Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “What is it, Soustelle?” said von Graff. “As you can see, I am with someone at the moment.”

  Soustelle now turned and noticed Logan for the first time. He glanced in his direction and eyed him quickly, but taking in every detail with his policeman’s scrutiny.

  “Oh, then again, many pardons,” said the Frenchman effusively. “I will return at a more convenient time.”

  “This time is as convenient as any,” said von Graff. “Herr MacVey is working for me.”

  “MacVey . . . ? An Anglais?” Soustelle’s tone was heavy with speculation.

  Logan stood and extended his hand in an almost extravagant effort at cordiality. “Enchanté, Monsieur Soustelle.”

  Soustelle took Logan’s offered hand with obvious reserve, eyeing him now with deeper and more sinister perusal. The English were far from his favorite nationality at any time, but especially now. He might have been surprised to know that French collaborators were similarly at the bottom of Logan’s list.

  “Now, what do you want?” asked von Graff, who was either unaware or unconcerned with the unspoken tension between his two henchmen.

  “This regards the assignment you have had me working on,” replied Soustelle.

  “The business with L’Escroc?”

  Soustelle’s eyebrows shot up, astonished at von Graff’s candor before this Englishman. Fortunately, the general’s attention was focused on Soustelle’s reaction, and so Logan’s own imperceptible intake of air went unnoticed. To him, at least. Soustelle, a man with certain reptilian attributes of vision, had noted Logan’s reaction even as he eyed the general.

  “Yes, General,” replied the Frenchman, now glancing directly at Logan. His voice, as well as his look, contained something Logan could not readily identify. But the Frenchman clearly did not like to see his primary assignment treated so casually by his superior.

  “Continue, Herr Soustelle,” pressed von Graff abruptly.

  “I have just discovered,” Soustelle went on, now focusing on the general once more, “that a strong possibility exists that L’Escroc is a British agent.”

  “You have confirmation?”

  “No confirmation. Everything about that man comes only from rumors and hearsay. I have a dozen people circulating about the streets of Paris in search of any more direct clue. But until today they have turned up nothing. There must be only a small handful who know his identity, and they’re keeping very tight-lipped. But my source on the British angle is very reliable.”

  “Who might that be?”

  Almost unnoticeably Logan leaned forward.

  “The chauffeur of a well-known French family,” Soustelle went on, “gave me the information. It appears this family has a son in the French army who was a prisoner of war in Germany until he escaped. He made it to Paris, where he was recaptured and sent to Fresnes. But while he was being transferred back to Ravensbruck, he escaped again. We believed that L’Escroc had aided in this escape, and now the chauffeur has confirmed it. He overheard his employers talking of that matter. One of them made mention of his nationality.”

  “You would think the fool would keep it a secret.”

  “Most assuredly,” agreed Soustelle. “Apparently it was a fluke.”

  Logan remembered the incident vividly. Yes, he had blundered . . . forgotten himself in a moment of weakness—now he realized just how serious it had been!—when the lad he was helping mentioned a cellmate who happened to be a Glasgow acquaintance of Logan’s. Luckily Logan had been wearing the disguise of an old train conductor at the time, and even if he had lapsed into English momentarily, at least he could not have been identified.

  “Well, Soustelle,” von Graff was saying, “this is an interesting piece of information. But does it bring you any closer to apprehending the scoundrel?”

  “I think if I brought in this French family for interrogation . . . ?”

  “Why do you need my permission?”

  “They are not without influence.”

  “Haul them in!” ordered the general, “and bleed them for everything they know. See how far their influence gets them in an S.S. interrogation chamber.”

  The boy’s family knew nothing. That much Logan knew. The whole thing had been arranged through go-betweens. He would have to try to get word out before Soustelle got to them. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he turned the dilemma over in his mind.

  Logan’s movement drew von Graff’s notice.

  “Do you have something on your mind, Herr MacVey?” he asked.

  “L’Escroc . . .” mused Logan. “The Swindler—an interesting code name. Who is it?”

  “That,” replied von Graff, “is what I hoped Herr Soustelle would tell me.” He cast the Frenchman a sharp look.

  “I am this close!” Soustelle said, gesturing with his thumb and index finger to punctuate his words.

  “That is not close enough!”

  “This fellow seems to have caused quite a furor,” put in Logan casually. “What has he done?”

  “Our prisoners slip through our fingers like sand,” answered von Graff. “And when they are gone, that name lingers in the air as if to mock us.”

  “Are you certain there is such a man?” probed Logan. “You know how underground movements love to create legends out of thin air, as a way of banding their people together.”

  “An interesting theory, Herr MacVey.”

  “Bah!” exclaimed Soustelle. “He is real. I can smell his presence in Paris. And soon I will crush him!”

  “And how many more months will you need, Herr Soustelle?” said von Graff with enough emphasis to indicate his low regard for Soustelle’s promises, and to point toward the Frenchman’s peril in the general’s eyes.

  “You say he’s British?” asked Logan.

  “What is that to you?” snapped Soustelle.

  “Nothing, of course,” replied Logan. “It is none of my business. You seem to have the situation well in hand.”

  “What is in that conniving mind of yours, Herr MacVey?” asked von Graff.

  “Really, I would not presume upon Monsieur Soustelle’s territory,” said Logan.

  “Let me attempt to read your thoughts, Herr MacVey,” said von Graff. “There is a saying, ‘It takes a thief to catch a thief.’ Perhaps it could also go, ‘It takes an Englishman to catch an Englishman.’”

  “Perhaps,” said Logan with a smile. “Notwithstanding the fact that I am a Scot and no Englishman, you have the general idea. Boche and Français and Anglais do not think alike. It might be I could assist you, Monsieur Soustelle, with whatever nationalistic insights I might possess.”

  “I do not require the assistance of anyone,” replied Soustelle implacably.

  “I will decide that,” returned von Graff. “My perception is that a little assistance might be precisely what you need. But actually, Soustelle, I think you can continue as you have been doing. Interrogate the family if you wish. Herr MacVey can assist you from his sphere of influence.”

  “His sphere?” queried Soustelle suspiciously.

  “I plan to use MacVey inside the Resistance itself,” answered the general. “He could well make contact with L’Escroc himself.”

  Logan chuckled, but only he knew the true source of his amusement.

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, General,” he said. “First I have to get in. Then we can think how best to set our sights on such a prize catch.”

  41

  Doubts

  That same afternoon, even as Logan sat in von Graff’s office, Jean Pierre made his way purposefully down the rue de Varennes toward La Librairie. He had carried off one of his many methods of working himself free from his ever-vigilant attendant. Had his business with his four comrades been less serious, he would have been chuckling to himself at the thought of the befuddled Gestapo agent still loitering about the W.C. at the Eiffel Tower waiting for him to exit, not realizing that he was long gone.

  But his business today was serious, and thus he fou
nd no amusement in what he had done. It had been a matter of necessity and he had already forgotten it.

  As much as he was inclined to believe Tanant’s story, his loyalty must lie with La Librairie first. He liked Michel, but how well did he really know him? The others had risked their lives one for the other; he knew where they stood. He owed them a full disclosure of what had taken place, so they could all have a say in any decision that must be made. Thus he had contacted Henri, and the impromptu meeting had been hastily arranged.

  The others were all waiting when he walked into Henri’s back room.

  “Well, what is this news you have of our missing Monsieur Tanant?” asked Claude somewhat cynically. “Have you seen him?”

  “Yes, is he safe?” said Lise, who, like the others, had heard nothing concerning Logan since he had left her three nights before and could not help but wonder if she was in any way responsible.

  “Please,” enjoined Henri, “at least allow the good priest to be seated. I’m sure he will tell us everything in good time.”

  “Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” said Jean Pierre, seating himself and taking the offered cup of coffee from Henri. “Perhaps my worries are unfounded and all is exactly how it appears on the surface. But I owed you all an explanation of what I learned. If we should be in any danger, we must all know at once. If not, that should be a decision we make together.”

  “Worries . . . danger? What evils do such words portend, Jean Pierre?” asked Henri with grave concern in his voice.

  “Our speculations concerning Michel were correct. He was picked up by the S.S. for breaking curfew on his way home last Friday night after leaving you, Lise.”

  “Did they imprison him?” asked Antoine.

  “Yes,” replied Jean Pierre, “but only for a short time.”

  “He is free, then?” asked Lise.

  “Apparently so. But that is where the whole thing grows fuzzy. I chanced to see him at my brother’s birthday celebration.”

  “What was he doing there?” asked Claude, his suspicious tone saying more than his words.

  “That is the part which worries me,” admitted Jean Pierre. “It was an extremely gala event, collaborators and Germans almost exclusively. And there who should I see, well-dressed and jovial, and in the company of a German general no less, was our own Michel Tanant.”

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Henri. “That does not sound like him.”

  “I have told you all along,” said Claude angrily, “that we knew nothing about this so-called Monsieur Tanant”—and as he said it, he spat out the word venomously—“but none of you would listen! Now he is in league with the Boche, and La Librairie is in danger!”

  “We do not know that, Claude,” put in Antoine, willing to hear arguments in Logan’s favor as well as the accusations against him before passing judgment. “For myself, I want to hear the rest of Jean Pierre’s story.”

  “I was naturally on my guard,” went on the priest. “Like you, Claude, I did not like the look of it. We barely had a chance to speak last evening at the party. But the moment we were alone he began insisting that I get a message to London for him. He said he was in danger, and that the whole thing with the Germans was a facade.”

  “A facade, no doubt, invented on the spot the moment he saw you!” said Claude.

  “Perhaps, mon ami. Perhaps. But if he is telling the truth, then if we do not back him up and get his message to London, it may not only mean Michel’s death, it may bring yet more danger to the rest of us.”

  “What did you do?” asked Henri.

  “In the presence of the general, I threw out an invitation for today, to see what might come of it.”

  “And?”

  “Michel was at my door before ten.”

  “Alone?”

  “We each had a Gestapo agent watching from a distance.”

  “Well, that is a good sign, that they are having him followed,” said Henri. “At least if there is collusion with the Boche going on, it must not have progressed too far. They apparently do not yet trust him fully.”

  “Unless the tail was all part of the scheme,” said Claude. “And let me guess, Jean Pierre! He told you he was ‘playing along’ with them, pretending to be sympathetic to their cause. He probably told you he was going to pretend to turn so he could infiltrate the Resistance for them and feed back information. Am I on the mark, mon père?”

  Jean Pierre was silent a moment. The others all awaited his response, but his lack of a quick reply told them Claude’s perception had been correct.

  “What else would you have expected him to say under the circumstances?” went on Claude. “All this time he has been setting up this moment, gaining our confidence, even helping a few people to escape. But now! Now comes the moment for which he was sent into our midst—sent by the Germans! He fakes an arrest, tells us that he was captured and was ‘forced’ to fake a turn and that he now has to play along with them. All the while this has been his plan from the first day when he walked through this door of yours, Henri. And now that it has reached this stage, he can come and go with the Germans as he pleases, and in the meantime he has equal access through the Paris underground. A most convenient arrangement, I must say, and very cunning for the Boche to have devised!”

  Claude’s point seemed well taken. The others pondered his words for several moments.

  “I want to know what he wanted you to tell London,” said Henri at length.

  “I’m afraid that only adds to the perplexity,” replied Jean Pierre. “It is indeed a rather incredible tale.” The priest then proceeded to tell his comrades everything Logan had said about his Trinity cover and what he had been forced to tell von Graff.

  “It is too incredible not to believe,” said Antoine.

  “Bah!” shot back Claude. “You are a gullible fool! He will have us all before the Boche firing squad if we allow him back among us!”

  “Claude!” said Lise, speaking now for the first time since hearing Jean Pierre’s story. “Whatever your views, you have no right to say such a thing to your comrade! Your bitter protestations make me inclined to believe Michel as well—if only to spite you for your unfounded accusations!”

  “You may seal your fate if you like,” said Claude. “But I will trust him no more than I ever have. I will watch my flank even in my sleep. If La Librairie goes down, I will not go with it! Our safest course is to eliminate him, and you all know it! What can have so captivated you about this Britisher to blind your eyes, I do not know!”

  “No one will be eliminated without proof,” said Jean Pierre. “We will all be wary. But we cannot pass judgment too hastily.”

  “Jean Pierre is right,” said Henri. “We have all missed one of the key ingredients to this unexpected turn of events. That is, if Michel is indeed telling the whole truth, think what benefits could be gained for us in having L’Escroc able to come and go inside S.S. headquarters unhindered! This may be the best thing ever to happen for the Resistance in Paris.”

  “Well, I’m going to transmit his message to Mother Hen just as he gave it to Jean Pierre,” said Lise. “He has done much for the cause, and perhaps we owe it to him to do that much. Was that all he asked of us, Jean Pierre?”

  “There was just one other thing,” replied the priest. “He wanted you to meet him as soon as it could be arranged.”

  42

  Seeds of Vengeance

  When Logan left von Graff’s office that Monday afternoon, December 8, 1941, he was feeling more than usually pleased with himself. War had been raging in at least two corners of the world, and now all at once—with the outbreak of hostilities between Japan and the United States—it looked as if all four would now be involved. His own tiny homeland across the Channel to the west was taking a terrible beating. Yet Logan could not help feeling that he, at least, had just won a small victory. The misfortune of being caught the previous Friday night was turned suddenly around and now looked like it might prove fortuitous indeed for
the fortunes of L’Escroc.

  Somehow he had just managed to pull off the biggest swindle of his life since Chase Morgan. Immediately as the thought formed in his mind, he recalled his prayer while at S.S. headquarters. Could what happened have been God’s way of answering that prayer for deliverance? Logan had no doubts about God’s capacity to answer prayer. But over the course of the past year or two, he had never really imagined God’s blessing to be on his life or what he was involved in. After all, he had not even seen Allison in . . . he didn’t even know how long. He had made some halfhearted attempts to get Arnie to contact her to let her know he was okay. And since coming to France, things had been moving so fast. How could God possibly have anything to do with him anymore. The prayers he had offered arose more from desperation than from faith. And if he were following the wrong path, as Jean Pierre had suggested, then why would God help him now?

  The whole thing was puzzling, and called into his mind many random images out of his past—conversations with Lady Margaret and Dorey and his in-laws, and even with Allison during their first blissful days together as young believers in a God who could be an intimate friend. It had all faded since then. God seemed once again remote. Yet he had prayed . . . and now this turn of events with von Graff.

  Did God still care about him? He continued to search his mind for something that might answer the question, but he could not get that realm of his thoughts to come altogether into focus. He would have to talk to Jean Pierre again.

  He turned down rue Leroux deep in thought. He should have taken a tram, but the clean, crisp winter air felt good. The sun had come out earlier, warming the icy atmosphere, and in spots melting the snow. He could take his time. He still had over two hours until his next rendezvous. That would give him plenty of time to circle around, double back, and make sure no eyes were upon him that shouldn’t be.

  He hoped Jean Pierre had been able to set it up with Lise as they had arranged before he left the rectory that morning. He wanted to see her, knowing it would be a far less troublesome contact to explain—if they happened to be spotted—than a meeting with Henri.