As Time Goes By Read online

  Copyright © 1998 by Warner Books, Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  Warner Books, Inc.

  Hachette Book Group

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  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  The Warner Books name and logo are registered trademarks of Warner Books.

  First eBook Edition: October 1998

  ISBN: 978-0-446-54971-4

  Contents

  PREFACE

  FADE IN: CASABLANCA AIRPORT. NIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  FADE OUT

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ALSO BY MICHAEL WALSH

  Who's Afraid of Opera

  Who's Afraid of Classical Music

  Andrew Lloyd Webber: His Life and Works

  The First One Hundred Years of Carnegie Hall

  Exchange Alley

  For Kathleen, Alexandra, and Clare

  PREFACE

  MOVIETONE NEWS FOR DECEMBER 7, 1941

  (cue martial music)

  EUROPE REELS BEFORE THE HUN!

  BRITONS HUNKER IN BUNKERS AS BOMBS FALL!

  HITLER MASTER OF ALL HE SURVEYS:

  CAN ANYONE STOP HIM?

  (cue voice-over)

  War! From the Sahara to the steppes of central Asia, Europe is on fire. Directed from Berlin, Adolf Hitler's legions have overrun Poland, Denmark, Norway, the Low Countries, and France; driven deep into the Soviet Union; and carved off the top of North Africa. Wehrmacht troops shell Moscow and strut down the Champs-Élyse´es, while nightly the Luftwaffe sets the docks of London ablaze and deadly Nazi U-boats turn the shipping lanes of the North Atlantic into a watery graveyard.

  Suffering Europe casts its eyes to heaven, with one question on its lips: Can anyone stop the Germans?

  Brave men and women are trying. Across occupied Europe resistance movements have sprung up. From his headquarters in Brazzaville, General Charles De Gaulle is leading a rearguard action against the Nazi beast in la belle France. In the teeth of Goering's bombers, Czech and Norwegian patriots have regrouped in London and plot acts of violence and retribution against the usurpers of their homelands. Whether by political action, or outright sabotage and terror, resistance is growing daily.

  But the Wehrmacht's seemingly inexorable march across the European continent has meant dislocation for millions. A Refugee Trail has sprung up: Paris to Marseille—across the Mediterranean to Oran—then by train—or auto—or foot—across the rim of Africa to French Morocco, and finally here, to Casablanca.

  Casablanca! Its very name evokes magic and mystery. A windswept place, trapped between ocean and desert, where anything can happen—and does, every day. Where human beings sell one another like cattle or sheep. Where gold is cheap, jewelry is worthless, and the only thing of value is an exit visa. Where the plane to Lisbon is a minor deity and the Clipper to America is God Himself. A place where desperation rules, uncertainty is king, and the cast of a die—or the turn of a card, or the spin of a roulette wheel—can mean the difference between life and death. A place where Spaniard huddles with Frenchman, where Russian drinks with Englishman, where expatriate American matches wits with German. Casablanca, which holds your life in the palm of its hand, and asks only: What is it worth to you?

  Safe behind its two wide oceans, neutral America looks on. How much longer?

  THIS IS CASEY ROBINSON REPORTING FROM CASABLANCA

  (bursts of static)

  (sounds of French police radio being tuned in)

  8:00 P.M.Attention, attention! All units: Czech resistance leader Victor Laszlo, wanted by the Gestapo for crimes against the Third Reich, has escaped on the Lisbon plane. He is using the letters of transit stolen from German couriers murdered on the train from Oran three days ago.

  8:10 P.M.Attention, attention! Major Heinrich Strasser of the Gestapo has been shot at the Casablanca airport! Round up the usual suspects, on orders of Captain Louis Renault, Prefect of Police.

  8:25 P.M.All units: Major Strasser has died of his wounds en route to the hospital. Captain Renault, come in, please. Calling Captain Renault. Where are you?

  8:35 P.M.Attention, all units: Louis Renault has disappeared. Last seen in the company of M. Richard Blaine, owner of Rick's CafÉ Americain. Has possibly met with foul play. Arrest M. Blaine at once. He is armed and extremely dangerous. Beware!

  8:45 P.M.Attention, all units: Captain Renault spotted walking with Rick Blaine on the outskirts of the airport. They are to be apprehended at once. Possibly heading for the Free French garrison in Brazzaville. Block all roads to the south immediately.

  8:46 P.M.Attention, attention: The German Consul, Herr Heinze, reports that Gestapo headquarters has dispatched agents to intercept the fugitives. Matters are now in the hands of the Germans. That is all.

  (radio off)

  FADE IN:

  CASABLANCA AIRPORT.

  NIGHT

  CHAPTER ONE

  The Lisbon plane soared away from the dense, swirling fog of Casablanca, up and into the night. Below, the airport was plunged deep into the North African darkness, its only illumination the revolving beacon that perched atop the conning tower. The sirens of the French colonial police cars had faded into the night. Everything was quiet but the wind.

  Almost lost in the mist, two men were walking together, away from the airport, away from the city, and into an uncertain future.

  “… of a beautiful friendship,” said Richard Blaine, tugging on a cigarette as he walked. His hat was pulled down low on his forehead, and his trench coat was cinched tightly against the damp. Rick felt calmer than he had in years. In fact, he tried to remember when he had felt this certain of what he had just done, and what he was about to do.

  The shorter man walking beside him nodded. “Well, my friend, Victor Laszlo and Ilsa Lund are on their way to Lisbon,” said Louis Renault. “I might have known you'd mix your newfound patriotism with a little larceny.” He fished in his pocket and came up with ten thousand francs.

  “That must have been very difficult for you, Ricky,” he said. “Miss Lund is an extremely beautiful woman. I don't know that I should have been so gallant, even with money at stake.”

  “I guess that's the difference between me and you, Louie,” Rick replied.

  Ilsa Lund! Had it been only two days ago that she had walked back into his life? It seemed like a year. How could a woman change a man's fate so much so fast? Now his duty was to follow that fate, no matter where it might lead him.

  “Anyway, you were gallant enough not to have me
arrested, even though I’d just given the letters of transit to the most wanted man in the Third Reich and shot a Gestapo officer. By rights I ought to be in your hoosegow, getting ready to face a firing squad. Why the sudden change of heart? I never let you win that much at roulette.”

  The little man, smart and well turned out in his black colonial policeman's uniform, trod so softly beside Rick Blaine that even in the stillness his footfalls were inaudible. Over the years, Louis Renault had found it preferable to leave as little a mark on his surroundings as possible.

  “I don't know,” Renault replied. “Maybe it's because I like you. Maybe it's because I didn't like the late Heinrich Strasser. Maybe it's because you've cheated me out of the favors of two lovely ladies who were in dire need of my services in obtaining exit visas, and I insist on proper retribution. Maybe it's because you won our bet, and I’d like a chance to get my money back.”

  “And maybe it's because you're cheap,” said Rick. “What difference does it make? You lost, fair and square.” He finished his cigarette and sent the glowing butt sparking across the tarmac. He searched the sky, but her plane was long gone. “So did I.”

  Abruptly, Renault halted and grabbed Rick by the arm. “I was right: you are a rank sentimentalist,” he exclaimed. “You're still in love with her, aren't you?”

  “Why don't you mind your own business?” retorted Rick.

  “This is my business—indeed, my two favorite businesses: money and women,” answered Renault. “A less charitable man than I might claim he'd been cheated. You knew all along that you were going to give those letters of transit to Victor Laszlo and his wife. I wouldn't be at all surprised if the lady knew it, too.”

  “It's hard to know what women know, isn't it?” Rick replied, starting to walk again and picking up the pace. “It's even harder to know how they know it before we do.”

  Their path was taking them deeper into the darkness. “Where are we going, if you don't mind my asking?” asked Renault. His complicity in the death of Major Strasser was so spontaneous that he had little more than the clothes on his back and the francs in his wallet. He hoped his friend knew what he was doing. “If we really want to go to the Free French garrison at Brazzaville, we'd better think about commandeering a transport flight out before the Germans wake up. It's a long way to the Congo—three thousand miles, at least.”

  Rick scuffed the ground with his shoe. “Forget Brazzaville. I’ve got a better use for your money.” His eyes stabbed the darkness. There it was! In the distance, he could make out the dimly defined shape of a large automobile parked at the far end of the airfield. Sacha and Sam, right in place and right on time.

  Louis nodded appreciatively as Rick's Buick 81C convertible came more clearly into view. He tugged at his kepi and smoothed down his dark uniform. In Renault's opinion, to look anything other than one's best ill suited a Frenchman. Especially a newly Free Frenchman. Especially a really free Frenchman. “You leave nothing to chance, do you? Tell me, did you plan to kill Major Strasser all along, or was that just inspired improvisation?”

  “Let's just say I got lucky when he drew first,” replied Rick, opening the automobile's back door and climbing in.

  “Where did you learn to handle a gun like that, if you don't mind my asking? One might think you had some wartime experience.”

  “I was in a lot of little wars around New York,” said Rick.

  “You weren't really going to shoot me back there, were you, Ricky?”

  “Not if you didn't make me,” replied Rick. “I try not to make a habit of killing my friends. I don't always succeed.”

  “Everything okay, Mister Rick?” Sam inquired anxiously from the driver's seat.

  “Everything's just ducky,” said Rick. “Now step on it. We've got to make Port Lyautey before daybreak.”

  “Right, boss,” said Sam, and floored it.

  Port Lyautey, north of Rabat, was about two hundred miles away. Founded by the French in 1912 when they established the protectorate, the city on the Sebou River was a major transportation hub, with a seaport at Mehdia, a railroad, and, best of all, an airfield. Come hell or high water, they were going to follow Victor Laszlo and Ilsa Lund to Lisbon.

  Unfortunately, each and every one of those two hundred miles was bad road. Well, that's why God built Buicks and charged so much for them, thought Rick: shipped over from the States and smuggled into Casablanca, his had cost more than $2,000.

  Sam Waters hit the accelerator so hard, Rick and Louis were thrust back into the leather rear seats as if they were in an airplane. In the front passenger seat, Sacha Yurchenko laughed and fondled the .38 Smith & Wesson that Rick had given him as a bonus the year before.

  “You want I should shoot him, boss?” shouted Sacha, the big Russian bartender at Rick's place. Except for Yvonne, the girlfriend he had inherited from Rick, Sacha didn't much like the French. In truth, Sacha didn't much like anybody, and the feeling was mutual.

  “Not yet,” said Rick. “Maybe later. Maybe never. It all depends.”

  “Awww,” said Sacha, disappointed.

  Renault let out a long breath. Time to exhibit some of that famous French savoir faire.

  “A beautiful car is like a beautiful woman, don't you think, Ricky?” he said. “The lines, the curves, the hidden power under the hood.” Renault admired American cars, which was a good thing, since the European automakers had long since switched to war production. “So many exit visas, so little time.” He gave a little shake of his head in regret.

  “Speaking of which,” said Rick, “we're going to need a few of those ourselves. Think you can help out?”

  “I believe I still carry some authority in these parts,” said Renault, reaching into the breast pocket of his uniform. Long ago he had learned that one should never travel without a valid ticket to safety secreted somewhere upon one's person. “Here they are: two exit visas.”

  “Make it three.”

  “Three?”

  “One for me, one for you, and one for Sam.”

  “I see,” said Renault. He counted them out as if they were legal tender, except more valuable. “All they require is an authorized signature, which fortunately—for the time being, at least—is mine.” He scratched his name with a flourish, three times.

  From his pocket Rick produced a flask of bourbon, took a tug on it, and offered it to Renault. The little Frenchman savored the liquor appreciatively. Rick didn't offer one to Sam. He knew better. Sam didn't drink with the customers, and Sam didn't drink with Rick. Sam didn't even drink with himself very often.

  “Let's hope your John Hancock's good until tomorrow morning,” said Rick.

  Inside the Buick it was warm and dry. Renault could feel the night's chill starting to disperse. He had never liked Morocco all that much anyway. He wouldn't be sorry to leave it. “Things are becoming clearer to me now. You and Laszlo knew the end of the script before either of you said a line back there.” He wished he had something to smoke. “When did you hatch this plan?”

  “When you had Laszlo in the holding pen, of course.” Rick lit another cigarette and offered the captain one as well. “After you'd arrested him for being at the Underground meeting. I told you that you couldn't hold him very long on that petty charge.”

  “And you promised that you'd entrap him for me by handing over the letters of transit,” interrupted Renault.

  “The setup was perfect for you,” Rick continued. “When you saw Laszlo and Ilsa walk into my cafÉ, you must have thought you were in seventh heaven, because they were in the one place in the world where you had the power of life and death over them. I gave you the chance to nab Laszlo and make yourself a hero with Strasser, and you fell for it like a ton of bricks.”

  “I did indeed,” admitted Renault. .”There's one thing I don't understand, though. Why did you give the letters of transit to Laszlo and his wife? Why did you change your mind about helping him escape Casablanca for Lisbon and America? You, who always prided yourself on sticking y
our neck out for no man. Surely there must have been more in it for you than the relatively trifling sum of ten thousand francs.”

  Rick looked out the window, at nothing. “You might say I liked the potential payday. Or you might say I was tired of looking for the waters in Casablanca and coming up with nothing but sand.” He took a deep drag on his Chesterfield and exhaled. “Or you just might say that destiny finally caught up with me.”

  Her letter was in his breast pocket. Sam had given it to him in the cafÉ, before he had left for the airport and his fatal encounter with Major Strasser. It had been hidden in Sam's piano, the same place Rick himself had hidden the stolen letters of transit that enabled Laszlo and Ilsa to get away.

  My dearest Richard,

  If you are reading this letter, it means that I have escaped with Victor.

  I thought that after Paris I should never have to part from you this way again. Yet here we are, having to say good-bye twice, once with our lips and once more with our hearts.

  You must believe me when I tell you that when we met I thought Victor was dead. We said no questions, and I never questioned the fact that I was free to love you. Some women search all their lives for a man to love. I have found two.

  As I write these words, I don't know what will happen tonight at the airport. Like the last time we parted, I cannot be sure that we shall meet again. But unlike the last time, I can hope.

  In Lisbon, we shall stay at the Hotel Aviz. After that, only God knows. Please come if you can. If not for my sake, then for Victor's. We both need you.

  Ilsa—

  The big car sailed through the damp night like an ocean liner on a calm sea, picking up speed despite the poor roadway. Sam piloted the vehicle expertly, the way he played the piano. He sensed rather than saw the turnoffs, reading them the way a blind man read Braille. They were well away from the city now.

  “Turn on the radio, will you, Sacha?” asked Rick. He was tired of talking, and before they lost the signal he wanted to hear some music. Maybe something from Benny Goodman and his band. He was also wondering whether the news of Major Strasser's death had been broadcast yet.