[NS] The Next Morning, 11:00 A.M.

Rick's Cafe' Americain was a night club, meaning its business hours were at night. The normal schedule was as follows:

• 5:00 P.M. Doors open. Bar and gambling room available.
• 7:00 P.M. Dining is available.
• 8:00 P.M. Band begins to perform.
• 12:00 A.M. Kitchen closes. Band quits performing.
• 1:30 A.M. Last call.
• 2:00 A.M. Doors close.

However, in order for that to happen, the following 'internal' schedule is observed:

• 11:00 Cleaning staff begins work in the Main Room, gambling room, veranda, and front of building.
• 3:00 Kitchen staff starts working.
• 4:00 Bar staff and gambling room staff set up.

Despite this, there was a loud, persistent banging from outside. Carl, the head waiter/bookkeeper/consiliare, yelled towards the door in his heavy Hungarian accent. "We're closed!"

The banging continued despite Carl's shouts. Finally, the rotund Carl slid from the bar stool where he had been making entries into one of the large, cloth bound ledgers, to totter over to the door. He had on his waiter's outfit, but the top button of his shirt was open and his tie hung loosely around his neck. On his feet were a pair of well-worn house slippers. Like Rick, who lived upstairs over the gambling room, Carl lived at the club. He had two rooms around back over the kitchen.

Sliding back the three dead bolts of the heavy wooden door, he opened his mouth to chew out whoever it was on the other side. But no words came out. Instead, after a stammer or two, Carl exclaimed, "Captain Renault!"

"Is Mister Rick here?" the Prefect of Police asked by way of greeting. He removed his kepi, with its flat circular top and gold oak leaves across the front, as he walked into the night club.

Carl peered over the rims of his wire framed glasses that were resting on the end of his slightly bulbous nose, looking up towards the landing to Rick's apartment. "I think so. I have not yet seen him this morning."

"Ask him to join me out on the veranda if he is," the policeman replied as he headed towards the series of French doors. "And bring a bottle of cognac with two glasses."

After completing his first assignment, Carl appeared at the outdoor table of Captain Renault with a tray holding the bottle and two glasses. Setting down the tray and patting at his always disheveled mop of white hair, the Hungarian expatriate relayed a message. "Mister Rick says he will be right down."

Captain Renault had just poured a drink into one of the glasses when Rick showed up. The nightclub owner had on a pair of khaki work pants, leather sandals with no socks, and a black, waist length Moroccan style pull over shirt - or kurta. His eyes were blurry and his hair seems to only have had a comb run quickly through it. An ever present lit cigarette dangled between his lips. His left hand clutched a pack of smokes and lighter.

"I didn't think you crawled out of bed before noon, Louie," Rick announced when he stepped out on the veranda.

Foregoing their typical banter, Captain Renault told Rick to sit down. The look of slight worry on Rick's face turned into a deep concern. Already his mind was racing, trying to figure out what was the reason for this call. Had Sascha finally gone off the deep end and shot someone?

As soon as Rick was seated, Captain Renault reached into one of the side pockets of the coat of his navy blue police uniform. He tossed an Irish passport in front of Rick, asking, "Do you know him?"

Rick was somewhat relieved when he opened the cover. It was not Sascha's passport; it was Baxter's. "Yeah, he and I used to run guns to Ethiopia during the war." Rick slid the passport across the table to Renault, "He was in here last night. Is something wrong?"

"He is dead, Rick," Captain Renault announced simply and without emotion. He had learned long ago that no words or 'sugar coating' could alter the emotions associated with ****, so a simple, straight forward statement was the best. Any comfort must be in the tone, not the words.

"Dead?" Rick ran his hand over his mouth. "How did that happened?"

Renault noticed that that Rick had not reached for a drink, so perhaps the two were not that close. Then again, Rick was a chess player. Maybe he had =deliberately= not taken a drink. As to Rick's question, the policeman replied, "He was stabbed in the back. A local heading to morning prayers, their Fajr, found him in an alley." Renault nodded towards the main room. "Just a block from here. His pants were down around his ankles and all of his valuables missing."

"Was he..." Rick had trouble finishing the question.

"****?" Renault finished it for him. "It did not appear so. I will know more when I get the medical report." Stroking the narrow mustache on his upper lip, the Prefect moved on to his next question, "When was the last time you saw this Mister Baxter?"

"Let's see," Rick rubbed his chin, and also being reminded that he needed a shave. "Nineteen....thirty seven. No. Thirty six. Yes, thirty six."

"Five years ago?" Captain Renault wanted to make certain they were both on the same page. When Rick nodded yes, Renault asked, "Any contact before last night? Any letters, telegrams, phone calls... Chance encounters in a public or private place?"

Rick gave a slight shake of the head to each point, finally asking with a half-grin, "Am I a suspect, Louie?"

It was the policeman's turn to shake his head. "No. I have known you for four years. This is not your style. Of course," he took a sip of his cognac, "I often change my mind... What did he want?"

This time Rick tugged on his right earlobe as he thought about the question. "I think he wanted to borrow some money. But he never got around to coming right out and saying so."

Captain Renault picked up the passport, staring down at it in silence for several moments. Finally, tapping his index finger against the side of his nose, he announced, "Something is not right. After five years, he suddenly turns up out of the blue. And just as suddenly, he turns up dead. His money, wallet, watch, and jewelry are stolen, but this is left behind. Why? A passport... especially from a neutral country... is very valuable in Casablanca."

"Maybe it is forged," Rick suggested.

A quizzical look crossed Captain Renault's face when Rick said that. Opening the passport and holding a single page between his thumb and forefinger, Renault lifted it over his head. The Police Prefect squinted at the page with the light from the sun-lit street outside illuminating it from behind. "If it is," he examined both sides of the page, "It is very good."

"No matter," Renault returned the passport to its original outside coat pocket and stood up. "I will get to the bottom of it... I always do."

"Leaving so soon, Louie?" Rick looked up from his chair as he lit another cigarette.

"Oh, don't worry, Rick. We will discuss this more later. But for now," he pushed up the starched cuff of his white shirt to glance at his watch. "I have a one o'clock appointment back at headquarters... An interview about an exit visa."

Rick chuckled. Now Louie was sounding more like his old self. "Let me guess... She's a blonde."

"Not sure," he picked up his kepi and carefully set it at a rakish angle. "She is blonde on top... By end of the interview I shall know if that is her natural color."