Aubrielle's Call (15 page)

She winked at John, lifted her serving platter and swirled away between tables.

Henri tasted his drink, then set it down and leaned back to look beyond John's shoulders. “Bonet just came in.”

The reserved seats were to John’s back. John nodded and continued to watch the woman on stage. “Is Karl with them?”

Henri nodded. “Karl, Bruce, and Marcel. His usual associates.” Henri studied John. “What do you want to do?”

John tasted his drink, then looked at both Billy and Henri. “I want to ask Karl what he was doing at Asher’s. I want to know why he asked for Aubrielle’s name and address.”

“Bonet doesn’t like to be interrupted. Club guests are supposed to request an invitation to meet with Bonet from the waitress.”

John shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t give a damn about his rules.” He turned as he stood, and stared across the railing at Bonet.

“John, you should sit down,” Henri stated and cast a nervous glance at John, then toward Bonet. “We don’t want to cause a scene.”

“I don’t intend to cause a scene, but I do mean to ask Karl a few questions.” John spoke to Billy, “If you hear anything other than polite conversation, get the truck.” He looked over his shoulder at Henri. “Is there a back exit to the club?”

“Yes.” Henri took a quick gulp of his drink. “Through the stage door and past the kitchen.”  He rose to stand beside John. “It opens onto a delivery
ruelle
. I don’t know if it has a name.”

“I’ll find the alley,” Billy said. “I’ll either sit here and finish my drink or meet you at the back door with the truck.” He glanced over his shoulder at the elevated seats.

Maurice Bonet had seen John stand. His stare never wavered as he spoke to the man seated beside him. Tonight Bonet wore a rust-colored silk suit and tie, making his olive complexion look green in the subdued club light.

Bonet’s man nodded and buttoned his jacket as he rose. He walked to the railing near John’s table. “
Monsieur
Bonet has no additional information for you, Mister Larson.”

John took a step to the rail and looked up at Bonet’s bodyguard.
This one is Bruce. “
I understand. I would still like to speak to him.”

“Regarding what, may I ask?”

John shook his head and followed the elevated rail to the short flight of stairs near the back wall, with Henri close on his heels.

Bruce kept pace with the men along the banister. “Gentlemen, I insist you return to your seats.”

CHAPTER 22

John mounted the steps and stared down at the security man. “I’m not here to disturb
Monsieur
Bonet, but I do intend to speak with him.” He looked beyond Bruce and met Maurice Bonet’s curious stare. “And whether he knows it or not,
Monsieur
Bonet wants to hear what I have to say.”

Bruce took a step forward. “No.”

“Bruce,” Maurice Bonet called.
“L
aisse-les passer.
”
He lifted his hand in a familiar gesture and beckoned John forward.

Bruce stood aside and folded his arms.

John and Henri approached the booth, with Bruce close behind them.

“Mister Larson, I spoke with
votre ami,
Henri,
yesterday.” Bonet nodded to Henri and replaced his arm around the attractive redhead. On Bonet’s left, a brunette sipped her drink and raised an arched brow at John. “If I had any information about our mutual friend, François, I would have told him.”

“This isn’t about François.” John shifted his stare from Bonet to the valet, Karl, who stood beside the curved end of the booth. “Or at least, not
only
about François.”

Karl lifted his chin and stared down his crooked nose at John. His jaw clamped shut.

Bonet looked between the two men then spoke sharply to John. “Speak plainly,
monsieur
. You interrupt my evening.”

“Henri said your valet is often unavailable to you during the day—his whereabouts unaccounted for.” John’s lips curled into a phony smile. “Ask him where he was today, around noon.”

Bonet set forward in his seat and turned toward his valet. “Karl?”

Karl rolled his shoulders and lowered his head. “
Monsieur?”

The club owner heaved an exasperated sigh.
“Ne la joue pas stupide. Réponds.
”

“He was outside Asher’s Market, writing down the customers’ names and addresses.” John took another step closer. “What I don’t know is why.”

With a sudden movement, Karl lunged forward and flipped the small table in front of Bonet into John’s path. Then he turned and ran toward the stage.

Women screamed and glass shattered as the table crashed to the floor.

John rounded the fallen table and raced after Karl.

Karl ran down the short flight of stairs and jumped onto the stage. He glanced over his shoulder then grabbed the singer by the arm and threw her to the ground.

The club erupted into chaos. Musicians crouched beside the stage. People came to their feet shouting. Couples on the dance floor turned and stared.

John hopped over the elevated rail, wove through the panicked crowd, and vaulted onto the stage. “Are you all right?” He helped the singer to her feet.

At her quick nod, John chased Karl through the backstage door. To his left, a short set of steps led to the shallow backstage area. A crash ahead spurred John past the dressing area and through the kitchen door.

Two cooks looked from Karl, near the rear exit, to John.
“Qui êtes-vous?
Qu'est-ce que cette merde?”
The cook on the far side lifted a hatchet.

John pointed at Karl “
Attrapez-le pour Monsieur Bonet.”

Karl fled out the back door just as the hatchet embedded in the door frame beside his head.

John rushed past the cooks who had burst into laughter and yelled vulgarities after Karl.

Karl is not well-liked.

He followed Karl into the alley.

The winter air chilled the perspiration on his forehead as he exhaled plumes into the night and listened. To his right, a garbage can crashed to the ground and rolled, spilling garbage across the pavement. The tap of shoes and a shadow fled down the alley.

Henri burst from the door and ran into John’s back. The impact knocked Henri to the ground. As he regained his feet, he pointed down the alley. “There!”

Karl had reached the cross street and rushed into traffic. Tires squealed, accompanied by horns and yelling.

John raced forward.

We can’t lose him, not now.

Karl would never return to the club, and John had questions he needed Karl to answer. As John rounded the corner onto the street, the rattle of Billy’s truck caught his attention. “Henri—tell Billy to follow.” John crossed in front of the angry motorist and scanned down the block.

Karl made it to the next cross street. He glanced back at John, then turned and disappeared around the corner.

John raced down the sidewalk after Karl.

Midway down the block headlights came on. An older model Renault pulled away from the curb, gaining speed as it careened toward John.

At the last moment, John jumped out of its path.

Karl glared from behind the wheel. His lips pulled back in a snarl, the dark mark on his face and neck visible in the glow from the dashboard.

The wheels squealed as Karl turned the corner, barely missing Billy’s vehicle.

John hurried to the truck and jumped into the bed. “Don’t let him get away.”

Billy ground the gears, and they lurched into motion. They picked up speed after they followed Karl onto the boulevard heading south.

John crouched behind the cab to get out of the frigid wind.

Inside the cab, Henri pulled John’s revolver from beneath the bench seat. He checked the rounds, then looked back at John.

“Just don’t shoot yourself,” John muttered.

Traffic south of town thinned, and soon the only car ahead of them was Karl’s.
He’s leading us back to the warehouse along the Marne.

The old Citroën truck could not keep up with the Renault, and Karl’s headlights became a distant glow disappearing at each dip in the road. With a final flicker, the light died out altogether.

Billy punched the dashboard.

John clenched his teeth.
No.
Karl must have turned off the main road. He pounded on the cab and Billy rolled down the driver’s window. “He turned,” John yelled. “Watch for a side street.”

Billy nodded.

Past the warehouse district, the run-down neighborhood became low-income apartment buildings along both sides of the road.

The truck slowed, and Billy turned into the first complex. Headlights off, he eased up on the gas and rolled down the street. The windows in most of the apartments were dark.

Henri pointed.

John stood and looked over the cab. The Renault set at the curb up ahead.

Billy turned down the adjacent street and parked. When the engine stopped, both he and Henri got out.

John stood in the truck bed and watched the windows in the apartment nearest Karl’s Renault.
Where did you run?

Henri pointed as a light came on in the third-floor window.

John hopped out of the
truck bed and landed on the walk beside Henri. “My gun,” he whispered. The weapon in hand, he dashed toward the building entrance.

Billy and Henri followed close behind.

Inside, a hallway led to the first-floor apartments and a staircase led up. John mounted the steps and stopped on the third-floor landing. Light shone beneath the first apartment, and muffled voices came from behind the door.

Henri stepped to the far side of the doorway and nodded.

John glanced at Billy then knocked. The voices inside went silent.
What if this is the wrong apartment?
He gripped his revolver.

The door eased open, and an older woman with gray ratted hair, smudged makeup, and a silk housecoat stared up at him.
“Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?”
She puffed on her cigarette and blew smoke into the hallway.

“Karl,” John yelled over the woman’s head. “I know you’re in there.” His glare dropped to the slattern in the doorway. “Move aside,
madame
.”

The woman’s eyes widened momentarily, then looked to the side of the door without turning her head.
“Pas parler anglais.”

“I think you do speak English.” Movement behind the woman caught John’s eye.

“John, watch out!” Henri ducked low and slammed into the door just as gunfire exploded inside the apartment. He and the woman fell to the floor, where he grappled for her arms.

John brought up his weapon and entered the apartment, stepping over Henri and the screaming woman. “Karl, let’s talk. No one needs to get hurt.”

Karl dodged out from behind the kitchen wall, pointed his gun at John’s head, and pulled the trigger. The hammer fell on an empty chamber.

John turned and stared into Karl’s astonished eyes. “Don’t—”

Karl pulled the trigger again, but the gun refused to fire. His mouth dropped open, and he shook his head. “No, this can’t be true.”

John knocked Karl’s gun aside and punched his fist into the man’s face.

The sharp crack of Karl’s weapon echoed in the apartment as he fell to the floor and dropped the gun. Blood flowed from his broken nose onto his white shirt. “She didn’t lie. It’s true. You live.”

John holstered his gun and grabbed the valet’s jacket, lifting him by the lapels. “The names you collected at Asher’s Market.” He rammed Karl into the wall. “What are they for?”

“The Jews?” Karl gripped John’s wrists, his eyes blinked in confusion. “Those names have been sent to
Einsatzgruppen.
Why do you care?”

“What’s
Einsatzgruppen
?” John shook Karl.

“It’s German. It translates to Task Force.” Henri stood beside John, Karl’s gun in his hand. “It’s part of the Nazi
Schutzstaffel
or SS. If they have Aubrielle’s name and address, they will come for her.”

“The woman—
your
woman—is a Jew?” Karl’s brows rose, and he laughed with delight.

John fought his urge to snap the German’s neck. Instead, he glanced at Henri. “What happened to the dragon lady who opened the door?”

“She bit me.” He flushed and pointed toward the open door. “Then fled down the hall.”

“Where’s Billy?”

“I’m in here,” his voice came from the back of the apartment. “There’s a locked door.”

John looked at Karl. “Give us the key.”

“I don’t have the key,” he smirked. “Stella had it. She takes care of…” Karl’s voice faded.

“Takes care of what?” John demanded.

“Of him.” Karl startled at the sound of the door being kicked.

“Help Billy,” John said to Henri.

Two more loud thumps then a single loud crack rang sharply through the apartment.

“It’s François,” Billy yelled. “He’s alive.”

“You might live through the day after all,” John muttered at Karl.

The marked man tipped his head back and glared into John’s eyes. “I don’t fear you or the French police.” He spat blood against the wall and lowered his chin. “
M
ein Führer
doesn’t frighten me as much as the baroness.” His lips pulled back in a grimace. Blood from his nose stained his teeth.

“Who’s this baroness?” John asked, his voice quiet and filled with menace.

“The Baroness Nescato,” Karl whispered. “She searches for you.”