementing my idea."

He had rather expected his friend to keep arguing with him, but Rick instead subsided into silence. That caused Louis a thought which made him smile: Perhaps Ricky really wants someone to take charge and order him around, now and then. Though if that were true, he thought it could only be an occasional—and very specific—"now and then." Major Strasser's propensity to issue orders, for example, had not been particularly welcomed by Richard Blaine.

They had reached the edge of town and were now driving past the most outlying suburbs, a goodly number of which still scarcely existed outside of their developers' minds. In the dark, there was nothing of them to see. But Louis could easily picture the surreal network of empty streets that he knew had been carved into the fields and scrublands here: streets, traffic circles and cul-de-sacs all awaiting construction of the houses that would turn them into neighborhoods instead of merely dreams of the future.

He drove on, past the suburbs that already did exist, though for the most part they were nearly as invisible as the streets of unbuilt houses. Most of the residents of the modest villas that made up these developments had their blackout curtains firmly in place. And, clearly, those who lived here were the type who would be snugly ensconced in their homes long before curfew rolled around. Only an occasional streetlight, and here and there a blackout curtain not quite fully closed, served to confirm that the neighborhoods were even there.

Louis found himself wondering what state of mind Rick was in now. To see what he could discover, he started their conversation up again with, "I'm sorry you don't like my plan. This suicide-for-love business won't make people think less of you. We French adore a good, tragic romance. Well," he amended, "we adore any romance. But the tragic ones are always popular."

"Yeah?" inquired the still fairly disgruntled-sounding Rick. "How about the Germans? Do they adore tragic romances, too?"

Louis smiled. "Perhaps not so much as the French. Probably this will simply confirm their belief that the rest of us are hopelessly decadent—Americans included."

They had left the suburbs behind them. The Maarif district gleamed into view to the left of the road. In this Italian and Spanish enclave, home to factory employees and dock workers, the rapid approach of the curfew hour troubled residents not at all. The neighborhood cafés, Louis knew, would still be enjoying a roaring trade at this time of night. He thought he could even hear, through the open window on Rick's side of the car, strains of music from some of those cafés, wafting to them across the night.

At the intersection with Rue Meissonier, Louis turned right, heading into his own part of town: the New Town, that in daylight could be so blazing a white it hurt the eyes, its boulevards lined on either side by phalanxes of high-rise apartment buildings. At nighttime, with curfew so near, this part of the city was a shadowy ghost of itself. The pale, tall forms of the apartment buildings loomed like massive ancient monuments—like hugely enlarged versions of the megalithic stones of Brittany, so beloved by Louis' father.

For one instant the image of Casablanca's apartment buildings as grotesquely outsized Carnac Stones was amusing to him. Then he found himself irritated by the thought that his father's ancient obsession could intrude itself into even so resolutely modern a setting as New Town Casablanca.

Tonight another thought was bothering him about the countless apartment buildings, besides their faint resemblance to gigantic megalithic monuments. He was starting to wish he had thought of some other location for their planned meeting with Philippe Levesque. His skin began to tingle with alarm as he thought of the number of people who might be watching out the windows of all those apartments. Everywhere a blackout curtain was not closed, and at every spot where a speck of light might show a curtain being pulled aside, he imagined someone was standing at the window, watching them.

His apprehension was idiotic, he knew. A goodly portion of the city's residents were sure to be asleep. Those who were not, likely had better things to do than just staring out of their windows. And what would anyone actually see? A car driving by. That would be all. It wasn't as though they'd have anything incriminating to report to Consul-General Auer of the German Armistice Commission. And—although Casablanca's aggravated French officials often felt that way—Herr Auer did not, in fact, have the entire city in his pay, spying for him.

All the same, on this night Louis found himself sourly disliking all the apartment buildings' many windows. Tonight those windows looked to him like hundreds upon hundreds of eyes, all of them watching, all determined to witness every action taken by Captain Renault and Richard Blaine—and determined to betray them.

He took a left turn off Boulevard Marechal Foch. To his relief, the school buildings ahead of them looked entirely dark. He had started to second-guess his choice about that, as well, fearing that some teacher might be working late or the janitors might still be inside there, mopping. But this close to curfew, all of the good, respectable folk like teachers and janitors clearly had already headed home.

He drove in to the little parking lot tucked between the corners of two of the buildings. It was empty, just as he'd hoped it would be. And here, the school buildings would shield them from at least most eyes that might be watching. He assured himself that even those few people who might catch sight of them would have very little to see. In the scanty illumination from the streetlight across Rue Lamoriciere, it would be difficult even to be certain that Louis' car was there.

When he switched off the ignition, silence sank heavily around them. That silence was a good sign, Louis told himself. It meant not many people were about, to have a chance of noticing them. Of course it also meant that any noise they might make would seem magnified a thousandfold.

The two of them got out and stood waiting, leaning on the side of the car. They each lit up another cigarette. At this rate, Louis thought, by the time I get home and can deposit these in the rubbish bin, I'll have more cigarette butts in my case than fresh cigarettes.

He felt sure there were things they ought to talk about. There must be plans they should make. But he also knew there were times when it showed better friendship just to be silent. Very likely this was one of those times.

And, he thought, if I am so damnably worried about somebody noticing us, it does not make very much sense for me to indulge in chatting.

He knew it took far less time than he felt like it did, before the will-o'-the-wisp light of Patrolman Levesque's bicycle bobbed into view. The young policeman rode straight up to them. Levesque dismounted and saluted; then he switched off his bike's headlight.

"Did you have any trouble getting away?" Louis asked him.

"No, sir. The lieutenant did ask where I was going, but I don't think he had any doubts about your sending me to watch the Germans."

"Good. Here is what we will need you to do."

As he outlined the plan for Levesque, Louis imagined he could feel aggravation radiating off the American standing beside him. But since Rick had not come up with a workable alternate plan, he was going to have to live with the aggravation.

"You will load your bicycle in the car and drive out to the coast. Go to some beach and abandon the car there. We want it to appear as though Mr. Blaine drove to the beach and committed suicide through walking into the ocean. Naturally, you must take every precaution to leave no sign of you or your bicycle returning up the beach. It should look as though the only person to leave the car did so by walking into the waves."

Eagerly Levesque said, "I understand, sir. I think I know the perfect beach to make it work. It's got enough spurs of rock running out along it that I should easily be able to walk back along the rocks. I probably won't need to ever step on the sand."

Louis congratulated himself for having chosen this young man as their accomplice. He asked, "Have you gloves with you?"

"Yes, sir," Levesque said, producing his gloves from a pocket.

Louis went on briskly, "Good; then you can wear your gloves when you drive, so you will not leave your fingerprints on the wheel. Which reminds me: Rick, come stick your fingerprints on the steering wheel."

"You think of everything," Rick muttered grudgingly.

"I trust so. In order to show our German friends that we are investigating with due diligence, I am sure when the car is eventually found we will need to dust the wheel for fingerprints."

When Rick had gone through the requisite steering-wheel-holding, Louis asked him, "Is there anything you wish to retrieve from your suitcases?"

Rick got out of the car. "No," he said. "There's nothing I need. I didn't figure I'd have access to the suitcases, anyway. I figured tonight I'd either be in jail or dead."

"That's good. The more fully your baggage is packed when it's found, the more it should look to Auer and his cohorts as though you've departed this mortal plane." He turned to Levesque. "When you're done at the beach, you had better go keep watch on Consul-General Auer's villa, as you're officially supposed to be doing. You go off-duty at six a.m., don't you?" Levesque nodded, and Louis continued, "To make your cover-story as convincing as possible, I want you to come to me and report the results of your surveillance just before the end of your shift."

Though he could not precisely see it in their dark surroundings, Louis felt fairly certain that Patrolman Levesque was gaping at him in amazement. "To you, sir?" came Levesque's incredulous question. "But you won't be in the office that early, will you?"

Louis smiled, without much humor. "Sadly," he said, "in this crisis I will be unable to maintain my usual schedule. With a murdered Nazi on our hands and the murderer supposedly on the loose in my car, I fear I shall have to move into the office for the foreseeable future."

It was the work of only a few moments for Levesque to stow his bike on the car's back seat and drive off, after enthusiastically declaring that he would live up to the trust his captain had placed in him.

When the sound of the car engine faded in the distance, Louis said, "Right. The next order of business is for me to make it look as though I've been dumped out of a car. I hope I'm correct in assuming that if you did such a thing to me, you would deposit me upon the sidewalk instead of on the street?"

"Sure, I guess," Rick said, sounding like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Feeling only a slight bit ludicrous, Louis said, "Then here goes." He walked briskly to the nearest sidewalk, took off his cap and then proceeded to lie down flat on his back.

At least I don't have my dress uniform on, he thought. The blue everyday uniform would be far easier to successfully clean, after this tomfoolery, than would the white. He grimaced a little as he pictured Casablanca's pervasive, terra cotta-colored dust, which he usually diligently tried to keep off himself, and which he was now attempting, with equal vigor, to attract. It occurred to him that with the sidewalk still damp from the rain of earlier that evening, he might even manage to pick up a little mud.

Louis flailed about a bit, as he imagined he might do if he were regaining consciousness on the sidewalk. Then he propped himself up on one elbow.

"Honestly, Louis," Rick said to him in complaining tones. "Don't you think I've got any chivalry in me? If I was going to deposit your unconscious form in the dust, I'd lay my coat down for you to lie on, to stop your uniform getting dirty." A trace of sly humor entered the American's voice as he added, "Just like Sir Walter Raleigh, laying down his cloak for Queen Elizabeth to walk on."

Louis thought that was the funniest thing he'd heard in an exceptionally long time—and his life had no shortage of humor in it. He grinned upwards in the dark.

"If you believe you are anything like Sir Walter Raleigh," he countered, "then you are nearly as deluded as if you believe I am anything like Queen Elizabeth." He held up his hand toward his friend. "But if you are, indeed, so full of chivalry, then you can give me a hand up."

He didn't actually need any help in standing up again. But he appreciated the warm, firm grip of Rick's hand around his. In fact, he found he was reluctant to let go of Rick's hand, although of course he did let it go. He couldn't quite stop himself from feeling the treacherously sentimental wish that he need never let Rick go at all.

"Want me to pistol-whip you over the head?" Rick offered. "That way you'll have the appropriate goose-egg to show for your suffering, when the Gestapo come searching for it."

"Many thanks," Louis dryly answered as he put on his cap and straightened his jacket. He had to remind himself not to obsessively try removing the dirt he had just been working so hard to get onto himself. "I think we can dispense with that particular piece of realism."

"Suit yourself," said the shadowy Rick, obviously shrugging. "Don't blame me if that's the one missing detail that exposes your story as a tissue of lies."

"We had better get going," Louis said. "The longer we hang about, the more chance there is that someone will notice us. And on that topic, we should go to my place separately. I'll head up Rue Lamoriciere; you wait a couple minutes after I've left and then go around by another road, perhaps Rue Bugeaud."

Rick inquired, "Have you always been this paranoid?"

"A little judiciously-applied paranoia never hurt anyone," stated Louis. "For the past two years, Casablanca's guardians of law and order have been playing cat-and-mouse with Consul-General Auer of the German Armistice Commission. Unfortunately, he is more frequently the cat than we are. It is common wisdom among us that in Casablanca, nobody can fart without one of Auer's informants being near enough to smell it and report to him on the precise composition of its scent. It will ruin my night if anyone informs Herr Auer that they saw you and me walking together, at the very time when you are supposed to have knocked me over the head and absconded with my car."

"Sounds like I killed the wrong German," Rick suggested. "You want me to go shoot Herr Auer, so I can give you Auer and Strasser as a matched set?"

"That would be lovely, Ricky, but I'm afraid we cannot afford it. We have problems enough to deal with, resulting from your killing one of them. I believe—and hope—that Casablanca can survive unscathed through the misfortune of one prominent Nazi turning up dead in our jurisdiction. If two of them get themselves done in, I fear troops would arrive the next day. We would find ourselves the latest territorial addition to Occupied France."

"Sorry to cause you so much trouble."

"Don't mention it," Louis told him, smiling even though presumably Rick could not see him do so. "I can endure a great deal of trouble in exchange for the satisfaction of watching you shoot Major Strasser. Let's get back to business," he said, as much to himself as to Rick. "You know where I live? It is 'Les Studios,' the tall, thin building at the intersection of Avenue d'Amade and Rue Blaise Pascal."

"I know it."

"You can go around the back of the building and come to the service entrance on Avenue d'Amade."

That was a more exposed route than Louis was happy with using, since it placed Rick at least briefly on one of Casablanca's busiest streets. But at this time of night, he reminded himself, none of Casablanca's streets should be busy. And that particular service staircase gave direct access to Louis' apartment.

He went on, "I'll be there to let you in. We can't let the doorman see you come in the front door with me. If Abdel has no idea of your presence, he will give more believable denials when multiple Germans question him about it."

"Makes sense," Rick said. He pointed out, "You'd better get going, Louis, if you're so hot to make sure nobody sees us together."

A sudden suspicion leapt into Louis' mind. All at once he wondered if it would be a dreadful mistake for him to walk away and leave Rick alone.

"Ricky," he said urgently. "You are going to come to my place, aren't you? You're not planning to pull some new self-sacrificing stunt and disappear into the night?"

"Not a chance," Rick assured him. "I don't want to miss seeing what kind of crazy shit you'll come up with next. You run along. I'll see you soon."

Louis snapped, "You had better." He turned and strode up the street before his fears could talk him out of it.

It was only about a three-minute walk to his home. Along the way, he concentrated on feeling the mood he was supposed to be in. He rehearsed in his mind the fiction he would need to inhabit from this point forward.

Here I am, he thought, angry and confused, storming along with my pride badly wounded and with a severely aching head.

Here I am, furious with Rick for all of it: for conking me on the head, for stealing my car, for killing Major Strasser and placing me in an awkward position with Vichy and Berlin, for tricking me into letting Victor Laszlo go flying off to Lisbon. I am furious with Rick for making me care about him and for the fact that there is nothing I can do to stop him from being killed.

He thought his fiction was close enough to reality that he should have no difficulty acting it.

His building loomed up before him. Above the front door, the streamlined chrome of the words "Les Studios" gleamed in the light from the nearby streetlamp. Louis stomped into the lobby, scowl firmly in place. He met the flabbergasted stare of Abdel the night doorman, hurrying out from behind the front desk.

"Captain Renault!" old Abdel gasped, unable to retain his usual unshakable calm. "Sir, are you all right?"

"No," Louis snapped, heading straight for the elevator. "I am sorry, Abdel. I do not have time to discuss it."

Abdel didn't make it there before him to open the elevator's elaborate iron gate. He did, however, succeed in closing the gate again after Louis stepped inside the elevator. The old man thus salvaged some of his pride by fulfilling at least one aspect of his job description.

As the elevator ferried him to Les Studios' fourth floor, Louis felt his usual relief that this was not a building at which the managers believed it a sign of luxury to employ elevator attendants.

Tonight it meant that as soon as the elevator door closed, he could take a break from his theatrical performance. More frequently, the unattended ride upstairs meant the opportunity for a kiss and a squeeze and a sweet nothing or two, with whatever woman was going home with him that night.

On those more usual rides, the end of the brief upward trip normally led to some murmurs of disappointment from Louis and his companion, and to them hastening to his apartment, amid whispered endearments and giggles, to commence the serious business of the night.

Tonight he was simply glad that the elevator ride was brief. He had, tonight, even more serious business to attend to: the business of continuing to rescue Rick.

As soon as he switched on the light inside his apartment's front door, he glanced over to assure himself that the blackout curtains were firmly in place. They were, of course. He always made certain he closed them properly in the morning, before he left for work.

In that next moment, the sight of his apartment caused an unpleasant question to pop into his mind.

Did I decide we wouldn't run away to Brazzaville just because I don't want to leave my apartment?

He did love this place. He loved the soaring airiness of the two-story living room. He loved to stand on his balcony up there, enjoying the view of this elegant, open-plan room, nearly as much as he loved standing on the loggia or on one of the outside balconies and gazing over the city of Casablanca.

His was one of the corner apartments. One set of views led southward, toward the edge of town. The other side—the view he liked best—faced westward, over the Parc Lyautey just across the street, and beyond, over the New Town and the Old Medina, toward the sea.

Did I really nix the Brazzaville plan because I'm so comfortable here? Was that what made me change my mind—not the impracticalities of a 5000-mile journey with every German agent in Africa—plus a goodly portion of their army and their air force—traipsing along at our heels?

Impatiently Louis told himself that right now, his motivations didn't matter. This was not a time for soul-searching. It was a time for him to get Mr. Richard Blaine temporarily out of harm's way.

He strode across his living room, past the seldom-used dining table and through the kitchen, straight for the apartment's back door.

Feeling slightly absurd—like a character in one of those farces full of mismatched spouses who continually pop in and out through the multiple doors onstage—he eased open the door and peered out. To his relief, the service stairwell was dark. His brain had started to conjure disastrous possibilities such as one of his neighbors having just held a dinner party, and their catering staff trooping up and down the stairs at just the right moment to catch Louis playing spy. But even if there had been such a dinner party, it ought to be over by now, and the staff and all of the guests, as well, should be safely back in their homes. Eleven o'clock, the hour of Casablanca's curfew, had finally arrived.

Of course he risked breaking his neck by sneaking down the stairs in the dark. But he would just have to tread with care and keep a tight hold on the bannister. He wasn't going to switch on the lights. One of his fellow tenants might be in their kitchen, might notice the light going on, and might come into the stairwell to investigate. Not that he believed that risk to be much more likely than his imaginary troops of cooks and waitresses on the stairs. The apartments in Les Studios were rented only to single tenants and to couples without children. People of that demographic, he thought, should have better things to do in the middle of the night than lurking around their kitchen doors.

Anyhow, enough vague light from the distant streetlights came in through the stairwell's column of windows rising upward from the street level to the roof, that he didn't have to feel his way in total blackness. He could just about see the stairs.

When he reached the outside door and cracked it open, Rick was not yet there. Louis stood peeking through the minimally open door, ordering himself not to think up further nightmare scenarios.

He wasn't going to begin thinking again of the possibility that Rick didn't plan to come here at all. Rick had said he would be here, and so—here he would be.

He wished Rick didn't have to make his approach from the Avenue d'Amade side, but the row of palm trees along the sidewalk should provide enough shadows to shield him from the view of drivers on the road. And anyway, now that curfew had come, there shouldn't be any drivers on the road.

He spent perhaps a minute waiting before a shadow blocked out the light from the slitted-open door. Rick's voice whispered, "Do I have to give a password? Or maybe there's a secret knock."

Louis hissed back, "Shut up and get inside."

Despite his probable urge to keep on teasing Louis, Rick kept quiet as they crept up the murky stairs. Louis thought how ironic it was that in the five or so years in which he'd lived here, this project of smuggling Rick into Les Studios was the first time he had gone sneaking around his apartment building.

With the guests he normally brought home, he had no reason in the world to sneak. More-or-less all of Casablanca was presumably aware that their prefect of police typically entertained at least two different women per week. Perhaps some of those women might prefer that their husbands not learn of their activities. But since said husbands weren't likely to be sneaking around Les Studios, Louis and his visitors had no reason for sneaking, either.

At last they reached the haven of his kitchen. He locked the door behind them, thinking that now, perhaps, he could finally allow himself to breathe. Louis looked at Rick, who was watching him with a small half-smile of amusement. He asked Rick, "Will you have a brandy?"

"Why not? You look like you can use one," Rick observed.

"I can," agreed Louis, leading the way into his living room and to his well-stocked liquor cabinet that nestled beneath the stairs to his second floor. "I believe I have aged at least five years in the past five minutes. I find I do not much enjoy this business of being a fugitive," he went on, as he poured himself and Rick each a sizable brandy. "I greatly prefer being the person from whom the fugitives are hiding."

Rick accepted his glass of brandy with a nod. He said, "Sorry to force you out of your comfort zone."

"Did you see anyone out there?" Louis asked. "Anyone who looked like they were noticing you?"

"Not a soul. If anybody was tailing me, he was better at it than usual. Looks like the residents of this part of town are all good, curfew-obeying folks."

"That is pleasant to know," Louis said. He felt somewhat more like himself after his first, good-sized swig of brandy. "In my ideal vision of Casablanca, the only one in town who'd be breaking any rules would be myself."

"Aw, come on," Rick objected. "Wouldn't you get bored if you didn't have any wrong-doers to arrest?"

"Not a bit of it. I would spend one-quarter of each day in your gambling rooms, and the other three-quarters in my bedroom. Think of how many visa problems I could get sorted out."

Rick grinned over his brandy glass, and Louis sighed. "Well," he said. "I suppose I can't put this off any longer." He forced himself to stride over to the telephone, on its bureau by the front door.

It was probably Sergeant Barère who was manning the front desk at Casablanca's Central Commissariat, judging by the hint of a Gascon accent in the voice that answered the telephone with, "Casablanca Municipal Police."

"This is Captain Renault," Louis said harshly, working to capture again the emotions he was meant to be feeling. "Send a car to pick me up at my apartment straight away."

"But, Captain," began Sergeant Barère. "Don't you have a car with you, sir?"

"I did have one," he snapped out. "Clearly I no longer have it, or I would not be ordering you to send a car for me. Listen carefully. I am going to issue an important order. You had better be ready to write it down."

"Yes, sir!" exclaimed the sergeant, sounding only slightly frantic. Louis thought he could hear some faint scrabbling in the background as the man presumably hunted for paper or a pencil, then Barère said, "I'm ready, Captain."

He looked over at Rick. His friend stood nearby, watching him. Rick's face was expressionless as Louis launched into his "important order."

"This order is for the apprehension and arrest of Richard Blaine, American. He is wanted for the murder of Major Heinrich Strasser"—Louis believed he heard a slight gasp on the other end of the line—"for assault on an officer of the police, for the theft of a police vehicle, registration number 2539 M2, and as accessory to the murder of two German couriers and the theft of their letters of transit. He is believed to be driving the stolen car, and he should be approached with caution; he must be assumed to be armed and extremely dangerous. Do you have all of that?" he demanded.

"Yes, Captain. I've got it."

"Good. Now send a car for me at once," Louis commanded, and he slammed down the 'phone.

He smiled slightly at Rick, who smiled back. "Well," Louis said, "that is that. I'm sorry I failed to warn you I'd be adding in the bits about the couriers and the letters of transit."

"Doesn't seem to make much difference," Rick shrugged. "After the part about murdering Major Strasser, the rest of it's just gravy."

"Yes." After a moment's contemplation, Louis said, "I think, if I were really to come storming home after you had dumped me onto the sidewalk, I would go wash my face." He hurried into the kitchen to do so. Rick wandered in along with him.

As he dried his face on one of the kitchen towels—not too carefully, so that his hasty ablutions might leave behind some noticeable water droplets—he tried to think of everything he ought to say to Rick.

"The W.C. is at the top of the stairs," Louis said, "and the guest bedroom is along the balcony, all the way to the left; the room with about twenty Parisian Life covers on the walls."

"I can't wait to see it."

"Make yourself at home," he went on, "just do me a favor and clean up after yourself. If Consul-General Auer and his troops come searching this place, I don't want to be incriminated by your dirty dishes."

"Because dirty dishes in the sink couldn't possibly be yours, of course."

"Of course not."

"What about your cleaning lady? Should I hide in a closet when she turns up?"

"Fortunately, Mrs. Solomon was here just this morning. She only comes in on Mondays and Thursdays. If you are still here this coming Monday, we will have worse problems to worry about than discovery by Mrs. Solomon. There's some fish stew in the refrigerator," he continued. "You're welcome to it. It should still be fine. I only made it on Monday night."

"I didn't know you cooked," Rick remarked.

"Yes. I'll make somebody a fine little wife someday." The moment he had said it, Louis regretted uttering that joke. Pretending to himself that the joke had not been particularly odd and awkward in their current circumstances, he searched for something else to say. He thought of nothing.

"Well," he said finally. "The car should be here soon. I'd better go downstairs and wait for it."

"Yeah," said Rick Blaine. "Have a good day at work."

Louis stared, trying not to allow himself the asinine thought that he might be looking at Rick for the last time. "Thanks."

He thought, There is nothing else I can say. Or at least, there is nothing I can say that I will not immediately regret.

Rick followed him into the living room. As Louis left his apartment, he had a final glimpse of Rick standing beneath the balcony, brandy glass in hand.

He locked the door and hurried almost blindly to the elevator. He felt angry and disgusted with himself as he realized that he was very nearly in tears.

He is safe, Louis insisted in his mind. No one will find him here. No one has any reason to suspect me, or to search my apartment. Nothing is going to happen to Rick.

I have no reason in the world to be afraid that I will never see him again.