Going Home
by LZClotho
(c)1999
Chapter 19
The single gunshot might have avoided noticed, if Jean had not chosen that moment to stand and go in search of his meal companion. Hand still on the back of his chair, he froze. He looked around too suddenly, drawing the attention of his commanding officer, Louis.
Louis stood at the entrance, scanning the dining room while they waited for the maitre'd to identify a seat for himself and his two companions. Spotting Jean standing, he immediately gestured. The sudden quick look around made him curious.
"I will return," he told his companions, one of the well-to-do couples living in the city. She was dressed in a simple style dress, with flowing skirt, topped off with a shocking chartreuse hat. Her husband wore the typical dining attire, gray flannel pants neatly trimmed to his muscular figure and an open collar maroon shirt.
The wife asked, "What is it, Capitan?"
Probably nothing, he thought. Jean was one of his more easily startled officers. Nervous about the Reich, and indignant about the German movements they heard more and more frequently these days. "I see one of my men. Order your meal. I will join you in a few moments."
The husband nodded curtly. Accepting his grant of leave, Louis started through the diners, winding his way toward Officer Boutre. Not seeing his captain, Boutre moved to the rear of the restaurant, apparently destined for the restrooms. It would have stopped Louis's pursuit, he not being the sort of man to follow another into such a private area without cause.
But then Jean looked quickly over his shoulder back at the dining room before disappearing. The man's eyes scanned the room, his chest moved in a deep breath, and then he pulled the door wide and quickly went through.
Louis then looked for Rick, the caf?s owner. The tall, dark-haired American met his gaze intently, then bent toward his piano player, the black fellow named Sam, murmuring something in his ear.
Now that's curious, Louis thought. He decided to question Rick first. So he crossed the room to intercept Rick as the piano music began.
"Evening, Louis," Rick said easily. "What brings you here?"
"Food. I thought. But you have such a look of invitation about you, Rick. I thought I might trade news with you."
The man quirked a smile then smoothed his face back to uninterested lines. "Really? So you have news to share." He leaned against the bar and gestured for a drink. The bartender moved to fill a glass with his favorite. Rick looked back at Louis, propping his foot on the baseboard of the bar. "Well, I'm all ears. What's new in town?" He took up the drink and swallowed a small bit eyeing the French captain with amusement.
"You are amusing, Rick. How long has my lieutenant been here," he gestured toward the empty table where he had first seen Jean.
"No one there," Rick informed him, looking up past the Frenchman. "I know that."
"Then why don't you ask him? I didn't see him come in, if you must know." Rick finished his drink and set it down on the bar. "Now I have to go assure the customers that the play in the card room is fair. Excuse me."
Louis stood for a moment alone at the bar as Rick left, headed for the card room as he said. The bartender gestured inquiringly. Louis waved off the suggestion of a drink. Looking back over his shoulder he was surprised not to see Boutre not emerging from his business. His instincts prickled and he moved toward the back of the restaurant himself. Patrons gestured to him, some kindly, others furtively. One mystery at a time, he told himself, gesturing back here and there with a smile plastered on his dark features. Finally he gained the door and pulled it open.
The hall beyond was empty. He noticed that Rick's office door was closed, the water closet door was open, and the door at the far end of the corridor, leading to the alley, was open slightly.
The alley? What in the name of Mary was his lieutenant doing in the alley? Louis proceeded quickly. Just as he reached the door and started to peer around it, he felt it pull from his hands.
Unholstering his weapon, he backed up and pointed it at the doorway. With a start, Jean stepped back in. "Captain!"
Sighing, Louis lowered his gun. "Lieutenant Boutre," he began formally. "What are you doing back here?" Boutre started to gesture with some explanation when Louis noticed the blood stains on his hands. "What happened, Boutre?" he demanded, grabbing the man's hands.
Boutre paused for a moment, studied his hands and then sighed. "Come with me," he told Louis. Then he turned around and led his captain out into the alley. As Louis emerged, looking further up the alley a bit, Jean closed the door and gestured to something behind it. "Over here, captain."
Louis turned and started. Bending close to the crumpled man on the stoop. Gingerly he opened one of the man's eyes. "Is he dead?" he questioned.
"Yes. I found him just a moment ago. Gunshot." Once again, Louis noticed Jean looking along the alley. "Did you see his killer?" he asked pointedly.
The gendarme shook his head. "Non, capitan. I found him just like this. I was about to go inside and locate a phone to call headquarters."
Louis frowned then looked at the dead man then glanced back up at his officer. "Let's see if we can't identify this one," he suggested, already beginning to check through the man's pockets.
Jean bent down and assisted, helping to shift the man so that they could check for back pockets as well as remove his coat. Watching to see that the captain's head was down, he looked once more down the alley.
Searching for his date. Each moment that passed increased his feelings of misgiving. Why did they always pick him, he thought with a gentle sigh.
"Come on, Jean." He held up a boat whistle. "Let's call for a car." Louis stood and watched back into Rick's quietly, sensing Jean following on his heels. He looked down the alley himself once more, holding the door for Jean.
He was galvanized into action, drawing his weapon, when he noticed shadows moving in a doorway. "Jean!" he called his lieutenant back. "This way!"
The two French officers jogged toward the suspect doorway. They pulled up short at a laundry's rear entrance, encountering a washerwoman sorting clothes. In rapid-fire French, Louis inquired if the woman had seen anything going on at Rick's earlier. She replied that she had just come from the front of her establishment, where she had been servicing customers. Louis and Jean emerged back in the alley, searching it further up and back down toward Rick's.
"We'll have to close the harbor," Louis said. "No ships in or out until we've searched them for the killer."
Jean nodded. "I'll get right on it, sir." Holstering his weapon, he jogged between buildings and emerged on the street. Louis went back up to the caf? to call for the car. Boutre studied the faces of everyone milling on the street. He spotted a tall brunette woman walking alone into a pastry shop,
then backtracked on the woman's path and noticed a blonde seated at an outside table. He changed direction and crossed the street to the shop. "Miss Covington," he said warmly, gesturing widely. "So good to see you again."
Green eyes flew up to his face and the man knew a sinking feeling that he had found the sailor's killer. He said only, "You are leaving tonight on the first boat out, oui?"
Janice frowned, then slowly nodded. "Oui." He nodded back.
"Bon chance," he added quietly as she stood. He watched her catch up with her friend, that Jean remembered as the singer in Rick's, and the two women exchanged words. The brunette put back her order on the counter, and they walked off into the night. He watched the brunette slip her arm around Covington's shoulder, bend her head close and speak words he could not hear.
Jean Boutre decided he had better get down to the wharves himself, surprising himself with the thought to run interference for the women as they made their escape. The blonde had been a pleasant companion, witty and intelligent. He had managed a good time, and suspected only that the shooting had been in self-defense.
Shaking his head, he took quicker route to the wharves. Perhaps they might have a quiet moment to talk.
Chapter 20
Janice settled her nerves some two blocks before the wharf district began. She reached up and nudged the weight from her shoulders.
It happened to be Melinda's arm. "Janice?"
The brunette's voice held curiosity but the blonde also could feel an underlying wave of concern practically crash over her. She closed her eyes, stopped walking and turned to face Melinda before she looked up into deep troubled blue eyes. "I'm all right, Mel."
Those eyes intensified their search. Janice could feel the woman's breath on her face when she spoke. "Are you sure?" Finally Mel tore her gaze away, leaving Janice studying the smooth line of her jaw from ear to chin. "The gendarme seemed worried. Do you think he knows?"
Boutre. Janice sighed. "He probably guessed." She started around the corner. "We had better move on."
She stopped so quickly that Melinda stepped on her heels.
"Ow."
"Sorry." Melinda looked past Janice, resting her hands on the woman's shoulders. "What's wrong?"
"Police. Everywhere." She pulled back into the building's shadow. "We'll hide out. Wait for the crowd to thin."
Mel shrugged. "We've done this before. Disguises."
"All our stuff's in that warehouse," she remarked.
"They're searching the buildings now. They're bound to make the connection, when they find our things in the warehouse belonging to Bristol's ship," Melinda pointed out.
"God damned son of a -," Janice replied with deep feeling. Then she caught Melinda's ears turning pink. "Cute." The pink deepened. "Sorry. Guess I'll have to sneak in and swipe it."
Melinda was shaking her head before Janice finished speaking. "No. We're going. I am not getting separated from you again." There was a glint of steel now in the deep blue, which Janice was coming to recognize, as Melinda's intent not to lose an argument.
She was surprised how little it had been used on her, and found it charming as well as challenging. "How is it anyone ever thought you were a genteel Southern belle, Mel Pappas?"
"People see what they want to see."
Nodding, Janice had to agree. "Well. You ready?"
"Lead on."
She peered back around the wall, straining to hear the officers' exchanges as they moved through the buildings, piers and ships. French, inquisitive and bold in tone, filled the air.
"Calumet, move your men to the west section. Past warehouse nineteen. One man in each building."
"What time do you want us to meet?"
"Move quickly. We can't have the harbor closed past evening tide. Merchants'll have our heads. No more than an hour."
"All right. Men, move out!"
Melinda's whisper sounded just off her right ear. "You heard?" Janice nodded, feeling the brunette's form close on hers. "We don't have much time," Mel finished.
Sucking in a confidence-building breath, Janice nodded again. "All right. This way." She took advantage of the lengthening evening shadows and skirted buildings quickly, moving east along the line of piers. She kept track of Melinda with an almost physical sensation that seemed to shift around her back depending on the woman's position.
For now the brunette remained about two paces off her left side, which was good. It allowed for the archaeologist to draw the gun if necessary. So she kept one eye on the roaming officers, and the other on their destination, a small door set in the side of a metal building. Painted over the door was "Pier 6."
Melinda reached out for Janice's shoulder to get her attention before speaking. The blonde's hand intercepted hers. The action startled Mel and she jumped backward, stumbling into a ten-foot pile of stacked crates.
The old worn wood shattered. Surrounded by loud cracking, creaking and crashing, the brunette fell toward the pavement, dazedly covering her head against the tumbling broken planks. A sharp agonizing pain shot down her leg coaxing her hands away from her head.
"Mel!"
Janice's alarmed yell was the last thing the young woman heard before the sharp edge of a thick plank slammed into her head, just over her left ear. She fought the blur in her vision until the ringing in her ears forced her eyes shut. Then the darkness deepened and she felt and heard nothing more.
The debris settled with a groan. Melinda lay somewhere in the middle. No sound broke the silence now settling over the evening. Janice studied the pile frantically. Between the building shadows and the depth of the pile, she didn't see anything clearly for a long heart-stopping moment.
"What happened?" A breathless male voice burst from almost on top of her.
Janice was jolted into action and she started pulling at the wood boards. Dimly she was aware of the man next to her doing the same. She was surprised only in a vague way, since no one had been investigating on this side of the wharf area for the moment. But now, panic rising, she was grateful for the help.
Finally they freed an arm. Tossing aside the wood, Janice climbed onto the pile and dug out Melinda's very still body. She couldn't see movement in the unconscious woman's chest. Adjusting her stance, she ignored the wood that slid away from her feet and knelt in the debris, wrapping her arms around the lolled head.
"Mel?" she whispered urgently. "Please, Mel. Can you hear me?" Gently she lowered her forehead against her partner's and brushed aside the disarrayed hair from her closed eyes. Her hand stilled in a warm sticky pool next to Melinda's ear.
Looking around, Janice's gaze fell on the man who had helped her. "Jean!" she recognized the friendly gendarme.
He answered. "Don't move her. Tell me what you need." Arms open, he gestured lightly as he spoke.
Responsive to the businesslike tone, Janice answered. "Cloth. Or something to stop the bleeding."
"Blood? On her head?" Janice nodded. "Absolutement! Don't move! I'll be right back."
Fear gripped the young blonde. Caught between letting Mel die from a head wound, or trusting a friendly officer in a strange country, she chose the latter. She remained still, listening to her heart pounding so hard she could feel the reverberation in her palms as they laid against Melinda's shoulders. Shifting slightly she laid a palm over the woman's jugular. She could sense nothing. Lightly she brushed her lips on the brunette's blood-spattered cheek and felt the tears well up, choking in her own throat. Her skin was chill to the touch.
And still.
Oh, God. Janice's tears flowed into the blood-matted dark hair. She prayed Boutre would return in time.
Squeezing Melinda in her arms, the archaeologist wondered how to give the brunette a chance. She cradled the brunette in a preoccupied rocking motion, unwittingly shifting the pile of broken wood.
"Don't leave me, Mel. Don't you dare leave me." Her voice trailed off. Her throat closed off, clogged by the tears she could no longer stop.