As Time Goes By (10 page)

"You're probably right about that," agreed Rick.

Renault nodded appreciatively.
"Monsieur le Gen
eral,
though, sees things a bit differently," he contin
ued. "For him the restoration of French honor and
French glory is paramount. When Germany is de
feated, France must and shall be the strongest Conti
nental power. No other outcome would be acceptable."

"It's no skin off my nose," said Rick. "In fact, Sam
and I were just reminiscing about Paris in the good old
days before you walked in, weren't we, Sam?"

"If that's what you call it," said Sam.

"So what's the problem?" Rick asked.

"The problem," replied Renault, "is that any opera
tions being run under the auspices of British Intelligence in central Europe are very much in the French
interest as well. Which is why agents of the
R
é
sistance
have been shadowing all known MI-six operatives in London."

Rick laughed. "In other words, your side is spying on the very men who are trying to boot the Germans
off the Champs-Élys
é
es and back to Unter den
Linden."

"You could put it that way," Renault admitted.

"Sounds like the old days in New York," muttered
Sam.

"What do you Frenchies say, Louie:
plus ça
change?"

"Ricky, I'm disappointed in you," said Renault.
"After all your time in France and in Casablanca, your
French accent leaves much to be desired."

"Merci,
I'm sure," said Rick.

Despite the banter, Renault began to fidget. Divided
loyalties were certainly something to which he was no
stranger, but he preferred his loyalties to be truly di
vided and not bumping up against each other like this.
"My, look at the time," he exclaimed, rising. "I'm
afraid I've been indiscreet enough to have made a small
assignation for this afternoon. The Savoy, for tea."

Rick smiled, more a grimace than an expression of
pleasure. "And scones, no doubt."

"If they should present themselves," Renault replied
with a slight leer. "One never knows."

"More information, Louie. We need more informa
tion," said Rick as he walked away.

Outside on the street, Renault hailed a taxi and re
flected on events. His friend was showing an alarming
tendency toward moral scruples in the aftermath of his
reunion with Ilsa Lund in Casablanca. But women
made men do strange things, and besides, nobody was
perfect.

He was making progress, however. Although some members of the Resistance understandably were skep
tical of his recent conversion to the cause of liberation,
his complicity in the death of Major Strasser and his
dramatic exit from Casablanca had convinced them of
his bona fides. You couldn't get much better than mur
dering a Gestapo officer and destroying a car full of his
henchmen, and while Renault could not truthfully be
said to have done either, the mere association with the deed was enough.

News of Victor Laszlo's arrival in London had not
escaped the Resistance, and when they discovered that
Renault had known Laszlo in Casablanca—indeed, had
helped the freedom fighter escape—a mission had presented itself.

"Monsieur Renault, you are more than welcome to
join us," the Underground leader, who went by the
nom de guerre of Raoul, had said. "With your knowl
edge of the activities of the Vichy criminals in North
Africa, you have already brought us valuable informa
tion. You will no doubt be pleased to know that several
of the traitors have already paid with their lives; our
reach is long, and our vengeance is terrible."

Raoul sucked deeply on an expiring Gauloises. He
wore his hair long, in the fashion of Rive Gauche intellectuals, and Renault could easily picture him sitting in Le Procope, chain-smoking and arguing with Jean-Paul
Sartre. Then he remembered that Raoul was an expert
shot and a master bomb maker; he doubted if the same
could be said of Sartre.

"Victor Laszlo is a mystery to us," said Raoul. "We
know of him and his work, of course. Laszlo's treat
ment at the hands of the Germans in Mauthausen, and
his daring escape, have made him even more ad
mired—and more feared by the Nazis. It is imperative
that we make contact with him before the Germans find
him."

"For his sake or for ours?" asked Renault.

"What do you think?" Raoul replied. "There are ru
mors that the Czechs, with the active cooperation of
British Intelligence, are planning a major operation—a spectacular act of terrorism or sabotage or murder that
will make the world sit up and take notice of them. Of course, such a coup de th
éâ
tre would have the most
serious repercussions for all the Underground move
ments." He stopped long enough to catch his breath.
"The problem is, we don't know what it is."

With a sweeping, violent gesture, he struck a match
against the wall. It burst into flame, and he lit up. "Naturally, we wish our brothers in the conflict against Hit
ler well. But there must be limits even to a concept as
dear to French hearts as
fraternit
é
."

Raoul began to pace around the room, which was the second floor of a Victorian-era warehouse down by the
docks. Night after night the area was being heavily
bombed by the Luftwaffe, but Raoul hardly seemed to
notice, much less care.

"What do you mean?" asked Renault.

Raoul snorted. "The world is a compassionate place,
but even compassion has limits. One beggar draws the
empathy of the people; a dozen beggars inspire only
revulsion and contempt. In Europe today we have more
than our share of beggars—each of the countries con
quered and occupied by the Germans. Who knows,
soon the Soviet Union and perhaps even England will
join their ranks." From his demeanor, Raoul did not
appear to think that England under the Nazi boot would
be especially tragic.

"But there can be only one Underground in Europe. Only one movement upon which all free eyes and ears are fixed. One movement toward which the sympathy
of the world naturally flows. And that one must and shall be French.
Vive la Résistance!"

"Vive la Résistance!"
echoed Renault.

Raoul stopped long enough to take a sip from a small
glass of Bordeaux. "Thus it is imperative that we find
out what the Czechs are planning. It may be that what
they are considering will not affect us in the slightest.
On the other hand, it may be something that could seri
ously compromise operations of our own."

"I thought we had a common enemy," Renault objected.

"A common enemy, yes," said Raoul. "But not
common goals. The shape of Europe after Hitler is
something that concerns all of us—but not all of us
see it in exactly the same way." Raoul stubbed out his
Gauloises and immediately lit another. "What may happen to Poland or Czechoslovakia or even England
is of no concern to us. The important thing is to ensure
the future of France. I need not remind you that the
needs and the glory of France come before all others,
n'est-ce pas?"

"Of course," Renault agreed.

"Very well, then," said Raoul. "You have your task.
Find out about this Laszlo. What is he up to? What are the Czechs planning? If you know the man as well as
you claim, this should not present a problem. We would
even expect you to be able to infiltrate the operation to
a certain extent. Such information, of course, would be
invaluable, and your services would be greatly re
warded by France in the person of the General him
self."

Abruptly Raoul embraced Renault and kissed him
twice on both cheeks. Then he stepped back and stared
at him. "On the other hand, if you should fail in this
task, it would say to us that your profession of faith in the mission of the General is a fraud, and that perhaps
you are in fact still an agent of Vichy, sent to penetrate
us." Raoul's eyes were little black lumps of cold, hard coal. "And in that event, your usefulness to our cause
would perforce be at an end. Do I make myself clear?"

Renault swallowed hard. "Perfectly," he said.

"Good," said Raoul. "Here is the number of the
house in South Kensington where a man answering
Victor Laszlo's description was sighted yesterday." He
wrote it on a piece of paper and handed it to Renault

"Or perhaps I should say a woman answering Mile.
Lund's description. It seems our man was far more
taken with the lady."

"I would expect nothing less from a Frenchman,"
said Renault.

"Unless that Frenchman's penchant for women su
persedes his duty to his country." With that, Raoul dis
missed him.

Louis Renault intended to learn exactly where Victor Laszlo was, and what he was planning, as soon as pos
sible. Renault had always believed that staying alive ought to be one's first priority, so that one might enjoy
life's second and third priorities. For the moment, it
seemed that, like Raoul, he had his priorities backward.

"Where did you say that was again, gov'nor?" asked
the driver.

"Number Forty-two Clareville Street," said Renault.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

For a long time after Renault left, Rick remained
sunk in his chair and deep in thought.

"What's the matter, boss?" asked Sam, as if he
didn't know. He'd seen these reveries before. "I
thought you didn't like thinkin' about old times."

"Sometimes the old times think about you," said
Rick. He started to pick up the newspaper, then remembered that for some strange reason, the British newspapers resolutely refused to cover baseball.

He longed for something to do, some activity that
would help bring him closer to his goal of finding Ilsa. This inactivity was driving him crazy. He plucked her
note from his pocket and read it for the thousandth
time: "To London." "British Intelligence."
"Der
Henker(?)."
"Danger." "Prague." "Come quickly."

He had spent the last month puzzling over it. The
London part he understood well enough; here they
were. "British Intelligence" was self-evident, as were
"Danger" and "Come quickly." But who was
der
Henker?
The word, he knew, meant "executioner," but
what else? And what did Prague have to do with any
thing? Although, as he well knew, Victor Laszlo was
Czech. . . .
     

"Sam," he said, "who's
der Henker?"

"You got me, boss."

Rick was disappointed. He had relied on Sam for so
long that he was caught up short whenever Sam didn't
know something. He expected Sam to know every
thing.

He rose from his chair. Passivity had always galled
him. A walk around London, even a London still reel
ing from the almost nightly bombing runs of the Luftwaffe, was better than sitting here. It would be safe
enough: thanks to the pioneering British work with
radar, the Germans flew only at night.

"Where we goin'?" asked Sam, pulling on his coat.

"Someplace I haven't been in years," replied Rick.
"The library."

They taxied across London—down Dover Street to
Piccadilly, across Piccadilly Circus to Leicester
Square, up Charing Cross Road and into Great Russell
Street—dodging the debris of the latest bombing. Al
though the Germans' main target was the East End
docks, the heart of the English shipping industry, their
bombers were either too inexperienced or too scared to
drop their payloads with any particular accuracy. The
witheringly accurate British antiaircraft fire, as well as
the bravery and professionalism of the Royal Air Force pilots, inflicted such heavy losses on the Nazi bombers
that the German boys were only too happy to sight
London, release their bombs, and get the hell out of
there as fast as they could.

As they passed through Leicester Square, Rick and
Sam observed that London's pleasure district was un
daunted; the dance halls were full and the cinemas were
running. Rick noticed that the Astor was playing
High
Sierra.
"STARRING HUMPHREY BOGART AND IDA
LUPINO. DIRECTED BY RAOUL WALSH," proclaimed
the marquee. Rick could take or leave the movies. He
much preferred the theater, especially musicals.

The British Museum and British Library squatted
astride Russell Square. "You ever been to a museum,
Sam?" Rick asked as they climbed the stairs.

"No, sir," replied Sam. "Never had no time. Wanted
to, but something always got in the way."

"Bergman's pool hall?" said Rick. Bergman's was a
Harlem institution, where Rick himself had hustled
some change in the old days.

"No, sir," Sam corrected. "Bergman's was in the
white part of town then. Or did you forget?"

"Try not to remind me," said Rick, pulling open the huge door.

Their footfalls echoed across the marble as they
walked. Rick walked boldly up to a uniformed guard.

"Anybody speak foreign languages around here?"
he inquired.

The guard didn't miss a beat. "I'm quite sure many people do, sir," he answered.

"Yeah, well then, name one," said Rick. At times
like this his lack of formal education embarrassed him.

"Mr. Robbins would be your man, sir," said the
guard. "Shall I ring him for you?"

"That would be nice," said Rick.

Five minutes later Rick and Sam were being ushered
into the cramped offices of Jonathan Robbins, assistant
curator of ancient languages.

"Mr. Blaine," said Robbins, pumping Rick's hand
enthusiastically. "What can I do for you?"

"I've got a question for you," said Rick. "How
many languages do you speak?"

"How many would you like?" answered Robbins
with gusto. The only time the British ever seemed to
show any emotion, thought Rick, was when they were dealing with total strangers about something absolutely
impersonal and irrelevant. "I'm fluent in ancient Egyptian, ancient Greek, Sumerian, Sanskrit, and Akkadian.
I'm still working on Etruscan, though." He chuckled.
"Aren't we all?"

"Terrific," said Rick. Somehow he was willing to bet
Robbins's linguistic proficiency did not include Yiddish. "Does this mean anything to you?" He thrust a
piece of paper at Robbins, on which he had written the
word "Henker."

Robbins glanced at it. "How rude of me," he remarked. "Won't you both please sit down? I'm sorry
this office is so cramped," he said, "but, money, you
know
..."

"Money I know," agreed Rick. "How much will I
owe you?"

Robbins laughed. "Oh, there's no bother about that,"
he assured Rick. "We are a public trust here, the na
tional library of Great Britain, an institution devoted to the good of all. I'll give you the answer to your
question for free." He took a breath.
"Der Henker,
masculine, means 'the hangman' in German. Or 'exe
cutioner.' Someone whose acquaintance one fondly
hopes never to make."

"I know that," said Rick. "But who might it refer
to?"

Robbins shook his head. "Can't think of anybody in
particular," he said. His mind raced back through the
centuries. Old German was not exactly his field, but he prided himself on being able to stand in with all but the
best scholars in any discussion of Anglo-Norman
poetry of the twelfth century. "No," he said after a
time. "I've mentally run down everyone from Charlemagne to Bismarck and can't come up with a thing. Sorry."

Rick was ready to go, but Sam held him back. "I
think what Mr. Rick means is anything more or less
today."

Robbins seemed astonished by the very idea of con
temporaneousness. "You mean in our own time?"

"That's exactly what I mean," said Rick.

"You mean besides Reinhard Heydrich?" Robbins asked.

"Reinhard
who?"
asked Rick.

"Heydrich. The new Protector of Bohemia and Mo
ravia. They call him
der Henker."

That must be it! Rick tried to contain his excitement.
"Where can I find out more about this guy?" he asked.

Robbins seemed surprised. "Why, right here, Mr. B
laine," he replied. "We are, after all, a library."

"Point me," said Rick, rising.

Robbins gave them his card, on the back of which he
had scribbled some instructions. "Just show this to the
librarian," he told Rick. "He'll help you." On the back
of the card, Rick noted, Robbins had written the words
"Reinhard Heydrich—recent cuttings."

In the reading room, Rick duly handed Robbins's
card to a librarian named Fullerton, a fastidious, even prissy, man in a houndstooth jacket. Fullerton studied
it for a moment, as if it were a scientific specimen from
another part of the museum. "Follow me, please. Oh,
and ask your man to wait outside. The reading room is
for those doing research only."

Rick was about to say something when Sam put a
hand on his arm. "I'll be downstairs, boss," he said.
"Maybe I can find a good book somewhere."

Fullerton led Rick into a private chamber and left
him there. Ten minutes later he was back with a pile of
newspaper clippings. Rick picked up the first one,
which was also the most recent.

HEYDRICH ANNOUNCES LIMITED RATIONING IN BOHEMIA,
read the headline in the
Times.

The gist of it was that Reinhard Tristan Eugen
Heydrich, the recently appointed Protector of Bohemia
and Moravia, had issued a series of new regulations regarding ration cards for food and clothing on a pro
ductivity basis. Work or starve: it was a typically German idea. The Czech people were responding; after an
initial period of resistance, which Heydrich had put
down brutally, they had grudgingly come to a truce
with their Nazi overlords. Writing from London, the
Times
correspondent was of the opinion that the Czech
resistance to Hitler was waning and that the order im
posed by the Germans was, in the eyes of many
Czechs, preferable to the relative anarchy they had ex
perienced in their brief experiment with democracy under Masaryk and Beneš. For that they had to thank
der Henker:
Reinhard Heydrich, the Hangman of
Prague.

Rick hated him already.

The story also contained a reference to a conference
convened by Heydrich at a villa in Wannsee, a lakeside
suburb of Berlin, on January 20. The reports were
sketchy:
           

While the full import of the conference at Wannsee,
which was attended by a number of top Nazis including
Heinrich Himmler, remains unclear, Whitehall sources
report that the so-called Jewish problem was in fact the
principal topic of discussion, and that the German gov
ernment plan to take further measures against the Jews
of Germany and occupied Europe beyond the existing
Nuremberg Laws.

The Secretary for War, Mr. Spencer, declined comment
on the conference, but issued a stern warning: "His Maj
esty's government are second to none in our loathing
for Herr Hitler," he said. "Nevertheless, we hope and
expect the German government to act responsibly in the
matter of its treatment of the civilian and non-combatant
population. We need not remind them that the whole world is watching."

A fat lot of good that will do, thought Rick. In his limited experience, the Nazis were not about to let a
little thing like world opinion stop them from doing
whatever they wished to do.

That was, he realized, the mistake Major Strasser had
made with Laszlo: he had let Renault's opinion prevent
him from doing what he should have done right away.
A real Nazi would have shot Victor Laszlo on the spot,
the minute he walked into Rick's cafe with Ilsa on his
arm. Hadn't Strasser just seen what happened to
Ugarte? The little man who had murdered the two Ger
man couriers and stolen the precious letters of transit
had been arrested right there in the Caf
é
Am
é
ricain on
Renault's orders, taken outside, and shot. Why, his
friend Louie was more ruthless than Strasser. The
major had been, of all things, too much the gentleman.
A real gangster never let his enemies walk away.