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Authors: Hugh Pentecost
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Digger went to the man named Langlois and after a lot of backing and filling, he got help for Al Jenkins.
“It wasn’t very dangerous,” Digger said. “Drug addiction isn’t a big deal in France. The authorities admit to only about three hundred addicts in the whole country. That’s why France is a great place for those secret laboratories I mentioned. Oh, the police co-operate with Interpol and our Bureau of Narcotics by cracking down on a laboratory maybe once a year. But they aren’t constantly looking for dealers and pushers the way we are. This fellow Langlois, who in his job rubbed elbows with the international sports crowd, was servicing people from abroad who were part of the tourist-sports world. Langlois knew how badly Al needed help because Al was an old customer. He dealt with me without too much hesitation. I got a supply of heroin for Al—and a needle—and went back to the hospital.” Digger’s voice hardened. “Al was dead. Jumped off the solarium roof on the tenth floor of the hospital when a nurse turned her back for a moment.”
Digger twisted in his chair. “I don’t know. Something clicked inside me then. Langlois and a whole line of sons of bitches like him were responsible for what had happened to Al Jenkins. You understand—he hadn’t done Al a favor by supplying me with H. I paid him plenty for it.”
Digger wasn’t a Frenchman or a French citizen. He didn’t want to get involved, but he felt it was his duty to put a stop to Langlois’ business. So he went to Paul Bernardel, Langlois’ boss and an old personal friend. Bernardel was shocked to hear what his chief mechanic was up to. He and Digger drove to the testing grounds where Langlois was working out some of Bernarde’s cars. They were too late. Someone had walked into the testing-ground garage and shot Langlois five times through the head. No one had seen it happen, and the killer was gone, free as air.
“Two men violently dead in the space of a few hours,” Digger said. “Just small fry—both of them. Just a user and a pusher. I don’t know why, but I was boiling. I felt Al had been murdered just as definitely as Langlois.”
In that angry state Digger got his first view of the big picture. “Bernardel knew a lot about it. I learned about the economics—that many of the secret laboratories for processing opium were in France—all the rest of what I’ve already told you. And more. It was suspected that the Secret Army terrorists in Algeria had turned to the drug traffic to raise money for arms and ammunition. Millions of dollars could be pried out of the despairing and the hooked in the United States.” Digger laughed mirthlessly. “It got to be a kind of patriotic cause with me then. Bernardel said if I was interested in knowing more, he could introduce me to a man who really knew the score. He was a Colonel Georges Valmont, a strong de Gaullist, who was trying to smash the drug traffic by the terrorists. He was trying to smash it, not for moral reasons but to keep guns and bullets out of their hands. And so—and so I went to see Colonel Georges Valmont. I was cordially received and I—I was introduced to his daughter, Juliet.”
Juliet Valmont had a great deal more to do with Digger’s immediate actions after that than any “cause.” This girl, so French and yet so American, was a new experience. He had been involved with a lot of women in his time, but the idea of permanence had never been a part of those relationships.
“The first time I laid eyes on Juliet I knew she was going to be a part of my life for the rest of time. I guess I wouldn’t have been so sure of it if something of the same thing hadn’t happened to her. We were in love. We had no questions. We had no doubts. There was only one small hitch—her devotion to her father. She didn’t want to go away and leave him. Not a neurotic fixation, you understand. The old man was living in deadly danger from day to day—the Algerian
“It wasn’t very dangerous,” Digger said. “Drug addiction isn’t a big deal in France. The authorities admit to only about three hundred addicts in the whole country. That’s why France is a great place for those secret laboratories I mentioned. Oh, the police co-operate with Interpol and our Bureau of Narcotics by cracking down on a laboratory maybe once a year. But they aren’t constantly looking for dealers and pushers the way we are. This fellow Langlois, who in his job rubbed elbows with the international sports crowd, was servicing people from abroad who were part of the tourist-sports world. Langlois knew how badly Al needed help because Al was an old customer. He dealt with me without too much hesitation. I got a supply of heroin for Al—and a needle—and went back to the hospital.” Digger’s voice hardened. “Al was dead. Jumped off the solarium roof on the tenth floor of the hospital when a nurse turned her back for a moment.”
Digger twisted in his chair. “I don’t know. Something clicked inside me then. Langlois and a whole line of sons of bitches like him were responsible for what had happened to Al Jenkins. You understand—he hadn’t done Al a favor by supplying me with H. I paid him plenty for it.”
Digger wasn’t a Frenchman or a French citizen. He didn’t want to get involved, but he felt it was his duty to put a stop to Langlois’ business. So he went to Paul Bernardel, Langlois’ boss and an old personal friend. Bernardel was shocked to hear what his chief mechanic was up to. He and Digger drove to the testing grounds where Langlois was working out some of Bernarde’s cars. They were too late. Someone had walked into the testing-ground garage and shot Langlois five times through the head. No one had seen it happen, and the killer was gone, free as air.
“Two men violently dead in the space of a few hours,” Digger said. “Just small fry—both of them. Just a user and a pusher. I don’t know why, but I was boiling. I felt Al had been murdered just as definitely as Langlois.”
In that angry state Digger got his first view of the big picture. “Bernardel knew a lot about it. I learned about the economics—that many of the secret laboratories for processing opium were in France—all the rest of what I’ve already told you. And more. It was suspected that the Secret Army terrorists in Algeria had turned to the drug traffic to raise money for arms and ammunition. Millions of dollars could be pried out of the despairing and the hooked in the United States.” Digger laughed mirthlessly. “It got to be a kind of patriotic cause with me then. Bernardel said if I was interested in knowing more, he could introduce me to a man who really knew the score. He was a Colonel Georges Valmont, a strong de Gaullist, who was trying to smash the drug traffic by the terrorists. He was trying to smash it, not for moral reasons but to keep guns and bullets out of their hands. And so—and so I went to see Colonel Georges Valmont. I was cordially received and I—I was introduced to his daughter, Juliet.”
Juliet Valmont had a great deal more to do with Digger’s immediate actions after that than any “cause.” This girl, so French and yet so American, was a new experience. He had been involved with a lot of women in his time, but the idea of permanence had never been a part of those relationships.
“The first time I laid eyes on Juliet I knew she was going to be a part of my life for the rest of time. I guess I wouldn’t have been so sure of it if something of the same thing hadn’t happened to her. We were in love. We had no questions. We had no doubts. There was only one small hitch—her devotion to her father. She didn’t want to go away and leave him. Not a neurotic fixation, you understand. The old man was living in deadly danger from day to day—the Algerian
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