"You know!" I exclaimed.
"All I know is that you have about fifty feet of rope stowed under your cot, and there was a dark rust-colored stain on the floor in Bessette's office when I met him there this morning. Some Arabs delivered a new rug and rolled it out while I was there. Even a regular army guy can figure stuff out sometimes, Boyle."
"Did he tell you anything?"
"Regular appointments are nice but this one didn't yield as much information as your unannounced visit. I told him we were concerned about the fate of civilian prisoners taken after the attempted coup. He told me it was none of his business since it was a police matter, and none of mine since it was a French police matter."
"Major, I saw him bash in the head of a French Army captain who was yelling at him about drugs, smuggling, Americans-I couldn't understand most of it. Bessette grabbed a candlestick and killed him With it. His guards reacted like it was business as usual." "Americans? What do you think he meant by that?" "I don't know, sir. I couldn't make it out. It sounded like the captain-Pierre was the only name I heard-was threatening Bessette. Bessette pretended to give in, then picked up the candlestick and beaned Pierre. It was all over in a second."
"Then what happened?"
"They left with the body wrapped in the rug he fell on. I went through Bessette's desk and files as best I could. I found the password written on a copy of the same travel orders we found at police headquarters. I figure this place may have something to do with it." I handed Harding the blue matchbook for Le Bar Bleu.
"And when do we get to the murder you're investigating?"
"Oh, yeah. Noncom named Joe Casselli got his throat slit this afternoon. He was the supply sergeant, in charge of this penicillin as well as all the other medical drugs. Do you know about this stuff, sir?"
"I do, but you shouldn't. These medical people should learn to keep their mouths shut. This is a top-secret test. If everything works like the eggheads say it should, penicillin is going to save thousands of lives. And only we have it."
"Do the Germans know that?" Kaz asked.
"They know all about penicillin. The trick isn't making it, it's producing enough of it to be useful. This hospital's supply is the first batch from a new production process. That's why we want to keep it a secret."
"So this stuff is valuable?" I asked.
"Billy," Kaz said, "I would be dead without it. I think it's very valuable."
"Exactly," said Harding. "There's no telling what it would be worth on the black market. Is any of it missing?"
"They're doing an inventory now. We can go check over at the depot. As far as the murder goes, I'm pretty sure who did it."
"Who?" Kaz and Harding asked at the same time.
"Villard. I saw him driving out of here in a truck, wearing an American uniform, just before they found Casselli's body. I'll bet that truck was full of medical supplies, including penicillin."
"Goddamn," Harding said. Kaz said something in Polish that was probably along the same lines.
"I do have some good news, though. Remember Georgie- Lieutenant Dupree? He had a younger brother, Jerome, who was with the rebels? Well, he's here, in the hospital. He was all worked up about a notebook that the rebels had managed to lift from Bessette at some point. He had it when they brought him in, but now it's gone. I found this sheet of paper, from a notebook, inside a matchbook on Casselli's body." I handed the slip of paper with the code on it to Harding.
"Pretty good work so far, Boyle. Let's go check on the inventory and interview Jerome. Lieutenant Kazimierz, if you're up to it, will you work on this?"
"I am, Major," Kaz said as he took the paper. "I quite enjoy deciphering codes." Puzzling out that jumble of letters, Kaz looked happy as we left. I wasn't. I needed sleep, I had a headache, and my eyes felt like they were full of grit. I started out last night climbing rooftops and since then Kaz had almost died, I had been bombed by the Germans, and then I'd been shanghaied for a murder investigation. I was used to long hours, but the army didn't pay overtime.
Chapter Twelve
There's nothing like a corpse to put things into perspective. I was tired, but Jerome was dead. I could tell by the hospital sheet over his head. We had come into the room to find Dr. Dunbar standing next to the bed, making notes on Jerome's chart.
"I just found him a minute ago," Dunbar said after he gave Harding a salute as an afterthought. "He must've died very recently."
"I was in here with him about an hour ago," I said. "He was tired and going to sleep."
"Could have been a complication from his head injury. He had a severe concussion when he came in. Happens sometimes." He hung the chart back up and walked out. I went up to the bed and pulled back the sheet. A lock of his long dark brown hair hung down over Jerome's forehead. He looked relaxed, and I would have thought he was asleep except for his eyes. They were still open. I tried to avoid looking at them, but couldn't. They seemed to seek me out, as if Jerome had a last message to pass on. All I got was a shiver up my spine as I reached down and closed them. They were hazel green, just like Georgie's, the contracted pupils showing off their full color as if they had blossomed in death. Two brothers dead for what they believed in when they both could have sat it out and played it safe. Like I'd expected I'd be doing back in D.C., where I should have been, in a cushy staff job. Yet I was glad I had gotten into the war, because otherwise I wouldn't have met Diana. But in this hospital room, with a young kid lying dead under a coarse, dingy sheet, I couldn't feel glad about anything.
"Let's go, Boyle," Harding said, his hand on my shoulder. "He can't talk to us now."
If only the dead could speak I had looked into those eyes, and couldn't escape the feeling they were trying to tell me something, something important but just out of my reach. I followed Harding out of the room, then led the way to the Supply Depot. We found Willoughby leaning up against the brickwork wall outside the supply room where Casselli had been killed. He was adding up columns on the inventory sheet on his clipboard. He came to attention and saluted like a soldier when he saw Harding. There were brand new corporal's stripes sewn onto his sleeves. I returned the salute and pointed at the stripes.
"That was fast. From Private First Class to Corporal already," I said.
"Colonel Walton put me in charge, Lieutenant. I told you I did most of the real work around here anyway. The colonel said I deserved it," he added as an afterthought.
"Didn't say you don't, Willoughby," I said, watching his eyes. They darted between Harding and me.
"Tell us what you've got, Corporal," Harding said.
"Yes sir. I did the best I could, Lieutenant," he said. He gave a nervous glance back at the major. "Graves Registration hasn't shown up yet, so I had to work around Joe. I mean, Joe's body." He shuffled his feet, rubbing his face with one hand. He worked in a hospital in the middle of a war, but this might have been the first dead body he'd ever seen. I gave him an encouraging nod to continue.
"They got the penicillin, two full cases. All that's left in the hospital is less than a case. Plus they got about half our supply of morphine, including all the spare syrettes for the medics. Five cases of sulfa, a box of ten lcc vials of nalorphine, and two bottles of chloral hydrate."
"What's chloral hydrate, Corporal?" Harding asked. Willoughby shrugged.
"Sleeping pills. Your basic ingredient for a Mickey Finn," I answered.
"How do you know that?" Harding asked.
"You can buy knockout drops, or chloral hydrate, back in Boston for the right price if you know the right gangster. Drop 'em in a drink and you have a Mickey Finn. Guaranteed to put anyone out, temporary or permanent, depending on how many drops."