he started acting like he had half a heart.
A corkscrew wind blew up and dust gusted around the jeep. I closed my eyes and felt the fine sand pepper my face and force itself into every fold and crevice of my clothes. It was late afternoon and the sun was low in the western sky, pointing long fingerlike shadows toward the eastern hills. Toward Bone, Villard, Diana, and the Germans. It was getting cold, and I pulled up the collar of my field Jacket. My body shivered from bottom to top as I jammed my hands in my pockets, and waited some more.
Harding came trotting out of the main entrance of the hospital and jumped into the passenger's seat of the jeep. There was a smile on his face and I thought it was almost funny: It was as if we had somehow traded places and he was the happy-go-lucky Yank in love and I was the grim one, sandblasted and focused on my mission, no time for diversions or stories of lost and found love. All of a sudden I had the Urge to punch that smile off his face. I started the jeep instead.
'Sorry I'm late, Boyle,' he said as he threw his web belt and gear into the back seat and put his helmet on. I thought about commenting on the fact that I'd never seen him sorry or late before, not to mention both at once, plus smiling. It would have been funny. My kind of trademark smart-ass comment. I didn't bother.
'No problem, Major,' I said instead, looking straight ahead, easing up on the clutch and heading down the gravel drive to the main road. There was a convoy passing by, deuce and a half trucks and flatbeds With M-3 Stuart light tanks chained down. We waited as the men and armor rolled along, just like a parade. A jeep with a mounted. 30 caliber machine gun brought up the rear, the GIs riding in it wearing goggles and covered in dust.
'Hold up for a few minutes, or we'll be eating dirt like those tail-end
Charlies,' Harding said. We sat and watched the convoy move down^ the road, trucks and tanks disappearing into a dust storm that blew down on us like cinders in city soot. More waiting. I felt helpless, frustrated, about to go crazy. I had to say something, anything.
'Did you get to spend time with Captain Morgan, sir?' That's it, get Harding to talk about his lady friend.
'A bit. She told me you pulled Doctor Dunbar's fat out of the fire.'
'Yeah. Lucky I came along.'
'She also told me you were obviously covering up for him.'
'That's one smart lady. Sir.'
'Tell me about it.'
I didn't know if he was referring to her or if he wanted to hear more about Dunbar. I went with Dunbar. Going over this again might help me figure something out.
'The good news is we can eliminate Dunbar and the supply clerk as suspects in this smuggling operation. They're both small-time operators without enough sense to come in out of the rain. Dunbar got rolled trying to freelance half a dozen morphine syrettes Willoughby lifted for him.' I told him about Willoughby and the supply truck and Dunbar at the Kasbah and his gambling debts. It felt good to talk, to take my mind off… what? What was bothering me? I couldn't pin it down, but I knew that Vincent had spooked me.
'They don't sound like the throat-slitting types,' Harding agreed. 'But that doesn't mean they shouldn't be court-martialed.'
'I kind of had to promise a few things to get information out of them.' I kept my eyes on tail of the convoy and waited for Harding to blow up. Not that a lieutenant's promise meant much to a major.
'What information?'
'I got Willoughby to admit it was Dunbar put him up to stealing the morphine, and Dunbar told me that their first supply sergeant went missing when the 21st was back in England. He took off one night after lights out. Captain Morgan was the last one to see him.'
I let that sink in. For the next minute Harding didn't say a thing.
'What promise?' It took me a minute to get what he was asking.
'I promised not to turn them in.'
'Boyle, according to the Articles of War-'
'Major,' I interrupted, 'I know. They shouldn't get away with it.
But why should they sit out the war in a stockade?' He took a second, shifting in his seat, as if he was trying to get used to a new idea.
'What exactly do you mean?'
'Transfers. Willoughby to an infantry outfit at the front, and Dunbar to a Battalion Aid Station, as close to the front as any MD will ever get.'
'Aid stations can be dangerous places,' Harding said, nodding. 'They're usually within enemy artillery range. Should cure the good doctor of his gambling problem. I think I have some paperwork to do when I get back to HQ.'
With that, Harding nodded toward the road and I turned right onto the two-lane highway. We picked up speed, the wind whipping around us and biting through my field jacket. It seemed to blow some of the sand away, and the cold wind made my face feel cleaner. I didn't want to punch Harding any more, at least, but that uneasy feeling stayed in the pit of my stomach.
I was glad I had switched to a wool shirt, courtesy of Willoughby's supply stores. He'd also given me lined leather gloves, a scarf, and a wool cap. Kind of a thank you for not having him court-martialed, but I didn't think I'd be getting any more gifts from him. He'd be too busy trying to stay alive, and hoping no rear-area slob lifted the smokes from his rations. It felt good for a minute to think about that, but I couldn't keep my thoughts together. Everything was a jumble. Kaz, Diana, Harding-everyone was finding or losing somebody. I didn't like how things were adding up, and I didn't want to be the one to break it to Harding. I downshifted as the road rose up and snaked over a ridge. The wind from the south blew harder, scattering dust across our path. And, I had to admit, I didn't want his reaction to screw up my search for Diana.
'It'll be colder inland,' Harding said, pulling out his own gloves. 'If you end up in the hills, get ready for some really cold nights. It's almost tropical along the coast here, but don't count on it lasting.'
'You can't really count on many things lasting, can you, sir?'
'Guess not, Boyle.' Harding looked at me sideways, trying to figure out what I was getting at. I wasn't much at subtlety, so I didn't say anything else.
'The one thing I can't figure out is the link between the smuggling ring and whoever killed Casselli and Jerome,' I said. I switched on my headlights. They were taped over, just a little slit open to let a bit of light out. A precaution against snipers, night fighters and who knows what other dangers up at the front. They illuminated enough of the road to show me what I was just about to run into, but not enough to warn me in time to avoid it. About as logical as the army got. It would protect me against the Luftwaffe spotting me from two thousand feet up, but not against a donkey in the road. I slowed down.
'It might not be the same killer,' offered Harding. 'And those two deaths might not be connected.'
'Maybe not,' I said. I thought about Casselli's slit throat, and how that was probably the work of a man. But Jerome's overdose, or poisoning, could easily be woman's work. It was too soon to suggest that to Harding, and anyway the phantom man and woman could have been working together.
'Jerome was involved in a revolt against the government here. There could be a number of people who'd want him dead,' Harding said. 'Are you sure there has to be a link?'
'If they were only after morphine, anybody could figure out that a military hospital and medical supply depot would have a lot of morphine on hand. But how many people in French Northwest Africa knew about penicillin before we landed?'
'A few doctors would know about it in theory, but that we can produce large quantities? Nobody.'
'Then how come, a few days after we land, a crooked Vichy officer shows up and steals our entire supply? How did he know about it? How could he have hooked up with anyone fast enough to set it up? How did he obtain an American uniform? It was obvious from the crime scene that Casselli knew and trusted whoever killed him. How could he have become acquainted with an outsider well enough to trust him after just a couple of days?'
'Find Villard and ask him,' Harding said, as if all I had to do was look him up in the phone book.
'I'll do that,' I said, thinking that as long as Villard was the key to finding Diana, I'd damn well find him, and soon. 'Meanwhile, can you get to Bessette again and really question him?'
'Not right now. Negotiations with Darlan are still very delicate. We can't grab one of his aides without seeming to implicate Darlan himself. Orders are to keep hands off.'
'Orders from who?' I asked, even though I knew the answer. 'Somebody's Uncle.'
