Guests in the House

Night after night in France's capital city, the fierce "war of extermination" rages on between the factions of Algerian nationalists. Last week the little Algerian cafe on Paris' Rue Petit saw its second massacre within a month, as three North Africans went down before a rain of machine-gun bullets fired from a parked limousine. In a north Paris suburb, a group of gunners stalked into a shabby hotel, killed six Algerians who shared a single room. Near the Eiffel Tower, under the noses of a police escort, assassins sprayed machine-gun bullets at Abdelkader Barakrok, secretary of state in the French Ministry for Algerian Affairs, as he returned from a late session of the National Assembly (they missed).

Drunks, pickpockets, terrified Algerians --all of them were merely part of the day's work to the weary Brigadier one night last week at the Commissariat de Police in the dreary eastern end of the city. At a sudden disturbance, he raised an eye heavily from engrossing newspaper reports of the day's football to listen to the trembling man who stood before him. "Please read this, monsieur,'" pleaded the visitor, who had just rushed in, holding out a letter written in Arabic. "I am condemned to death. They will kill me at midnight. Help me! Put me in jail!"

His mind still occupied with the unaccountable failure of his favorite team to score when goals were needed, the Brigadier rose silently from his desk, opened a cell door and beckoned the frightened North African in. A moment later, secure and safe in the bosom of French law, the Algerian was curled up on a bench sound asleep.

Barely half an hour later, another bedraggled Algerian, apparently as frightened as his predecessor, darted into the police station. "I too have to die at midnight," he cried. "My friend has found shelter here. Save me too!" The silent ritual was repeated. The cell door was opened, and the newcomer was ushered in to sanctuary. The clock ticked on, to the occasional rustle of newsprint.

At 2 a.m. the second Algerian emerged from his cell. "The hour of danger has passed," he said. "I am going home." The Brigadier nodded. "And your companion?" he asked. "He is weary," said the departing guest. "Let him sleep." The Brigadier looked. Sure enough, there on the bench, his blanket close under his chin, the first Algerian lay still and quiet. The Brigadier waved the departing guest a curt good night and settled back to contemplation. It was not until six hours later, when the night shift was over at last, that the Brigadier discovered the fatal dagger sunk deep between the shoulder blades of his first overnight guest.

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