Authors: C. Marie Bowen
Aubrielle's Call (8 page)
John pulled the British smuggler across the threshold and closed the door. He dropped to one knee and tried to open Billy’s coat.
The smuggler groaned and curled tighter, wrapping his arms around his side.
John gripped the man’s arm. “Let me see where you’re hurt.”
Billy’s scrunched eyes barely opened, and he stared at John. “He said we could trust you,” he panted through tight lips.
“Who said you could trust me? François?” John glanced at the door then back to Billy. “Is he with you?”
Billy shook his head. “He was, mate.” He gasped and rolled to his back with a grimace, opened his arms and let his head loll back against the hardwood floor. “But I couldn’t get him out.”
“Out of where?” John opened the smuggler’s coat and noted the slick red blood that soaked the Brit’s clothes. He tore open his shirt and found the small round hole. “You need a doctor.”
“Gah!” Billy gasped as he raised his head and winced at the bullet hole in his side. “There’s no time. We’ve got to go back for François.”
John left Billy on the floor and searched the kitchen drawers. He returned with a clean but discolored dishtowel and
pressed it to the bullet wound
. “Hold this tight.” He moved Billy’s hand to the towel.
The smuggler’s head dropped back to the floor, and he bared his teeth, gritting against the pressure on his wound. “I can’t leave him. He’ll die.”
A firm thump beneath them hushed their conversation.
John opened the paper-wrapped package of his last new shirt and ripped the material into long strips. “Keep your voice down. The butcher lives below me.” John cast a brief glance out the window at the light in the house across the alleyway. “Keep the padding tight while I—improvise.” John steadied Billy’s hand on the towel, then pulled the torn strip of cloth beneath the arch in the smuggler’s back. “Tell me what this is about. How did you know where to find me? Start at the beginning.”
Billy nodded. “After you got out of the truck by the Seine, I followed you.”
The fog had been thick off the Seine that morning, sounds muted by the moisture. The only way John had found Aubrielle was by the painful magic that pointed toward her. He hadn’t suspected the smuggler stalked him. “Why would you—” John held up his hand. “Never mind. Go on.”
“I trailed you and the flower girl. Heard you ask the butcher about the flat.” He caught his breath as John tightened the binding.
John wrapped a second strip of linen around the smuggler’s waist and tied the ends. The bleeding had slowed, but the bullet remained inside and would need to be removed. He helped the smuggler sit against the wall then filled a glass with water from the kitchen sink. “Sorry, but I’ve nothing stronger.” He handed Billy the glass. “Who shot you?”
“That’s the rub then, ain’t it?” He took a sip, cringed. “There’s no reason to have dealt with those blokes. I told François that very thing.” His face tightened with pain, but he’d caught his breath, and his words were less halting when he spoke. “We shipped almost all of the weapons north to François’s contact with the army.” He studied his bandage then looked up at John. “François held back a few. A dozen maybe. He said he wanted to broker a new deal with a new buyer.” He clenched his eyes closed. “I don’t know why.”
John sat on the couch. “That makes no sense. All of the guns were for the French Army. Why split the shipment?” He shook his head. “And what would make François decide you could trust me?”
Billy took another sip. “As to that first bit—I’ve asked that same question.” He set the glass on the floor and rubbed his mouth. “But that was François’s decision.” His eyes squinted as he peered at John, and then he shrugged. “As for trusting you, it’s because of Keats.”
“Master Keats?” John leaned forward and tipped his head. “What does she have to do with this?”
“Not the missus.” Billy shook his head. “Her husband, Nigel.”
John raised a brow at the smuggler. “I happen to know Master Keats is a widow.”
“Aye, she is. But her husband, Nigel, was best mates with François during the Great War.” Billy swallowed. “They were all good friends back then; Nigel, François, and Ken Rice.” Billy dropped his gaze to the floor. “François said Ken stepped up to watch over Nigel’s wife after his best mate disappeared.”
John stood and paced to the room. “From what I know, Master Keats doesn’t require watching over.” He stood silent for a moment, then spoke over his shoulder. “Besides, even if all this is true, it still doesn’t explain—”
“You sailed aboard the Giselle-Marie with Nigel’s wife. You were armed and set ashore in France by Ken Rice, himself.” Billy sat straighter and grunted with the effort. “Recommendations don’t come much higher than that to François, mate.” He struggled to his feet and leaned heavily against the wall, gasping. “We need to go back for him.”
“You have a bullet in your side.”
“It will keep. It has too.” Billy took a step forward. “I can’t leave him there to die.”
John nodded and picked up his coat.
“You should take your gun.” The smuggler staggered away from the wall and buttoned his jacket over the torn and bloodied shirt.
John dropped his overcoat on the couch. In the bedroom, he removed the weapon and shoulder harness from the dresser drawer. Pulling the holster straps over his shoulder, he adjusted the chest strap, checked the load in the snub-nose, then slipped the gun into the holster. “Where are we going?” John returned to the front room, shrugged on his overcoat and put on his hat.
Billy’s face remained pale, but his light-colored eyes were clear. He opened the door, and cold air from the stairwell eased into the room. “An abandoned warehouse along the Marne River, southeast of the city.”
John turned off the light and followed Billy onto the landing and locked the door. “How do you propose we get there?”
Billy held tight to the railing as he lowered himself carefully to each new step. “We’ll have to hail a cab, mate.”
“I’m not your bloody mate, Billy.” John pointed toward the alley. “We’ll cut through the back way and find a cab on the boulevard.” He put his arm around the young smuggler, thankful Billy was both tall and thin. “Let’s pick up a bottle of cognac before we hail a taxi.”
“I could use a drink.”
“I want you to smell drunk, not be drunk.” They rounded the corner and crossed the next street. John looked over Billy’s head and stared toward Aubrielle’s front door. On the stoop stood the pretty boy from the park, flowers in hand. The house passed from view as the front door opened.
Damn.
On the boulevard, John stopped outside a tobacco shop. “Lean against the light pole. I’ll be back.” Once inside, he purchased a half liter of cognac from the merchant. He opened the bottle as he exited the shop and handed the liquor to Billy. “Take a sip and spill some on your coat.”
“What a waste.” Billy tipped the glass flask to his lips then splashed his jacket. He took another quick taste and handed the bottle back to John. “There’s a cab down the way.”
John hailed the taxi and Billy gave the driver directions.
The driver sniffed at them suspiciously, but eventually gave a nod and put the car into gear.
Billy laid his head back against the leather seat and exhaled loudly. “I could use another nip.”
John met the cabbie’s eyes in the mirror. “Maybe you should wait until we get out.”
John paid the driver when he pulled to a stop, and then helped Billy from the cab.
The driver sped off down the dark road before John could ask him to wait. “You won’t make the walk back to the apartment.”
“I won’t need to.” Billy followed the old building along the road toward the river. He pointed ahead into the darkness. “The truck’s still here.” His voice was low, gauged for only John’s ear.
John nodded and pulled his gun from the holster.
Billy stopped at the edge of the warehouse and peeked around the building. “They’re gone.” He staggered away from the structure and crossed to the truck, limping as he held his side.
John glanced around the corner into an open area beside the dock. The cold night was quiet with only the sound of the river. He could smell the faintest hint of gunpowder in the still air. “Did they take the guns?”
“They couldn’t have. We only brought three weapons.”
John crossed the dirt road to the vehicle. “Then this wasn’t the meeting for the trade?”
“Aye, it was.” Billy leaned against the passenger door. “The first meeting. We brought samples to prove their quality.”
John eyed the abandoned work area, then dropped to his haunches and studied the ground. “What went wrong?” He picked up a spent shell casing and dropped it into his pocket. From this angle, he could see several casings scattered near the truck.
“François stayed here while I met in the open with their leader.” He brushed the back of his hand against John’s jacket. “I could use another taste. It warms the belly.”
John handed him the bottle. “Keep it.”
Billy took a quick drink. “I should have come back for François, but we were yards apart when the first shots were fired.”
“Who fired the shots?”
“I don’t know, mate. “He pointed into the darkness. “I met their leader, a man named René. He’d just handed me the francs in exchange for the three weapons when I heard a shout, then gunfire.” Billy shifted his gaze to John. “René thought we betrayed them. I saw that much before I was hit.”
“You weren’t armed?”
“No. The men who make the exchange never are.” He pointed toward the clearing. “From where I stood, it sounded like the gunfire came from back here, but it was hard to tell with the echo.” He gripped the open window and peered into the cab of the vehicle. “Why would they take François?” He shook his head.
“Maybe they didn’t. He may have taken shelter in one of the buildings.” John lifted his gun and moved into the open, away from the truck. “Wait here. I’ll have a look around.”
Aubrielle held her napkin to her lips and watched Henri finish the last of
Tante
Mae’s tasty shepherd’s pie. Most of her friends, the ones who had stopped associating with her when her father’s illness advanced, would have been thrilled to have Henri Vogl seated at their table for dinner.
Foolish girls, for more than one reason
.
Henri caught her stare and winked. His confident grin a testament to how wonderful he thought he was.
Aubrielle bristled with annoyance and held firm to good manners. She smiled across the table at
Tante
Mae. “Thank you again for the excellent dinner.”
“You’re very welcome, my dear.” Mae reached over and touched Papa’s shoulder as his head dipped toward his plate. “Let’s get you to bed, Lou.” She helped Aubrielle’s father to his feet and guided him toward his room.
“How long does he have left?” Henri asked. He placed his napkin beside his empty plate. “Are you sure he’s not contagious?”
Aubrielle pressed her lips into a firm line as her eyebrows rose. “That is certainly a possibility.” She rose to her feet. “What a terrible fate that would be for one such as yourself. You should leave now before it’s too late.”
“Perhaps you’re right.” Henri nodded and stood, his examination raking Aubrielle as he rose, beginning at the hem of her skirt and lingering on her bruised chin. “It would be almost as bad if his affliction were inborn. I’d hate for my children to suffer that fate.”
“It’s not an inherited illness,” she responded in anger then cooled her tone. “But be assured, even if it were, you wouldn’t have to worry.”
His grin widened. “I do want children.” He trailed her into the front room. “Someday, that is, when I’m ready to settle down.” He relaxed on the couch, crossed his legs and extended his arm along the backrest. “Come. Have a seat. You can tell me how handsome you think my children will be. I’ve found girls like to imagine those sorts of things.”
Aubrielle lifted his overcoat from the peg by the door. “I’m sorry, Henri. I’ve had a long and horrible day.”
“That’s right.” Henri leaned forward. “Your little incident in the park.” He came to his feet and ran his hands up her arms. “I do hope you’re fully recovered. You must be cautious who you flirt with.”
Aubrielle blinked in disbelief. “I don’t find your jest amusing, Henri.” She pushed him away, forcing his coat into his arms. “Please leave.”
Henri shrugged into his coat, a half-amused grin on his face. “I make no jest. I saw your flirtation with the tall American.”
“I didn’t flirt with John. He helped me home.” Aubrielle scowled in exasperation and opened the door. “Henri, just go.”
“John, is it?” He turned up his collar and paused beside Aubrielle at the entrance. “I am glad you are all right, Aubrielle,” he said in a softer tone.
“
Merci
, Henri.
Au revoir.
”
Henri hesitated a moment as if he would say something more. Instead, he tipped his head. “
Au revoir,
Aubrielle.”
She closed the door behind him and leaned against the frame. Henri was by far the most arrogant man she’d ever met
.
Why does he pay attention to me when I’ve made it clear I’m not interested?
With a shrug, she pushed vain Henri from her thoughts. Curious if John had returned home, she hurried through the kitchen to her room. She studied the darkened apartment across the alley, then let the curtain fall and went back to the kitchen.
“Your father is asleep. I’m going home.” Mae stood outside Papa’s closed door and tied a red scarf around her head. “It’s a shame John didn’t come to dinner. I wanted to thank him again for his help today.”
Aubrielle nodded and cleared the dinner dishes from the table. “I was sure he would come.”
“As was I.” Mae pulled her coat. “Perhaps we’ll hear from him tomorrow and find out what kept him away.”
Aubrielle scraped food from the plate into the garbage can and placed the dish in the sink. “Perhaps.” She rolled her eyes at the older woman recognizing the amused look on her face. “All right, yes. I hope John provides a good explanation for missing dinner tonight.”
“You were disappointed to have the pretty blond lad at your table and not your big Yank.”
Aubrielle shrugged one shoulder as she pushed the food from another dinner dish. “Goodnight,
Tante
Mae.”
“Goodnight, lass.” She grinned as she buttoned the top button on her wool coat and stepped out into the night.
* * *
John crossed the open area beside the dock to the nearest warehouse wall and pressed his back against the brick. Away from the shelter of the entrance, the wind blew off the river, and the air was bitter cold. His breath drifted in a plume of steam toward Billy and the truck. The lights from Paris illuminated the low winter clouds, but he was far from the city, along the Marne. Even with his eyesight accustomed to the darkness, only the outlines of the buildings were distinct.
The cluster of warehouses beside the abandoned dock felt empty. Lifeless, except for the scurried movement of a giant river rat.
John moved through the compound, checking each door. All were locked. He surveyed the ground at each intersection for shell casings or footprints but found nothing. After a thorough inspection of the area and buildings, John returned to the truck.
He holstered his weapon and adjusted his coat as he glanced through the truck window at Billy. “No one’s here.”
Billy spoke from the shadows inside the truck cab, “Why would they take him?” His voice was tight with pain.
John opened the door and settled behind the wheel. “My guess is they want the rest of the weapons. They might think you have more than you do.” He took the keys from Billy and started the engine. “And you need medical attention—immediately.”
The engine roared to life and John pulled the knob for the headlights. Twin beams cut the darkness, revealing a narrow paved road to the main thoroughfare.
Billy shook his head. “There would be too many questions.”
John put the truck in gear, and they circled toward the main road. “You’ve got a bullet in your side, kid.”
The vehicle bounced onto the higher pavement, and Billy groaned. “The police will detain me and you too, most likely.” Billy pulled his hand from inside his coat and stared at his blood-glazed palm. “How do I explain who shot me? They’ll arrest us.”
John glanced at Billy. “All right. I’ll think of something. In the meantime, direct me back to the apartment.”
When they reached the butcher shop, John continued to the corner and turned up the alley. Behind the bakery, he pulled the truck to the side and cut the engine.
“Wait here.” John stepped from the car without waiting for Billy’s reply. No light came from Aubrielle’s home, but that was never his destination, at least not tonight. Without a watch, and beneath a cloudy sky, he could only estimate the time. The light from the bakery window suggested it was early morning. The bakers were already at work.
A light came on in the second-floor residence, and John hurried through the gate and up the back steps. He tapped softly on Mrs. Moroney’s back door.
Several moments passed. John was about to knock again when the curtains over the door’s glass panel moved.
Mrs. Moroney peered out, her pin curls covered by a sheer night scarf. She blinked and tipped her chin up to view John’s face. She disappeared momentarily to unhook the chain then opened the door wide. “My goodness! John Larson. Are you all right?” She clutched her dressing coat tightly to her neck. “Please, come in. It’s far too cold to stand outside.”
Unwilling to offer explanations from the back stoop, John entered Mae Moroney’s warm kitchen.
She closed the door behind him and squinted up at his face. “What’s amiss John?”
John pulled the fedora from his head. “Mrs. Moroney—”
“Mae, please.”
John smiled at the baker. “Mae. I need your help.”
“Anything.” She waved towards the table. “Have a seat. I’ll put the kettle on.”
“It’s not your ear I need.” He waited until she stopped and looked at him. “It’s your nursing skills.”
“Whatever is wrong? You look fit as can be.”
“It’s not me. It’s a friend of mine. An acquaintance.” He hesitated.
How best to explain Billy?
“Certainly, I’ll help. However, I can.” She peered past John toward the door. “Where is your friend?”
John glanced at the door, then touched her arm to gain her attention. “His name is Billy. He’s been shot.”
“Oh my.” Mae’s hands fluttered to her mouth for a moment, and then her lips thinned. “Is there a reason you didn’t take him to the hospital?”
“There is.” John spun the brim of his hat in his hands. “Billy was shot while smuggling arms destined for the French Army. Not something the police would view well, even if the cause is just.” He studied Mae’s face. The decision to help had to be hers. He didn’t want his large frame to be an intimidating factor. “There’s also a good chance the men who shot Billy are seeking him. A hospital would make him an easy target.”
Mae bit her bottom lip between her teeth. Her eyes darted around the kitchen as she slowly lifted her chin and gave a nod. “Aye, bring your friend up. I’ll tell the boys downstairs to open without me this mornin’.” She reached up to pat her hair and touched the scarf covered pin-curls. “Ack! I’ll dress first.” She made a shooing motion at John. “Get your friend. I’ll leave the door unlocked.” She flicked her wrist at the long cook’s table in the center of her kitchen. “I’ll get this ready. You can put Billy up here.” Without waiting for more information, she hurried toward the front of the house.
John rushed out the door and down to the truck. He tossed his hat through the open driver’s window, then rounded the vehicle and opened the passenger door. He grasped Billy before he could topple to the ground. “Wake up, Billy. I’ve found someone to help us.”
Billy blinked at John. His brows drew together in confusion. “Where’s François?”
John put his shoulder beneath Billy’s armpit and stood. The smuggler’s toes barely touched the ground. “We’ll get to François. Let’s take care of you first.” John held Billy’s wrist with one hand and gripped the smuggler’s belt with the other. He didn’t want to put the man over his shoulder for fear he’d drive the bullet deeper. “Stay with me, Billy. We need to go up those stairs.”
“I’m going to be sick.” Billy’s pale skin appeared gray in the light from the back door.
John held Billy around the chest beside the back gate until the heaves stopped, and then again levered Billy’s arm over his shoulder and guided him up the back steps.
In the kitchen, Mae had changed into a dark brown dress protected by a full bib apron. The center counter had been cleared, padded with blankets and covered with a shower curtain.
“Take off his coat and help him up there, John. Here’s a pillow for his head.”
John leaned Billy against the makeshift surgical bed and removed his coat. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and fortified himself with cognac.”
Billy’s eyes fluttered and his knees buckled.
John dropped the jacket and caught Billy as he fainted. Before he fell to the ground, John slipped an arm beneath Billy’s knees and lifted the tall, thin Brit to the counter.
Mae waved her hand at Billy’s unconscious state. “Just as well to my way of thinking. The lad won’t feel a thing.”
Beside the stove, next to her cooking utensils, Mae had gathered bandages, gauze wrapping, and a sewing kit. She looked over the items, washed her hands, then faced the young man on her counter. “Let’s see what we have now.”
She cut away John’s temporary bandages and clucked her tongue at the blood-soaked kitchen towel. “I think we can do better than that.” She glanced at John. “Do you know if the bullet is still inside the lad?”
John nodded, then spoke when she turned her back to him to examine the wound. “It is. I thought it best to stop the bleeding. I didn’t—”
“You did fine, Johnny.” Mae closed her eyes as she slipped her finger into Billy’s open wound. “Aye, there it is.” She withdrew her finger and crossed to the sink to rinse her hand. “He’s lucky, this one. That bullet had barely enough oomph to break the skin.” She dried her hands on a clean dishtowel, set it on the counter beside the bandages, and picked up a large pair of kitchen tongs. Instead of turning toward Billy, she looked into a big pot on the stove that had just begun to boil. She turned off the burner and fished out a long pair of tweezers.
She placed the steaming utensil on the towel, then removed several small items from the boiling water. When she finished, she prepared the bandages, picked up the cooled tweezers.
“You’re not squeamish, are ye?” Mae asked.
“No.” John took a step back and bumped into the kitchen wall. “Let me know if you need assistance.”