William McGivern - The Caper of the Golden Bulls

They came in and closed the door.

“Let me introduce myself,” the older man said to Peter.

“That won’t be necessary,” Peter said. “You’re Colonel Paul Brissard. He is Phillip Lemoins. I’m Peter Churchman and this is my room. So would you mind awfully telling me what this is all about?”

The colonel glanced at Phillip, then at Peter, his expression puzzled and suspicious. “You know who we are?”

“Yes. I spotted you a day or so ago. In a grey Citroen cruising about everywhere I went. You might as well have sent up rockets. I tagged you back to your hotel yesterday afternoon, and the clerk told me who you were.” Peter smiled.

“But not why you’re interested in me. Supposing you let me in on that.” The colonel shrugged lightly. “We’re going to kill Francois Morel, Mr. Churchman.”

“Bully for you! I wish you the best of luck.”

“And you are going to help us, Mr. Churchman.”

“I’m afraid that’s out of the Question. I’ve got quite enough demands on my time as it is.”

“I’m not asking you. I’m telling you, Mr. Churchman.”

“Oh? Then let me tell you to go to hell, Colonel.” Phillip struck Peter at the base of the skull with the muzzle of his gun.

“Speak in a civil manner to the colonel,” he said, as he lowered Peter’s sagging body into a chair.

“We aren’t murderers in the usual sense, Mr. Churchman. We are executioners.”

“Ah, yes,” Peter said. His head ached. He was paying little attention to Colonel Brissard. His thoughts spun dizzily about Grace; the inside of his head was a cave of shimmering fantasies. Grace, in a picture hat and long white gloves mixing explosives! No!

“Francois Morel isn’t his name,” the colonel said. “However, it will do as well as the one he dishonoured. Morel was a member of the OAS. So was I. And so was Phillip. Morel betrayed our general when things went badly. The details aren’t important, but they may help you to understand us. Only one officer was allowed to know the whereabouts of the general’s headquarters in Algiers. Morel and two accomplices tricked that officer into joining them at a house in the hills above the city. They overpowered him, bound him with ropes. Then they lowered the unfortunate man into a cesspool where rats fed. After twenty-four hours, with half his face eaten away, he told them what they wanted to know, Morel and his friends sold that information to the government to save their hides. Our general was captured and shot. In time we found Morel’s accomplices. One was hiding in Aden, the other in Casablanca. We punished them with Biblical severity. An eye for an eye, isn’t it, Mr. Churchman? We let rats feed on them until they died. It was disagreeable but so is treachery.”

“The morality of this seems cloudy to me,” Peter said. “You betrayed your country. Morel betrayed you. Where’s the real difference?”

Phillip stood facing him, huge hands swinging free at his sides. The colonel now held the gun. “Speak civilly to the colonel,” Phillip said gently.

“Never mind, Phillip. He’s entitled to that question. Yes, we were rebels, Mr. Churchman. But it wasn’t an easy decision. I knew St. Cyr as a youth. Verdun as a young man. I served under marshals who lighted the sky like gods.” He sighed faintly. “It takes considerable resolution to forget such memories. But as I watched the great forts of the empire falling one by one not to arms but to political considerations I joined a group that called such things monstrous. True, we lost faith in our leaders; but we kept faith with the glory of France. And now this is a paragraph of history, already blurred and obscured by the dust of time. But before the page is turned and the book closed forever, we will add a footnote concerning Francois Morel.”

Peter asked what he considered to be reasonable questions. “Why not just go ahead and kill him? Why involve me in all this?”

“The woman Morel travels with is a thief. We know her reputation. We also know Morel got in touch with you several days ago. You met with Morel and his woman on at least three occasions. Then you came here to Pamplona. We assume you intend to steal something. We don’t care what. You have our word, we won’t touch your share of it.”

“Now that’s decent of you.”

“Spare us your sarcasm, please. If you were a thief, that would be all that mattered to you. Money. But I don’t think you’re a thief. We made inquiries of you in the village. You’ve lived there six years, you own a business and so forth. So if I’m correct, you’re being forced to co-operate. But not by Morel, obviously.”

“Why ‘obviously’?”

“Because we are familiar with his past, and we know his family, his friends and acquaintances. You didn’t meet Morel until last week. Therefore it’s the woman.” The colonel shrugged, certifying and dismissing this conclusion. “What we want is Morel’s share of whatever you’re planning to steal. Our general’s family is living in poverty, and we feel it would be appropriate if Morel made a material restitution to them before he dies. If you refuse to help, we shall kill him immediately, of course.” He smiled pleasantly. “Then, Mr. Churchman, what will the woman do when she learns that you allowed us to kill her lover?”

“But you intend to kill him, in any case.”

“Ah, but she doesn’t know that.”

Peter damned the sly old logicians of St. Cyr; the colonel had built a neat trap for him. “Well, I have no choice, it seems.”

“That’s right.”

Peter straightened and looked thoughtfully at Phillip. “I might be able to use him, you know.”

“Mr. Churchman, you had better understand one thing. You aren’t using us. We are using you.”

“Oh, it was just a matter of speaking,” Peter said. “Morel was in my regiment,” the colonel said. “Therefore I must keep out of this. But he doesn’t know Sergeant Lemoins. Until the matter is settled, Phillip will stay with you. Get used to that: he won’t let you out of his sight.”

“That could be awkward— How will it look to Morel if I return from Pamplona with a great Gallic shadow at my heels?”

“I think you can figure out some explanation, Mr. Churchman. Considering what’s at stake.”

“Oh, I intend to, believe me,” Peter said.

He sighed and slipped a foot behind Phillip’s ankle. Then he slammed his other foot into Phillip’s knee, and the big Frenchman sat down abruptly, a cry of anger and surprise exploding from his throat. The sergeant was a formidable animal, Peter noted with clinical interest; his body seemed made of hard rubber and steel springs. He rolled on to his shoulders, doubling his legs up swiftly, then hurled himself forward, hobnailed boots lashing out at Peter’s face.

Peter slipped from the chair barely in time to avoid a broken nose and smashed cheekbones. Crouching, he said sharply, “Colonel! For God’s sake! The door!”

When the colonel wheeled about, Peter stood, and, with a thumb and forefinger, plucked the gun from his hand.

“Now, let’s establish some realistic ground rules,” he said, the gun swinging back and forth between the two Frenchman, as evenly as the bar of a metronome. “You want to avenge dead comrades. I want to save live ones. I don’t give one damn about your old glories and betrayals and defeats. Not one damn. I could shoot you both without turning a hair. Give me an excuse, and I will. Get up, Phillip. You look like an ass lying there with your boots in my chair.”

“I’m sorry, Colonel,” Phillip said, as he untangled himself and got to his feet.

“It was my fault, Phillip.” The colonel looked thoughtfully at Peter, a bitter self-reproof in his hard features, a reluctant respect in his eyes. “I misjudged you, Mr. Churchman.”