Chapter Ten
When Andre entered the large office, the club's owner was seated at his desk amd did not look up as he swept some papers into a drawer.
"Well, what do you want now," he asked his visitor, "are you here to beg for more credit at the bar? Or perhaps you've had some sudden good fortune and would like to settle your bill at last?"
He did not offer Andre a seat, but the nervous little man slid into the chair opposite the desk.
"Monsieur, I wil be settling my debts soon enough."
The proprietor glanced up at him sharply.
"Does this have anything to do with those two German couriers who were found murdered last night?"
Amdre shrugged, though once again he was startled by the man's voice when he referred to the dead Nazi couriers. Many in Casablanca had reason to dislike the Germans, but the edge in this man's voice...
Andre turned his thoughts back to himself. Empathy was not his strongest trait and he had no real desire to know this man's mysteries. He knew he couldn't make a profit on them and that was all that mattered these days.
"May I have a drink, Monsieur? Daniel refused to let me..."
The man cut him off with a gesture towards the cut-glass decaters that stood on a low table in the corner.
"Daniel was following orders," he said as Andre scurried over to pour a glass of cognac.
"Monsieur, do you know what those couriers were carrying when they arrived in Morocco," Andre asked, clutching the cognac and settling himself on the edge of his chair.
"All of Casablanc knows."
Andre's hands shook as he pulled a dingy envelope from inside his jacket. He laid it on the desk with a sort of childish pride.
The club's owner glanced at it only briefly as he pulled a leather-bound account book from the drawer.
"And those are the letters of transit?"
"Three of them," Andre said with a vigorous bob of his head.
"Why are you showing them to me?"
"I thought, perhaps, you would like to buy them."
"I have no need of them, Andre. I have no reason to leave Casablanca."
"You could resell them, Monsieur. Plenty of buyers right here in your club. Make a small fortune."
The man shook his head.
"I'm not interested and you know it. I don't traffic in human lives here."
Andre shrugged and stroked the dingy envelope lovingly.
"It doesn't really matter, Monsieur. Like I said, plenty of other buyers. But...I need a safe place to keep them. Just for the evening. If anyone should find them on me, they might think I killed those couriers."
"You expect me to believe you had nothing to do with that, Andre?"
"You have your secrets, Monsieur. I have mine."
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When Andre had gone, the man rose and picked up the envelope.
A narrow flight of steps led up to his apartment. He unlocked the door of his bedroom and removed a picture from the wall.
He held it for a moment, his hands trembling...a portrait drawn from memory. A young woman with soft brown curls, her lips parted as if waiting to be kissed.
He turned the picture over and opened the back of the frame. He slipped the envelope inside and returned the picture to the wall.
He looked up at it one more time...as if it were a holy icon.
Oh, Christine...