Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “Yes, Herr Soustelle,” said the secretary. “General von Graff is expecting you. Go right in.”

  Soustelle neither paused nor hesitated. He opened the door to the inner office and stepped smartly inside the spacious room, clicking his heels sharply together while stiffly raising his right hand in the air.

  “Heil Hitler!”

  “Heil Hitler,” replied von Graff in the more casual tone of one who does not have to try so hard to prove his loyalty.

  The fortunes of Martin von Graff had altered dramatically in the last several months. He had never been completely content in the Abwehr. For one thing, he could never tolerate Admiral Canaris, that perpetual intriguer who ruled military intelligence, regardless of the fact that they were both Navy men. One never knew where one stood with the old man and, moreover, one never quite knew where the old man stood. However, lately the vacillating Canaris was leaning too dangerously toward anti-Nazism to suit von Graff. Not that he was a fanatic himself, but he was not about to risk being in the wrong camp when the Führer’s designs reached their victorious climax—as they certainly must. Thus, taking masterful advantage of the constant in-fighting between the Abwehr and the Gestapo, von Graff had secured his present position in the S.S. hierarchy, upon recommendation of Heinrich Himmler himself.

  Landing the Paris assignment had been a coup far beyond his hopes as a relatively new S.S. recruit. Here in the cultural hub of the world, he felt as if there might be life beyond the war, after all. Hitler was adamant that the reputation of Paris should not decline during his wartime regime—hoping, no doubt, to make it a showcase of Third Reich “culture” later. Thus the arts continued to flourish. Von Graff attended the theater or opera nearly every night, and considered himself treated to fine performances each time.

  Yes, things were going well for him. He was not about to let recent setbacks destroy everything.

  He leaned back in his chair and focused his cold, unrelenting gaze upon the unscrupulous French collaborator before him.

  “Well, Herr Soustelle,” said von Graff, “I hope it is good news you have for me today.”

  “These things take time, mon General,” hedged Soustelle.

  “Time, Soustelle . . . ?” Von Graff let his words trail off with an ominous impression. “In the time since we borrowed you from the S.D., we have lost three more major prisoners, which does not include last night’s loss of that Jew Poletski and his family. That makes six in two months, Herr Soustelle. I need not tell you how bad that looks.”

  He was thinking as much about his own reputation as Soustelle’s. To have these escapes coincide so inconveniently with his own arrival in Paris was most unfortunate.

  “So you see,” he went on, “your talk of time does not put me at ease. Time is going by and you seem to be getting nowhere.”

  “I assure you, mon General, I have my best people on it,” replied Soustelle. “I have one reliable informer in the Resistance who is almost certain these particular escapes are originating with one network, masterminded by one certain crafty man.”

  “Exactly as we have suspected!” von Graff burst out—whether in pleasure or frustration, it was hard to tell.

  “Yes, mon General.”

  “And who is this one crafty individual?”

  “If I knew that, you and I would not be standing here sweating today, now would we?”

  “You have a great deal of nerve for a Frenchman,” said von Graff caustically—he did not like how close to the mark Soustelle’s jibe had been.

  “My nerve is what makes me good at what I do,” said Soustelle, his boldness rising once more. He had been foolish to fear this man. “And why I seldom fail.”

  “So you say! Thus far I have witnessed none of your reputed ingenuity.”

  Von Graff rose from his chair and walked to the window behind his desk. Snow had begun to pile up in the gutters; the busy late afternoon traffic, mostly bicycles and pedestrians, hurried along to homes or cafes where they might find some warmth.

  “You know nothing about this man?” asked the general at length. It galled him that anyone, even one of the crowd below, could be the culprit, perhaps spying on him at this very moment, and yet he was no closer to finding him than if he were on another planet.

  “Very little,” answered Soustelle. “But there are already whisperings of him circulating in the streets. It seems your six are only the most famous of his escapees. Many others have benefited from his aid—especially Jews, escaped prisoners of war, foreigners who could not get out when the city was first occupied.”

  “He is mocking us!” shouted von Graff, slamming his hand down upon the desk.

  “He will be ours in time, I assure you.”

  “Time! Time! Meanwhile, he sets people free, and we look like fools!”

  “We are already laying a trap for this traitor the people consider a folk hero. His own cleverness will be his downfall.”

  “Folk hero! Bah!”

  “I have heard the code name L’Escroc used.”

  “L’Escroc . . . ?” repeated von Graff thoughtfully. “The swindler.”

  “Oui. They say it is the Germans he is swindling—out of their prize prisoners.”

  Von Graff glanced out the window at the people below once more, then spun around and flashed his piercing glint upon the Frenchman. “I want him, Soustelle; do you understand?”

  “I understand perfectly. And you shall have him. I want him, too.”

  “I am glad we agree on that,” he said with a touch of sarcasm in his tone. “I understand there is great need for S.D. units on the Eastern Front—they may soon have to draw them from Paris itself, or so I understand.”

  “So I have heard,” replied Soustelle, returning the general’s piercing gaze. He would play the man’s subtle little war of nerves. He was not afraid.

  “It is very cold in Russia this time of year.”

  “So my Russian acquaintances have said,” replied Soustelle, still calmly. As he spoke a tremendous urge came upon him to dig into his pocket. But another piece of licorice would have to wait. He comforted himself with the knowledge that this new S.S. general might just have the Russian front looming in his future as well.

  Once he was again outside, Soustelle strode down the avenue doggedly, with large determined strides, arms swinging widely. His cheeks bulged with licorice.

  He would find this L’Escroc! He would ferret him out of whatever resistance hole he was hiding in. He would find him, or . . .

  There was no or! He would find him! This fool had gone too far when he threatened the comfort and advancement of Arnaud Soustelle.

  32

  L’Escroc

  Logan glanced across the table at Henri, who was thoughtfully buttering a slice of bread.

  They were enjoying a light lunch at Chez Lorainne, the cafe across from Logan’s hotel, where he had become something of a regular customer of late. The conversation between the two men, however, was not as light as the meal. This had been their first major dispute since joining forces nearly four months ago.

  Henri took a bite of bread with frustrating deliberation, chewing carefully, thoroughly, as he just as methodically considered his response to the current problem that faced them.

  “No matter what has been done, Michel,” he said at length, “he is one of us and we must help him.”

  “I disagree, Henri,” Logan replied flatly. “This resistance business brings many strange birds together. But we must draw the line somewhere. And I draw it when it comes to aiding a cold-blooded and merciless killer.”

  “There are many among us who would take issue with you. A war necessitates the letting of blood.”

  “Are you one of them, mon ami?”

  Henri sighed and stared at the bread on his plate as if he might escape to the solace of food once more. But instead he turned his gaze back to Logan.

  “Boche are Boche,” he said. “What difference does it make how they die?”

  “You don’t honestly
believe that.”

  “Last week we blew up a train carrying German soldiers,” returned Henri. “What is the difference between that and killing one in the Metro?”

  Logan leaned heavily against the hard wooden back of the booth where he sat. He scrutinized Henri for a moment. Here is a sensitive man, a feeling and compassionate man, he thought, caught in the ugly net of war, forced to say and do things he would never say and do under any other circumstances. In peacetime, Logan doubted he would so much as speak harshly to a dog. He was probably the sort of man who would alter his footfall at the last moment to avoid stepping on a beetle on the sidewalk. He was a gentle man . . . a good man. Yet here he was talking about killing a trainload of men as if it were scarcely more out of the ordinary than an afternoon’s walk down to the market.

  “What a business!” sighed Logan at length.

  “Acts of sabotage . . . acts of murder—it gets very mixed up, Michel. And to be truthful,” Henri went on in a faraway voice that almost made it sound as though he wished he could say the same about himself, “I do not say you are wrong to question it.”

  “There is something intrinsically inhuman and atrocious about stabbing a lone man in the back, a man who is unsuspecting and probably doing nothing more sinister than enjoying a few days leave in Paris. That is murder, and I’ll have no part in it. That is worlds away from helping condemned men and women to their freedom.”

  Logan did not like to be faced with the more glaring inconsistencies of his present vocation. He had steadfastly refused to use or carry a weapon, though perhaps he had not examined his moral code thoroughly. Probably it amounted to nothing more than a carry-over from the old days when avoiding the seamier side of his “profession” had somehow assuaged his conscience. He had never been a street fighter, though he knew he could fight. But to go beyond that . . . he didn’t know, and was perhaps afraid of placing himself in the position where he’d find out.

  He had avoided looking at the wider implications of what he was doing—that he was fighting in a cruel war, and that death was an intrinsic part of the process. If the axiom of guilt by association was true, then was he not equally culpable as this friend of Claude’s whom they were now discussing?

  He should have known that eventually he would face such an impasse, especially when dealing with such a vicious character as Claude. They had not found so much as an inch of common ground in four months, and had only avoided a blow-out because they studiously stayed out of each other’s way. But the uneasy peace could not last forever, especially once Logan began to suspect Claude’s part in the street killings of German soldiers. He had hinted to one or two of the others about getting rid of him, but he had never actively pursued such a notion because deep down Logan knew Claude served a vital function in the La Librairie network. Claude was the sabotage expert, and if he were not around to lay the bombs that blew up trains, they might try to enlist Logan for the job.

  For now, however, Logan could not let himself wade through the overall moral questions of what he was involved in. Somehow he had to keep as much as possible black and white, and, failing that, he would just have to focus on the vile enemy they were all, Claude included, fighting.

  “Bien entendu,” Logan finally conceded with a ragged sigh. “Tell me about Claude’s companion.”

  “He calls himself Louis,” said Henri. “He was an officer in the French army and served courageously with the defenders of the Maginot Line in ’40. He eluded capture when the defense finally broke, and made his way to the mountains, where he fought with the Marquis until about six months ago, when he came to Paris in an attempt to enlist support for the guerrilla fighters.”

  “Why don’t his Communist friends help him?”

  “One of his Communist friends is helping him,” replied Henri pointedly. “He came to Claude, and Claude has come to us. Do you think this resistance will get anywhere if we maintain all these petty differences?”

  “I suppose you’re right.”

  “Besides, Louis’ regular contacts are being too closely watched right now,” added Henri.

  “What does he want?”

  “A new identity and all the falsified documents to go along with it. He wants to get to the unoccupied zone where he won’t be such a hot property. I think Jean Pierre’s man can accommodate us with the printing.”

  “No,” interjected Logan quickly. “I don’t want to risk Jean Pierre in this—in fact, I’m still not sure we ought to risk anyone.”

  “Look at it this way, mon ami,” said Henri, his quiet voice taking on a shrewd yet fatherly quality. “Louis is a marked man and, if he remains in Paris, is sure to be caught eventually. He knows a great deal, even more about La Librairie than is safe. So unless you are willing to put a bullet through his head, our only recourse is to do what we can to get him out of here.”

  “Adroitly phrased! Beneath all that genteel facade, you are a cagey old fox, Henri.” Logan shook his head in defeat, but let his lips turn up in an affectionate smile.

  “You are L’Escroc. Perhaps I should be Le Renard, eh?” He winked and sent Logan a knowing grin in reply. “The fox; what do you think?”

  Judging from his response, Logan did not join in the amusement. “You do not like your new-found fame, do you, Michel?” said Henri more seriously.

  “Fame is not very healthy in this work,” replied Logan. “Even a back table in a deserted cafe is too risky a place to be discussing such things.”

  “I am sorry, Michel. I would have said nothing if I thought there was the slightest chance—”

  “I know, Henri,” said Logan apologetically. “I suppose the whole thing isn’t setting altogether well with me. It is not only the notoriety and the danger that accompanies it, but also being thought too highly of. We all work together and take the same risks. I deserve no special honor.”

  “If glory were all you had to worry about, then your problems would indeed be small ones.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “L’Escroc is bound to be something of a scapegoat too,” said Henri gravely. “Don’t be fooled. Those who whisper the name about the streets after there has been a particularly notable escape—whether it was your doing or not—care less for your glory than to have the attention of the Germans focused on someone besides themselves.”

  “Wonderful comrades we have out there,” said Logan dryly.

  “To most of them L’Escroc is an idea, a symbol. I think a good many of them would watch their tongues a little more closely if they really thought of him as a real person.”

  “I suppose this being a symbol wouldn’t be so bad if some good could come of it, like bringing together some of the factions.”

  Henri contemplated his food once more in thought, then looked up. “Yes,” he said slowly, almost regretfully. “But believe me, a symbol is a benefit in work such as this. I can’t say it would heal all the wounds and unite the French people. But it does provide a rallying point, a symbol of hope. And that is the last thing the Germans want here in Paris. They will do everything in their power to crush it.”

  Saying nothing, Logan merely raised his eyes at Henri’s words as their full implication settled in upon him.

  “The very thing that could sustain us,” said Henri, “could also destroy us. ‘Entertaining hope means recognizing fear,’” he added, then paused and smiled, as if recalling a pleasant memory. “My wife is a bit ‘touched in the head’ over Browning, but I never thought I’d be quoting him in the midst of my present circumstances.”

  “You’ve never mentioned being married,” said Logan in some astonishment.

  “That is perhaps the greatest shame of this life—that we are not able to be together. Every day I pray that I will be spared long enough to see her again.”

  “Where is she?”

  “Just before the Boche came, I was able to get Marcelle and our children south, where a friend ran a fishing boat out of Cannes. He got them to England.”

  “Why didn’t you
go with them?”

  “What! And leave my precious books to the Nazis?” His eye twinkled mischievously.

  “I think you and our friend Poletski are cut from the same cloth,” said Logan.

  “Once my family was safe,” Henri went on, “how could I turn my back on my country? I was too old for the army but knew there would be many other tasks to be done, and a battlefield of sorts upon which to serve right here in Paris.”

  “Your wife must love you very much.”

  “Of course! She is my wife.”

  “It does not necessarily follow that she must love you. Many wives stop loving their husbands.”

  “Ah, Michel, that shows how little you truly understand marriage. No wife ever stopped loving her husband, when he was truly loving her as a man was intended to love a woman.”

  “Are you saying people do not fall in love, and then out of it again?”

  “Michel! Michel! What has falling in love to do with marriage? Nothing! You are not married, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Actually, I am married,” replied Logan.

  “Then for your sake—and your wife’s—I hope that someday soon you leave behind this foolishness about being ‘in love.’ No marriage can survive unless it gets past that and to the love of sacrifice. Ah, but you are young!”

  “But you said your wife loved you. I assume you love her?”

  “Of course! of course! We are in love now because we first learned how to sacrifice ourselves one to the other. We have learned to serve, to lay down our lives, to wash each other’s feet, so to speak. You don’t do those kinds of things year after year unless you are determined to love. Not in love, but determined to love.”

  “Hmm,” mused Logan. “I guess I always thought love had to come first in a marriage.”

  “Non, mon ami. Love—that comes second! First comes commitment, sacrifice. Then, and only then, comes true and lasting love. That is why my wife and I are now in love.”

  Logan said no more. He had certainly been given plenty to think about.

  33

  A Quiet Supper