“Jean Pierre!” Logan’s voice rose dangerously. He had to clench his teeth to keep it under control. He paused until he could respond without drawing attention to himself. “You must believe me! You’ve got to send that message. I’m a dead man if you don’t.”
But the conversation progressed no further, for at that moment von Graff rejoined them.
“Ah,” he said, “I had no idea a trip to the refreshment table could be so lengthy.”
There was something odd in his tone. Did he suspect, or was it simply his natural distrust of anything out of the ordinary?
“I’m afraid,” Jean Pierre answered casually, “that I have monopolized Monsieur Dansette’s time with a discussion on the merits of Russian caviar over other continental varieties.”
“I had no idea you were a gourmet, Monsignor,” said von Graff.
“Oh, I have many talents,” answered Jean Pierre airily. “But I try to keep most of them hidden.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“In fact, I was just trying to persuade our guest from Casablanca to join me at the rectory tomorrow for a truly excellent meal. Even the Pope has marveled at my delectable crepes.”
“Of course I told him that would be impossible,” said Logan, “under the constraints of my present circumstances.”
“You must not be such a slave driver, General,” prompted Jean Pierre.
But von Graff’s attention strayed momentarily as his aide approached, appearing rather flustered.
“General, these just arrived,” he said, holding out two slips of paper. “I do not think you’d want them to wait.”
Logan surmised his charade was about to come to an abrupt end. He glanced about for an escape exit, even though as he did so, realized the futility of such an effort.
In the meantime von Graff had perused the messages, and as he finished the last his color paled noticeably, though he was quick to resume his military facade.
“Bad news?” queried Jean Pierre.
“No,” he replied coolly, “only rather shocking. Japan has just bombed Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands. It seems that America will now enter the war.”
“Is that inevitable?” asked Logan.
“It is inevitable that America will declare war on Japan. Probably she has already done so,” answered von Graff. “I have little doubt that the Führer will honor the Reich’s treaty with Japan and declare war in turn on the United States.”
“Mon Dieu!” breathed the priest.
“Germany has gained a formidable ally.”
“Formidable enough to stand against the might of America?” countered Jean Pierre.
“Japan has not been defeated for three thousand years,” replied the general, “so why not?” However, his tone lacked essential conviction, and his initial response to the telegram indicated deeper doubts. If he did not sense then, he soon would know that America’s entry into the war must mean Germany’s ultimate defeat.
Logan had been so absorbed in this recent development that he had nearly forgotten his own plight. But von Graff’s next words brought it immediately back to mind. The ending to Logan’s speculations came on a much more positive note than he had anticipated.
“By the way, Monsieur,” he said to Logan, “I am going to instruct my aide to have Neumann secure a hotel room for you. He can drive you there tonight if you wish.”
“Thank you, General,” Logan replied calmly, as if he had expected nothing else.
Yet, all the while he was shouting with exuberance inside, he knew this news was a mixed victory. He would still be under their thumb, and no doubt under surveillance, too. Had he really been set free, or had his trap only been enlarged?
39
Luncheon at the Rectory
Logan jerked up in his bed, drenched with perspiration. He swung his feet out of bed, then sat there on the edge with his head resting in his trembling hands, trying to catch his breath.
It had only been a nightmare . . . nothing but a dream. But he couldn’t help feeling foolish for the fright it gave him.
It had been so real! He was still breathing hard, like the man running through the city streets. He hadn’t had a dream like that since he was a child.
Glancing at the bedside clock he saw it was seven a.m. He stood, walked slowly to the window, and pulled open the blackout shade. No wonder it seemed so much earlier than seven. Outside the sky was dark and brooding. The clouds were heavy laden with winter storms, and the icy blasts they held were almost palpable, even as Logan stood there in his warm hotel room.
Wakefulness gradually coming to him, he threw on the bathrobe von Graff had provided him, then called down to the front desk and asked for a pot of coffee to be brought up. The activity helped to steady him, and before long he nearly succeeded in forgetting about the unsettling interruption to his sleep.
In a few minutes the waiter came with the coffee. For the first time since arriving late last night, Logan began to consider his surroundings. The waiter, dressed in a trim hotel uniform, pushed a cart covered in white linen bearing a silver coffee service, fine china, and a silver vase containing a red rose bud. This was no cheap hotel, Logan thought to himself. He had pulled scams in places like this, but never stayed in one! The waiter bowed politely, and when Logan attempted to give him a tip, he shook his head.
“Ne vous dérangez pas,” he said. “It is already taken care of.”
Logan raised his eyebrows in astonishment. “Merci,” he replied as the fellow left.
Logan had figured von Graff knew how to live. But this was too much. He poured out a cup of the steaming brew and unconsciously raised it to his lips for a sip.
The first taste nearly choked him. It was the real thing! He had not tasted coffee like this in months!
He sat down and gazed about him. The windows were covered with velvet drapes, the floor with a thick Persian carpet. He sat on a satin-covered Chippendale chair. It had been so late when he came in last night that he had been too tired to notice. But now he could see that von Graff had spared nothing for his British double agent. What was that insidious Nazi up to, anyway?
Logan finished his coffee. No sense letting it go to waste. He poured himself another cup.
For the moment von Graff was the least of his problems. He still had to get in touch with London, and it seemed that his only avenue, Jean Pierre, had suddenly grown hostile toward him, or at least suspicious. Though he had good reason. After von Graff had intervened last night at the refreshment table, they never had another moment alone. Had Logan’s final plea softened the priest’s reticence?
There was no way of knowing. But if Jean Pierre did not believe him, and succeeded in turning the rest of La Librairie against him, and Logan tried to make contact with them, he could be in as much danger there as in S.S. headquarters.
What wouldn’t Claude give for a chance to slit his throat as a traitor!
If he could just see Lise . . .
But immediately he shook that idea from his head. If von Graff had him under surveillance, it would be tricky trying to explain everything to her.
There had to be another way.
What an irony, he thought. He had only been superficially trained in this business, got into it almost by accident through Arnie. Now here he was in the classic jam of a spy—caught in no man’s land. Mistrusted by both sides, either of which would kill him in a second if they broke his cover. Caught in a foreign land with no friend to trust him. These past four months he’d been arranging escapes for refugees. But now that he was caught in the middle, he himself had no safe house to go to.
He sipped at the coffee, and in his mind went over every detail he could recall of the last few days, trying to find an angle. What would von Graff be looking for? How would he have to change his habit patterns to keep from looking the least bit suspicious? If he chanced to see anyone he knew, he’d have to be especially on his guard. And what had Gunther told von Graff anyway?
The scenes from de Beauvoir’s bir
thday party marched through his mind. His talk with Jean Pierre—all at once he saw it!
Jean Pierre had given him his escape route! He tried to recall his words verbatim:
“ . . . I was just trying to persuade our guest from Casablanca to join me in the rectory tomorrow for a truly excellent meal . . .”
That was it! Just what he was looking for. The only thing he could be accused of was accepting the kind invitation of this fascinating priest.
He instantly jumped up, forgetting all about the coffee, and prepared to dress and set out immediately.
But what was he thinking? It was still early morning. No time had been specified. How early did he dare call? He paced the room several times, trying to work it out in his mind, considering all the consequences of various actions. Finally he paused by the phone. He’d have to risk it. Calling would be easier to explain than showing up at an empty rectory.
———
The velo-taxi dropped Logan at the rectory door. As he walked up to the ancient oak door, he saw a black Renault sedan pull up across the street. It had followed him, none too discreetly, from the hotel. But he had covered his bases. There was nothing to worry about.
Jean Pierre welcomed him warmly. Logan found himself wondering if the priest had had a change of heart, or if the greeting was only for the benefit of the housekeeper who had led Logan to the drawing room. When she departed, the priest remained congenial, though his mood was tempered with more solemnity than was customary in the usually debonair cleric.
“I hoped you would catch my subtle cue,” he said as he directed Logan to a chair, while he himself took an adjacent one.
“To be honest,” replied Logan, “I didn’t at first. I wondered if I’d ever see you again after our conversation last night.”
“It would not have been fair of me to pass judgment under those circumstances—at least not without a full hearing of your story. I make no guarantees, however, other than listening to what you have to tell me.”
“Thank you for that much,” said Logan, “though I still don’t know what I can say to convince you of my loyalty.”
“Perhaps you ought to tell me everything from the beginning,” suggested the priest.
Logan began with his MI5 work in London and proceeded to do exactly that, from his first meeting with Gunther to his ill timed encounter with von Graff after his arrest two days ago. When he was through, Jean Pierre rubbed his chin for several minutes before saying anything in reply. At length he rose and walked slowly to the window.
“I see you did not come alone,” he said.
“That couldn’t be helped,” answered Logan. “Von Graff wouldn’t trust his own mother. At least I’m out of that place. But there should be nothing incriminating about me coming here today.”
“Incriminating, no . . . but you can believe von Graff will be suspicious.”
“I’ll just tell him I couldn’t resist the thought of getting something on an underground priest.”
“Just don’t play it too cocky, my friend. Von Graff is nobody’s fool.”
“I have discovered that.”
Jean Pierre continued to stare absently outside. “Look over there,” he said after a moment. Logan joined him at the window. The priest cocked his head toward the corner opposite that at which the black sedan was parked. A man who would have been husky even without his thick layers of winter clothing leaned against a lamppost, puffing on a cheroot. “There’s my shadow,” he said with a coy grin.
“They have someone on you all the time?”
“In a manner of speaking,” replied Jean Pierre. “They are easily gotten rid of, however, and I give them the slip whenever their presence would be . . . cumbersome.”
He chuckled softly. “The Gestapo is not unlike a charging rhinoceros. Very dangerous to be sure, but not altogether smart. However, they might be smart enough to find out whether we in fact did have our meal here today, so perhaps we ought to retire to the kitchen for the sake of our cover.”
“Of course,” agreed Logan. But as they walked together down a corridor toward the back of the rectory, he added in a graver tone, “You may be right about the rhinoceros analogy. But don’t underestimate them, Jean Pierre. They’re not altogether stupid. That is exactly what they would like us to think.”
The priest ushered Logan into the kitchen, where they found the housekeeper busily engaged in the process of brewing coffee for the priest and his guest.
“Ah, Madame Borrel,” said Jean Pierre, “that is so kind of you. But I have promised my guest that I would prepare him one of my specialties.”
“Oui, mon Père,” replied the housekeeper. “But if you are planning to make crepes, we have but one egg. You’re likely to end up with pancakes instead.”
“We’ll have to make do,” said Jean Pierre. “Now, if you would like to take the morning off, I see no reason why you shouldn’t.”
“Merci, mon Père,” Mme. Borrel answered enthusiastically, scurrying off and leaving the two men alone.
“She is a fine lady,” said Jean Pierre, “and completely loyal. But it is best we take no chances.” As he spoke, he took out bowls, utensils, and all the necessary ingredients, and immediately began pouring and mixing.
“You amaze me, Jean Pierre,” said Logan at length.
“Anyone can make crepes.”
“That’s not what I meant. The way you’ve handled yourself—last night, and today . . . I find it remarkable.”
“Because I am a priest?”
“Yes, I suppose so. All the deception and cover and evasion tactics. You couldn’t have learned to be so proficient at this double life in the seminary.”
“Here, take this and oil it thoroughly,” said the priest, handing Logan a heavy griddle. As Logan fell to his task, Jean Pierre continued.
“No, none of what I do was learned there, believe me,” he said. “Nor did I acquire it in my days before conversion in a life of crime.” He paused while he cracked the single precious egg into one of the bowls. “It’s a matter, I suppose, of doing what must be done.”
“Why do you do it at all?” asked Logan. “It does not follow that it must be done by you. In your position, no one would blame you for staying out of the whole thing.”
“Yes, I could have.” His attention was momentarily diverted to the task of properly beating his egg, but Logan wondered by the intense look in Jean Pierre’s eyes if he wasn’t using the diversion to consider the many ramifications to his position. He hoped he wasn’t trying to think of some elusive response because he still didn’t trust Logan. When he finally spoke again, it was in a thoughtful tone. “Thomas Jefferson once said, ‘Resistance to tyrants is obedience to God.’ I have often thought about that since the war began. It is a weighty idea.”
“I have never thought of it in quite those terms,” said Logan. “I suppose if I was really put to it, I would have to admit that right now, with what I am doing, the last thing I feel is obedient to God.”
“You doubt the morality of our methods?”
“I try not to, but sometimes I find myself doubting them. Yet it’s more a personal reaction I’m speaking of than a response to our methods. Inside me, things are a little insecure.”
“War brings insecurity to us all.”
“Helping people escape is one thing. Being involved with killers is another. I just don’t know what’s right.”
“The morals of the Resistance, then, are important considerations for you.”
“Several years ago I tried to dedicate my life to God. Not in the way you have, I suppose—but I was sincere. I truly wanted to change. Yes, it was very important to me.”
He paused and shook his head. “I don’t know what happened.”
“The war, Michel—it changes us . . . it changes everything.”
“That may be true. But whatever it was with me happened long before the war ever came along.”
Logan turned and looked intently at Jean Pierre. “Yet now I’m afraid that what h
as happened to me since the war began will make those changes irreversible, that somehow I will never be able to go back.” He stopped and tried to assume a lighter attitude. “I’m sorry for burdening you with all this. I don’t know what possessed me.”
Jean Pierre tapped a floury finger against his stiff white collar. “This sometimes has a way of loosening a man’s tongue. Perhaps the Gestapo ought to get rid of their whips and employ a few more priests in their interrogation rooms.”
Jean Pierre began to spoon his batter onto the hot griddle while Logan watched in silence. At length he began to speak again. He did not know Jean Pierre in depth, but all at once he knew he had to talk to someone. It was perhaps more than underground business that had drawn him to seek the priest out that morning.
“Last night I had a dream,” he began slowly. “Actually it was more like a nightmare. I awoke in a dreadful fright.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?” Jean Pierre asked as he took two crocks of jam from a cupboard and handed them to Logan. Then he walked with the plate of crepes over to the kitchen table.
“I think I had better tell someone,” sighed Logan, taking a chair and facing the priest. He had been so successful in ignoring his internal struggles that he had only at this moment realized how terribly oppressive they had become. The dream had brought it all out into the light and he could no longer push it from his mind. So as Jean Pierre dished up the crepes, Logan launched into an account of his disturbing night.
“It was rather simple, actually,” Logan began, then took a thoughtful sip of the coffee his host had just poured, followed by a bite into the delicious crepe. He nodded his approval across the table. “Simple, but a little spooky too. It was too real and too bizarre all at once. I was running—at least a man was running who was meant to be me, though he bore no resemblance to me. I watched as if I were part of the audience at the cinema. But the appearance of the man changed, depending on who was chasing him. But there was always someone at his heels—von Graff was there, Gunther, Arnie, Henri, you for a moment, and even my father! That was probably the strangest part of the dream. My father died when I was ten. Before that he was in jail most of the time. I hardly knew him. I haven’t thought of him more than a half-dozen times since then, and certainly not lately. And here he pops up in my dreams. I suppose Freud would have a heyday with that!
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