A Crime for a Penance

Lucas Goodman’s cup clinked as he set it down. It felt good to be in the sunlight again after dodging rain for the past three days. The room at the Trois Chevaux was indeed a place to sleep, but it lacked space one needs to think. Here, by the docks, there was plenty of space under a Caribbean sky. And plenty of seagulls. The seagulls cawed and flew into a cloud of Holy Cain every time a person or dog came within twenty feet of them. And, since this was the main pedestrian and pushcart thoroughfare between the fishmongers’ huts and the docks, the gulls’ spent about five percent of their waking hours with their feet on the ground. So, was there space? Yes. Was there silence in which to enjoy the space? Not so much. The gulls flew into the air again as a shadow loomed. Goodman turned and smiled when Arch Sterling sat down. He put his hat on the empty seat next to him.

“How long have you been sitting here?” Sterling raised a finger for Celine, the waitress, and spoke to his friend. “Listen, mate. Not that I want to be the harbinger of doom or anything, but the bugger ain’t coming, now or ever.”

He sat back when Celine’s smile arrived. Sterling ordered a coffee and a buttered croissant with jam. Goodman saw that Celine had hiked up her skirt, ever so slightly, over her hips. He looked up at her, and she only had eyes for Sterling. This despite the fact that Goodman had been her only customer thirty seconds ago. Her fingers lingered for an extra half-second when Sterling took her hand for the usual perfunctory greeting. She smiled even bigger, if that was possible. Sterling had that effect on women. Or was it that women had that effect on him? Goodman shook his head and took another sip of coffee.

“I mean, Vincentia is a small island,” Sterling said, rocking back in his chair to watch Celine walk away. ”You may come up a wallet short again one day and it may well be your man. Just don’t let your pistol take a walk. Awfully inconvenient under the wrong circumstances.”

“It wasn’t my real wallet,” said Goodman, scanning the cobblestone walk in both directions. “But I take your point.” Goodman looked at his watch.

“I’m telling you,” Sterling started again. “Best case, he’s a hooligan, plain and simple.” He sipped his coffee. “And unreliable.”

“Worst case?”

“He’s dodging for the other side.”

“I doubt that. Besides, I have leverage and he’s…how do I say this...he’s got a mission in life.”

“Wonderful. But you’re not going to get—”

“Bonjour, Monsieur Lucas!” A tall, wiry youth stood formally erect and reached an inordinate distance to offer his hand, bent at the waist. He pronounced it Luk-AS when he spoke. Impressed and relieved that the boy actually showed up, Goodman stood to shake hands. Goodman nodded to Sterling, who was visibly amused.

“Bonjour, monsieur,” said the boy politely, reaching across the table to shake Sterling’s hand.

“Bonjour…what exactly is your name?” Sterling rose up and leaned in slightly to shake his hand and sat back down. Goodman shot Sterling a look of annoyance.

“Je suis…my name is Pierre-Paul, monsieur.”

“A thief named Pierre-Paul?” Sterling could barely contain himself. He looked at Goodman. “Oh, good God. You’ve got to be joking. What is your family name?”

"Never mind my rude friend." Goodman shot Sterling a sideways glance. Pierre-Paul reclined in his seat and smiled at them, seemingly oblivious to the issue at hand.

Goodman tipped his chin when Celine looked around the corner. She scowled when her eyes caught Pierre-Paul seated at the table. Her demeanor slumped as she approached.

“Yes, monsieur?” she forced a smile over Pierre-Paul’s head. Goodman gestured to his guest and Celine lowered her gaze without lowering her jaw.

“Qu'est-ce que vous voulez?” What do you want?

“Seulemont un café s'il vous plait,” he replied, not returning the cultural slight. Just coffee, please.

“Bien.” She disappeared behind the counter. She did not reappear until Sterling’s croissant was ready. She topped off everyone’s coffee. Sterling blew on his fingers after the croissant shot a cloud of steam into the air. He spread his butter and looked expectantly at Goodman as he took his first bite.

“So…” Goodman put down his coffee and looked at Pierre-Paul. “Do you have it?”

Pierre-Paul withdrew a wallet from his satchel and handed it to Goodman under the table. Again impressed, Goodman cracked open the wallet. His eyebrows climbed his forehead.

“There’s more money in here than before.”

Pierre-Paul simply smiled and unfolded his hands, opening them as if to say nothing hidden here. Sterling stared at the boy and blinked.

“Monsieur was most merciful yesterday,” said Pierre-Paul. Most mercy-full was how he pronounced it. Sterling glanced at Goodman and then again at Pierre-Paul.

“Well, thank you. Today, I have an offer for you,” said Goodman. “A business offer.”

The boy smiled a smile almost as big as Celine’s and, surrounded by his dark brown skin, his teeth appeared three times as bright. His entire demeanor and posture brightened. “Oui, monsieur!” was his reply.

“Do you see those men on the pier over there?” Goodman indicated with his eyes. “By the seaplane that arrived an hour ago.” Pierre-Paul’s eyes followed his to the end of the pier. Sterling shifted in his seat, took a discrete glance, and turned back to sip from his coffee. Half his croissant went with it.

“Oui, monsieur.”

“Every Monday, weather permitting, that same Catalina seaplane arrives from Cuba by nine in the morning, and those same four men go out to greet it,” Goodman said. “See the men in suits? Two of the men are from the hotel, one is the island postmaster, and one is a clerk from the Spanish consul general. The other two are a security blanket. They receive some packages, some letters in a pouch and the clerk receives a special diplomatic pouch.” He paused a moment to let Pierre-Paul observe the men as they supervised the unloading of the plane. “Each time the postmaster and the clerk come down from the Archduke Indies Hotel to record the week’s mail incoming mail. It takes some time, but he exchanges the incoming for the outgoing, including the diplomatic pouches, and gives the outgoing to the pilots.”

“Oui, monsieur.” Pierre-Paul took a sip of his coffee.

"You've done your homework," Sterling chimed in. Goodman shot him a glance and looked back at Pierre-Paul, who put his cup down.

“What is it monsieur wants me to do?”

“For each of the next two Thursdays,” Goodman lowered his voice and leaned in over the table. “I want you to go into that office and switch bags so the incoming mail goes back out again. Can you do it?”

“That is all, monsieur?”

“There is one other thing,” Goodman placed his index finger on the table. “There will be one or more letters addressed to a bank in Mexico City or some other place in Mexico. I want you to remember the name and address of the bank or banks in the mail each day." He paused. "Can you do that?”

“This is not difficult, monsieur.” He looked at Goodman. “This that all you require of Pierre-Paul?”

“That is everything, mon ami.”

Sterling scowled slightly and tilted his head toward Pierre-Paul.

“Pierre-Paul, would you give us a moment, s'il vous plait?” said Goodman.

“Oui, monsieur.” Pierre-Paul stood and walked over to the counter with his coffee cup. Sterling leaned in close to Goodman.

“I know what you’re trying to do here, mon ami,” said Sterling . “You’re messing with their certificates and signatures for the gold shipments. It might work, at least for the first time and maybe the second time, but the by the third time they’ll take precautions. They’re definitely armed, and they’ll be watching. The fourth time will be impossible, unless you want to get our new friend killed or our cover blown.”

“Yes, but next week is full of island holidays,” Goodman countered. “They’ll have new people, replacements doing the work. It will be at least a week before they realize that their post is messed up. Likely two weeks.”

“That’s a big risk,” said Sterling. “And you’re missing the bloody point. Let me talk to him.”

“That’s why I hired a professional,” replied Goodman. “But sure, go ahead.” He glanced at Pierre-Paul. “Mon ami? Please have a seat.” Pierre-Paul poured himself more coffee and returned to his chair. Sterling immediately leaned into him.

“Listen, bloke. If you get nipped, you don’t know us. You understand? You don’t blab your gums about my friend or me out to the local nick or anyone. You got it?”

“Pas de problème, monsieur.” Pierre-Paul looked a little frightened at Sterling’s intensity but managed a smile. “I will not get caught.”

“Not a word.” Sterling sent a hard look.

“Not a word, monsieur.”

“Ok.”

“Ok,” said Pierre-Paul. Sterling sat back in his chair and looked at the ocean.

“Monsieur Luk-AS,” he said. “How do I know which bag is incoming and which is outgoing?”

“The hotel’s postal bag is always a white bag with the hotel’s seal on it. The air postal service uses a green bag with an orange stripe. You just take the mail out of the one and put it in the other. Wait until the postmaster has switched bags before you switch them back. He has to log each item for the pier master. He’s old so it takes him a while. You got it?”

“Oui, monsieur,” said Pierre-Paul. “What is the arrangement…”

“Yes, for your end of the deal…” Goodman opened the wallet, folded the entire stack of bills, and placed it in Pierre-Paul’s hand. The young man stared wide-eyed at the bills just returned to him. Sterling’s face darkened.

“Is that enough?” asked Goodman.

“Oui, monsieur! More than enough.”

“Bien.” Goodman sat back and drank from his cup. “You get the other half when the job is done.”

“The other half, monsieur?” Pierre-Paul was visibly shocked.

“Oui, mon ami.” Goodman folded his hands.

“You want me to do this now?” asked Pierre-Paul.  “I do it now for you.”

“No, no.” Goodman sat upright. “This is for next Monday.”

“It is no problem,” said Pierre-Paul. “I do this for mon ami Monsieur Luc-AS.” Goodman looked at Sterling, who shrugged a “sure, why not?” in reply.

“Are you certain?” Goodman wanted to confirm. Pierre-Paul’s good-natured smile evaporated.

“Oui! These men are no good for my country.” His hand balled into a fist. “They come here and act like they are kings. They are not my kings. They are not kings, absolument no!” He leaned back in his chair and took half the Francs from the stack and gave them back to Goodman. “Monsieur, this is half. You give me the other half in two weeks.” Goodman started to counter but Pierre-Paul put his hand up. “No, monsieur.” Sterling and Goodman needed no more convincing.

“Ok, then.”

“Merci, monsieur,” said Pierre-Paul, rising from his chair. “Merci à toi.”

He strode to the main road and hopped aboard a horse-drawn cart loaded down with fishnets and flotation bobs. He subtly waved and his friendly smile disappeared. He jumped out at the first fruit stand and bought a small basket and filled it with flowers. He paid and jumped back onto the cart, feet swinging as he went.

“What was that?” Goodman muttered. “He’s got a plan already.”

“He’s all business now,” Sterling observed.

“Yeah,” Goodman said. “Yes, he is.” The two of them watched the cart bounce lazily over the stone and seashell paved road. Their eyes went to the end of the pier, where the suited men had just finished their business with the seaplane pilot and were following a stevedore pushing a cart piled high with parcels and pouches, including the air postal service’s green and orange bag and the Spanish Consul’s red-and-orange emblazoned bag. The foursome stopped outside the small office as the postal clerk took the cart from the stevedore.

Pierre-Paul slipped from the horse cart and strolled casually to the front of the pier master’s office. He spoke to someone unseen behind the counter and his smile beamed again. Then he strode around the counter and into the back office. Goodman and Sterling exchanged looks briefly, not sure how to interpret what happened next.

The postmaster and the clerk both emerged from the office and shared a smoke with the other men outside. Goodman and Sterling watched in astonishment as Pierre-Paul pushed the cart loaded with parcels to the aircraft gently bobbing at the end of the pier. He flashed a smile as he approached the pilots, who signed for the parcels and mail, and proceeded to load the plane. The pilots wasted no time in starting the engines and untying the aircraft from the pier. Pierre-Paul even gave the plane a shove with his long legs before pushing the cart back to the pier master’s office. He returned to the postal master and pier master, shook their hands, got paid, and disappeared through the office before re-appearing on the street.

He flashed his smile as he sat down in his chair. Goodman and Sterling stared at him as he put the money he just made into his pocket. Celine approached and Sterling signaled to fill all three coffees. She smiled at him as she did so. He returned the smile and Sterling watched her walk away when she finished.

Goodman spoke to Pierre-Paul. “You were able to switch the bags?”

“Oui, monsieur.” He took a sip of coffee, which was too hot. “It was easy to switch the letters in the bags.”

“And did you see any letters to any banks?”

“No, monsieur.”

“Not a one?”

“No, monsieur. There were no letters to any banks in Mexico or anywhere else.” He looked down. “Did I fail, monsieur?”

“No, no,” Goodman assured him. “You did excellent. Excellemment.” Pierre-Paul’s smile returned. Sterling set his cup down.

“Pierre-Paul, how did you get inside the office? And who were those flowers for?” Pierre-Paul’s smile broadened, and Goodman thought he saw pink rising in his cheeks.

“Mirabella is the Harbor Master’s daughter and secretary,” said Pierre-Paul. Sterling looked at him blankly. “She is tres jolie. A very beautiful girl.”

They laughed as Pierre-Paul blushed. The laughter ended in an awkward silence and they each sipped from their coffees.

“Then I see you next week, Monsieur Luc-AS?”

“Yes, Monday morning, same time. I’ll be here.”

“And so will I, monsieur.” Pierre-Paul pushed his chair back and stood up. He adjusted his satchel and bid a cordial adieu and strode down the road, away from the pier.

“That, my friend,” said Sterling. “Is a smooth operator.”

“Glad he’s working for us.”

“But,” Sterling added. “I’ll feel more comfortable if we kept an eye on him.”

“Agreed.”

Celine made one more stop to unnecessarily top off Sterling’s coffee. She flashed her eyes at him and gave Goodman’s cup a cursory glance without filling it. Sterling exchanged one more glimpse with her before she sashayed behind the counter.

“She is a wonderful looking woman.” Goodman raised his coffee in a toast of agreement. They sat back in their chairs and watched the seagulls fight over crumbs from a passing hand cart.