Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “Perhaps not,” said Lise. “Do you remember the cafe where we had dinner? The concierge there is a sympathizer.”

  “Do you think he will keep our package temporarily?”

  “I think we ought to try him.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  The Germans glanced up with little more than a curious interest at the couple as they came back out of the alley carrying their box. No one seemed to express much astonishment that they had found the wild cat so soon. They waved the Frenchman and woman on. They had been posted here to stop Resistance agents, not sentimental cat-lovers.

  In less than ten minutes they were inside the cafe. The concierge was sweeping, preparing to close the moment the two or three of his remaining customers departed. From the look on his face he was not altogether pleased at the two new arrivals.

  He listened to their highly sensitive request with even more skepticism. Sympathizer though he was, the concierge was also by necessity a very cautious man. He had a family and a decent little business. He was in sympathy, but not anxious to get involved in any underground activities. He was certainly not sympathetic enough to die for this cause. And there could be no other penalty for being caught with a wireless. In the end, however, Logan managed to convince him that his help would only be required for twelve hours. He would himself be back first thing in the morning to retrieve it.

  “What could happen, after all, in such a short time? You will be asleep, and so will the Germans,” said Logan.

  Once the last of the customers had exited, the concierge took the box to his basement where he stowed it in a spot that he felt was safe, even should the Gestapo mount a full-scale raid of the place. Logan made a mental note of the place, for it was sure to come in handy again.

  He and Lise then bade the man good night with profuse thanks, and departed. Once outside, Logan looked at his watch. He had but twenty minutes to get home. They made it back to Lise’s apartment, sneaking behind the two detection vans that had progressed beyond her building and farther down the street. He retrieved his bicycle, then set off.

  The frigid wind whipped across his face like fingers of ice. It had stopped snowing long ago, but the temperature must have dropped ten degrees since dinner. Logan’s gloved fingers nearly froze around the handle grips, and even the exertion of pedaling twenty miles an hour did not help neutralize the cold. He tried to focus his mind on the events of the day in order to forget his discomfort.

  First there had been the disquieting news about Claude’s friend Louis. By now the wheels were in motion to help him, whether it was the right thing to do or not.

  Suddenly the face of Alec jumped into Logan’s mind. What would his father-in-law think of him helping a man who had knifed a German in the Metro? In the years of his association with Alec, Logan had often measured his own responses by how his father-in-law—a man he greatly admired—might react. But there were too many gray areas to make any clear sense of his present moral dilemma. Perhaps things would become clearer once he met Louis face-to-face. Perhaps not. It was, after all, wartime. And moral dilemmas were all the more thorny during war.

  And Logan also faced the wireless problem. He had to retrieve it in the morning, but what would he do with it if he had found no new safe location from which he and Lise could operate? Her apartment could no longer be relied upon. Perhaps by the light of day the concierge would be less fainthearted and would agree to keep it a bit longer. But the radio couldn’t remain out of use for long. There were important communiques that had to be relayed to London. Logan had a pocketful of them right now. They would need responses. Without a wireless in operation, their underground activities would be seriously crippled.

  The pressing needs of his present situation managed to divert Logan’s mind from the wind biting into his skin. He was so absorbed in trying to sort out all the possible locations for his radio that he paid little attention to the condition of the streets. About halfway home, accelerating downhill, he rounded a corner and suddenly hit a patch of black ice. The front wheel of his bicycle twisted out of control, jerking the handlebars loose in his hands. The bicycle slid sideways out from under him, and Logan was sent sprawling up against the cement post of a street lamp.

  Logan lay dazed for several moments before he could take stock of his situation. The side of his face and his shoulder were badly bruised. He forced himself to try to stand, but the left side of his body refused to cooperate. He glanced at his watch. The hands were moving steadily toward midnight.

  He forced himself to his feet, ignoring the pain of his scrapes and bruises, then hobbled to where his bike lay. He stooped down to pick up the precious bicycle. A few spokes were bent, but otherwise it seemed usable. By the time he once again straddled the seat and set off again, more slowly, it was already midnight.

  As soon as the opportunity presented itself, Logan turned off the main avenue he had been following and began to make his way by means of side streets, keeping to the shadows.

  Three blocks from his place he had no choice but to cross a wide boulevard. It was only ten minutes past twelve. If he was lucky, he might—

  “Halt!” came a sharp German voice at Logan’s back.

  For a split instant many thoughts flew through Logan’s mind. Could he outwit the bullet that was sure to follow if he kept going and tried to make a dash for it? What was the current discipline for breakers of the curfew? If I’m lucky, perhaps only deportation to a forced labor camp in Germany, he thought glumly.

  His cover was solid, his papers flawless, forgeries though they were. Might he be so lucky as to get by with a mere warning?

  Suddenly his heart stopped. He still had the slips of incriminating papers in his pocket! Those wireless messages were worth a firing squad at the very least.

  He was just about to make a run for it when the German shouted for him to stop a second time.

  Without thinking it over, suddenly reason took over and he slammed on his brakes. There was no sense getting killed. If Skittles had taught him one thing, it was never to give up until he’d fully played out his hand.

  35

  Interrogation

  Logan looked about the small room for the twentieth time.

  Despite the hour, he had been unable to relax enough to sleep though he was extremely tired. He had been here for hours, imprisoned in what he took to be a holding cell. It was certainly far better than the dungeonlike accommodations where they had kept Poletski downstairs.

  It was not the first time he had scanned the room for some possible escape route. But since being deposited there five hours earlier, all his attempts to come up with some way out had proved equally futile.

  He had been taken straight to the S.S. headquarters on the avenue Foch, and he could not miss the irony that less than a week ago he had rescued three inmates from this very place. Now he was the prisoner, and if he were to remain locked in this room with only a bed and chair, his stay would no doubt be a long one. There were not even sheets on the bed—only a small blanket. Someone obviously planned the accommodations to deter escape through the window, though it was covered with steel bars, or, failing that, the possibility of hanging oneself from the bare light fixture in the ceiling.

  Logan was not yet ready for such extremes.

  As far as he knew he was still believed to be nothing more than a common curfew breaker. Except for a cursory frisk for weapons, he had not been searched.

  His messages had not been discovered, and the moment he had been left alone he set about destroying them. He tore each one into tiny bits, then, prying the window open a crack through the bars, shoved them out where the scraps floated to the ground, mingling inconspicuously with the falling snow.

  Yet he could not feel completely relieved. He was worried about this long wait. Any good confidence man knows that a delay in a scam plays against the con man. The primary rule was swiftness—never give the victim the chance to think.

  In this case the victim—though he laughed inwardly at
the inaptness of the analogy—was the Nazis, and the longer they mulled over what to do with this curfew breaker, the more chance they might have to discover his true intentions. He would have been immensely relieved to know that the long delay was due to nothing more sinister than bureaucratic foul-up. The efficient Nazis had locked him up, then simply forgotten about him. He could thank the opening of Verdi’s opera La Traviata for that; the cocktail party that had followed had occupied many officers, leaving headquarters short-staffed until late into the night.

  By six o’clock a.m. he had gone over every inch of the room several times, fixed his cover story firmly in his mind, and was beginning to wonder about breakfast when he heard a key in the lock.

  He began pacing nervously across the room like the harried, supposedly innocent citizen he was pretending to be. But when the S.S. captain walked in, in his trim black uniform, Logan was in complete possession of himself. The German was a young man for an officer, several years Logan’s junior, though his fair skin and blonde hair made him appear even younger. But for all his youthful appearance, his well-defined jaw was as firm as if it were set in granite, and his Aryan blue eyes were more reminiscent of ice than they were of the sky or the sea.

  “Vous êtes, Michel Tanant?” he said in the polished French of either an educated man or a skilled con artist. Logan guessed from the captain’s bearing that it was the former.

  “Oui,” replied Logan, then added in a frazzled voice, “Please, I’ve been kept here all night. I don’t understand.”

  “You have violated the curfew.”

  “Oui, but—”

  “Sit down!” ordered the captain.

  Logan hesitated, then, complying like a whipped puppy, slumped down on the edge of the bed. The captain sat on the single chair and shuffled through a sheaf of documents that Logan recognized as his identity papers which had been confiscated upon his arrest. Have they discovered some flaw in them? he wondered. Even good forgeries were never perfect.

  “I am Captain Neumann,” said the man. “Your papers appear to be in order. I see no reason to detain you. However, there are a few questions I would like to ask you. Afterward it may be possible for you to go.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Logan with immense gratitude. “I assure you that if it had not been for my accident I would have—”

  “You are from Lyon?” broke in Neumann impatiently.

  “Oui.”

  “What is your mother’s name?”

  “Marie.”

  “How many sisters has she?”

  “Two.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Why, Aunt Suzanne and Aunt Yvonne . . .”

  The captain was employing a method of interrogation popular with the Germans during snap controls or at roadblocks or borders. A suspect found himself bombarded with a barrage of questions any innocent man ought to be able to answer without thought. If a suspect stumbled or faltered over any reply, he stood immediately accused.

  Logan’s cover had included none of the previous information, but it didn’t matter. The captain would never check up on any of it. He was not even listening to the answers, only scrutinizing Logan’s demeanor while responding. As Logan rattled off his answers, he did not hesitate, but answered as if such names had always been part of his life, not merely thought up that instant.

  “Where do they live?”

  “My aunts?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aunt Suzanne lives in Lyon, but Aunt Yvonne married an artist and now lives in Arles—you know, following in the footsteps of Van Gogh and all that—”

  “Where is your father?” interrupted Neumann, not the least bit interested in turning this interrogation into a conversation.

  “He’s dead.”

  “And your mother, Michelle . . . ?”

  “It’s Marie—and she’s dead also.”

  “Buried in Lyon where your Aunt Yvonne lives?”

  “No, she’s the one in Arles—with the artist.” Then Logan added, as in a wounded tone, “I simply don’t understand the meaning of all this.”

  “Your mother is buried in Lyon?”

  “Yes. Next to my father. But please—”

  “That is all, Monsieur Tanant,” said the captain crisply, rising. “You will come with me.”

  “But where—?”

  “Quickly!” snapped the captain. Logan jumped up obediently.

  They exited the tiny room. That, at least, was a small relief. Logan still had no idea what was to become of him. Neumann had left the impression that he was about to be released, but then that could be only another clever trick—raise a man’s confidence so that he lets down and gets sloppy.

  Logan knew he had been scrupulously careful with his responses. Perhaps too much so. There was such a fine line, and one could not always tell when or if he might have inadvertently crossed it.

  He and Neumann walked side by side. Logan was quick to note that the captain did not think him a dangerous enough prisoner to draw his gun. Still, he would never be so foolish as to attempt a break in the heart of S.S. headquarters with dozens of armed soldiers close at hand. Using a surreptitious disguise was one thing. But a pitched race through these halls was quite another. He’d never make it to the end of the corridor.

  Nevertheless, he would remain watchful and ever vigilant of his surroundings. One could never tell when an acceptable opportunity might arise.

  They turned a corner and Logan saw the main stairway just ahead. His hopes began to rise.

  Three officers were ascending and had just reached the landing. Suddenly Logan’s short-lived hopes plummeted. There, at the top of the stair, was the last person Logan had ever expected to see again—Colonel Martin von Graff!

  Only now Logan could plainly see it was General, and he wore the uniform and insignia of the S.S. rather than the Abwehr. If he recognized him, Logan was finished.

  But General von Graff and his companions walked briskly past, only exchanging salutes with Neumann.

  It seemed too good to be true, thought Logan, as he walked steadily on toward the door. They had met in person only that one time. Much had happened since. It was possible he had—

  “Captain Neumann,” came von Graff’s commanding but cultured voice from behind them.

  Logan felt the blood drain from his face. All the disciplined training in the world could not have prevented it. Desperately he tried to gather back his composure. There was always a way out—a bluff! He had to think fast!

  Neumann turned smartly to face his superior. “Ja, mein General?” he said.

  “Why do you have this man?” he asked, eyeing Logan.

  “He was caught violating curfew,” answered Neumann. “He was brought in last night for questioning.”

  “I see . . .”

  Von Graff paused, apparently in thought, most likely trying to remember where he had seen the face before, and then analyzing this unexpected turn in the same way that Logan was also doing at that very instant.

  “Take him to my office,” von Graff finally said decisively. “I must take care of a small matter and then I will be there. I will be ten minutes at most—remain with him the entire time!”

  “Ja, mein Herr!”

  Logan understood enough German to know what had transpired. But he still did not know whether this was a boon or a disaster.

  Von Graff continued on his way, and Neumann took his prisoner more firmly in tow back down the corridor the way they had come. Apparently there was more to this Michel Tanant than met the eye. And young Captain Neumann kept well hidden his own queasy stomach—for he had been about to release him!

  36

  Unsought Reunion

  “This is an unexpected surprise,” said von Graff with understated irony, turning to Logan for the first time.

  When he had entered the room a few moments earlier, he had gone straight up to Neumann and exchanged a few words. The captain gave his superior the particulars of Logan’s arrest. Then von Graff dismis
sed the captain and Neumann turned briskly and left the room. Logan found it difficult to read his controlled expression.

  “It is for me also,” Logan replied.

  The conversation was carried on in English, and Logan decided to leave it that way. Undoubtedly von Graff knew that Logan was proficient in French and there was little he could do about that. But he thought it might somehow work to his advantage if he underplayed his limited knowledge of German for the time being. In the ten minutes he had been sitting alone in silence with Neumann awaiting the general’s arrival, Logan had been hastily trying to collect his wits and figure some way out of this jam he found himself in. Was his cover blown completely? Or might he possibly resurrect his old Trinity identity by which von Graff had known him and play out that game a little longer? Could there be some plausible reason for Trinity to be in Paris and still in league with the Nazis? If so, could he make von Graff buy it? Or had the S.S. already linked him to the underground?

  “Naturally, explanations will have to be made,” said von Graff.

  “Naturally.”

  Maybe he could tell him that he had been found out by MI5 and forced to flee London. Yes . . . that could work—if the Trinity they had brought in to replace him had made no transmissions to Germany in the last two days. The schedule with the Abwehr when he had been Trinity several months ago had been one transmission a week, on Tuesdays. It was now Saturday morning. He might be in the clear. Of course all that could have changed. For all he knew MI5 might already have disposed of Trinity. When Logan had gone into the SOE they had decided to keep Trinity as a notional agent because he had been bringing in some valuable intelligence. Gunther had even begun to be slightly jealous at the Abwehr’s favoring of this new recruit. Yet, in the time since he had left, Trinity could have easily played out his usefulness. In hindsight, it was foolish to have kept such a loose end active. But who could have guessed that an agent working undercover in Paris would stumble into such a coincidence?

  Still, if he could just make this all work for him, he might land on his feet. He would have to feel von Graff out. If the jig was up, well . . . he supposed he couldn’t have expected this to go on forever. Many agents were glad to last as long as he had. He tried not to think of the consequences awaiting failure. Naturally, his cyanide was in his other suit—but perhaps that was lucky too, for it would have been a dead giveaway.