DBSSFGPVS, and under that, MF CBS CMFV.
Damn.
Chapter Eleven
I was muttering out loud as i strode from the depot toward Ward C. I could see jeeps and trucks pulling out of the vehicle park onto the main road, heading away from this damn place. Which was exactly what I should be doing. Why the hell did Joe Casselli have to go and get himself killed? How had he obtained that notebook, or at least a page from it? Okay, I told myself, I'll go ask Jerome about this notebook and see if he knows the code, or even what's supposed to be concealed in it. Then I'm out of here, Colonel Walton or no.
It was the colonel himself who greeted me at the entrance to Ward C. He was standing with a Gardes Mobiles officer who had his left arm in a sling.
"Boyle!" Walton barked, crooking a finger at me. "This is Lieutenant Phillipe Mathenet from the local French police. He's here to collect prisoners." Mathenet made a little bow in my direction. With one arm in a sling and the other holding his blue uniform jacket, a handshake wasn't going to work and I wasn't going to salute another lieutenant, especially a Vichy cop. I wasn't big on bowing either, so I just nodded back at him. He was older than I expected a police lieutenant to be, with thinning sandy hair and bags under his eyes. A narrow mouth and long chin made it look like his face had started a long downward slide.
"Lieutenant," I said, "I hope your wound is not too serious."
"No, Lieutenant Boyle," he said, mustering a smile. "It is nothing. A bit of stray shrapnel. I am afraid there is more damage to my uniform than to my arm. My tailor will have to sew me a new sleeve."
He smiled again as he held up his jacket with his good arm. The sleeve was torn and bloody, but the rest of the jacket was fine. It seemed like a custom-made job. His pants and shoes were expensive, and his watch looked like a week's pay. Maybe he'd spent all of his lieutenant's salary on this fancy uniform. Or maybe the tailor was on his beat. Or he'd been lucky at cards. Or he was a crooked throat-slitting son of a bitch.
"Yeah," I said, "War is hell. You taking all of these kids out of here?"
His smile faded, fast. "That is no business of yours, or of the American Army," Mathenet answered. "These rebels tried to overthrow the legitimate government of this province. We do not take such actions lightly."
"Boyle," said Walton, "I ordered you to look into the death of Sergeant Casselli, not to antagonize the representative of the local authorities. Now get to it!"
I couldn't think of a reason to go in to see Jerome that would hold water with Walton, but I needed to talk to him before Mathenet rounded him up. Chained to his bed, I couldn't pretend he'd been a witness to anything, so Walton probably would blow a gasket if I paid him a visit instead of playing Dick Tracy. Before I could think of a pretext, a truck drove by, stopped, and backed up toward the entrance. Another Gardes Mobiles cop got out, saluted Mathenet, and handed him a clipboard. As they all consulted it, I stepped away and quietly went inside.
I opened Jerome's door expecting to find him alone and terrified. Instead, he and Gloria Morgan were both seated by the window, raising glasses in a toast. He was smiling and the manacles and chain had been removed from his leg.
"Having a party?" I asked, confused.
"We're celebrating and commiserating, Billy," said Gloria.
"I am to be freed," said Jerome, "and we are saluting your Sergeant Casselli."
"I just came off duty and needed a drink, after everything that happened today." Gloria explained. "I saw a letter from General Juin's headquarters, ordering Jerome to be released as soon as he was healthy enough. Isn't that marvelous? I was so happy to hear some good news that I came by to celebrate. So, bottoms up!" She and Jerome drained their glasses.
"What is that you're drinking?" I asked as I saw them slosh down something green.
"Creme de menthe," answered Gloria. "It's a liqueur, very French. It's an acquired taste, which Jerome and I share. Sorry I can't offer you any, Billy. That was the last of it."
"Don't worry, I like my liquor amber and Irish. That's great news, Jerome. How'd you pull it off?"
"I knew my family was trying to get General Juin to intercede. They are not without influence here, and finally it worked. Just in time," he sighed heavily. He looked tired. Suddenly we heard a commotion in the hallway, shouts and cries in French.
"They're clearing out the ward," said Gloria. "All except a few serious cases. There's nothing we can do. I'm so sorry about your friends, Jerome."
Jerome nodded, sadly, his eyes cast down, his hands cradling his empty glass.
"Well, that's enough excitement for one day. Let's get you back in bed and I'll come and check in later," Gloria said. She helped Jerome up and got him settled, tucking him in and smoothing his hair back from his forehead. He smiled at her and yawned. Gloria smiled back and then picked up the glasses and a small bottle, putting them on a tray and covering it with a hand towel.
"Billy, let's leave Jerome to sleep. You can visit him later. And don't say anything about this," she said, holding up the tray. "It's against regulations, but under the circumstances…"
"Sure," I said. "My lips are sealed. Can I just sit in here with him for a while?"
"No, you may not. Doctor Dunbar gave him something to calm him down earlier. He was very upset about his brother's death, and his friends being taken away. It would be better if he slept now. Later, after it's over, come and visit." Her voice had dropped to a whisper, and she nodded her head toward the door.
"Okay." I looked at Jerome. His eyelids were heavy and he looked like he was about to drop off. It could wait, I decided. Let the poor guy sleep. I followed Gloria out and closed the door. By now, there were about twenty patients, or prisoners, lined up to board the truck. Some were on crutches and all were bandaged. A few tried to appear unconcerned, but most had that same look of terror on their faces I had seen on Jerome's this morning. Now he was sleeping like a lamb, us his friends were being led to the slaughter, courtesy of the ever helpful Colonel Walton, who was slapping Mathenet on the back like an old buddy.
I couldn't watch anymore and decided it was a good time to check on Kaz again. I walked to the main hospital building, passing by the Supply Depot where work crews were busy cleaning up damage from the morning's bombing raid. This war wasn't making a lot of sense so far. The Vichy French fight us, the Germans bomb us, and we turn over the kids who are on our side to the Vichy police. I hoped Uncle Ike knew what he was doing. Inside the hospital, I found Dunbar at the desk near the nurse's station doing paperwork. I filled him in on my conversation with Willoughby, leaving out the matchbook, and told him about moving the body to Graves Registration.
"Thanks, Boyle. Sorry I blew up before. I don't like being interrogated like a suspect."
"Everyone's a suspect. Nothing personal. Sometimes you just have to ask a lot of dumb questions to get one good answer."
"Kind of like making a diagnosis, maybe?" He tossed down his pen. I wondered how long before he blew up again. This guy was under some kind of pressure.
"Yeah, probably. How's Kaz doing?"
"Very well. I just saw him and there's a marked improvement. His fever's down, and the swelling and inflammation are almost gone. He responded very well to the treatment. Go see for yourself."