Even then, if Lise agreed to see him, the meeting in the Left Bank Cafe was to appear as nothing more than a chance encounter by two strangers. Logan had purposefully chosen a cafe in a part of Paris where he had never been before. From now on he would have to avoid those places he had frequented before. One chance word which revealed that he had been in Paris months before running into von Graff would land him into hot water with the S.S. It would be tricky; he had met a lot of people. But Paris was a huge city, and it would not be impossible. It helped that Lise had relocated since the raid near her apartment.
Logan paused at a newsstand to buy a paper. He would need it for his meeting with Lise. While glancing around, waiting for his change, he sensed he was being watched. He paused before continuing on, peering casually at the headlines, while out of the corner of his eye trying to focus on the faces off in the distance to see if his instinct had been correct.
He could see no one he recognized. Yet as he walked on, the feeling became stronger and stronger. Whoever it was behind him was good. And he was certain there was someone back there!
Could this be von Graff’s doing again? He thought the near promise he’d managed to extract was as close to a guarantee as he was likely to get that there would be no surveillance. The possibility that the general had gone back on his word was not altogether remote. But that same instinct which told him someone was following him also told him his tail had nothing to do with von Graff.
Logan walked on another block, turning over in his mind several options for losing the unwelcome shadow. Whatever precautions he and Lise took, he still couldn’t be followed to the cafe. Somehow he had to find out who was back there, and why. He at least had to know if it was friend or foe.
Lost in thought, Logan was suddenly nearly smashed into by a young girl who had lost control of her bicycle. She was already on her way down when she brushed by him. He reached out a hand, but he was too late to prevent a nasty spill. The incident came about so unexpectedly that it caught Logan’s tail by surprise, and he drew a bit too close. As Logan stooped down to help the girl up, he managed to catch a brief glimpse of a furtive figure scuttling back into the shadows between two buildings. Everything happened too quickly for him to see the face or make out any details. But the size and bearing of the man bore an uncanny resemblance to someone Logan hardly knew but knew he didn’t like.
Logan helped the girl to her feet, saw her safely off once again on her bicycle, then continued on himself, crossing the busy street just in front of a passing tram. Hidden momentarily by the large vehicle, Logan broke into a run and ducked into an alley way on the other side. Peering around the corner, he saw the bewildered Frenchman looking up and down the street for his quarry once the tram had passed. Then he turned in Logan’s direction. Logan pulled back inside, picked his best spot, and waited.
The moment the ex-detective entered the opening of the alley Logan leaped out, grabbed him by his jacket, and yanked him into the dark recesses of the passage. It was risky business in broad daylight, but no one in Paris these days had much taste for getting involved in petty street crimes that might bring them face-to-face with their Nazi occupiers.
“Okay, Soustelle! What are you doing following me?” said Logan, as with one swift motion he slammed the Frenchman up against the wall, his nose pressed into the rough brick.
Soustelle merely growled in reply, struggling to free himself. He was larger than Logan, and probably would have made quick work of an all-out fistfight or street brawl and left Logan unconscious in a matter of seconds. But Logan was younger and lighter, and had learned a number of swift-moving tricks as part of his training.
“I will kill you for this, Anglais!” snarled Soustelle.
Logan wrenched one of the man’s arms back, then swung his own arm around Soustelle’s neck in a grip that would have made it impossible for the burly Frenchman to move without the risk of getting his neck broken. Thus the battle, what there was of one, was brief, leaving the former gendarme helpless and at the mercy of one he considered a puny runt half his own size.
He made a few further vain attempts to struggle free.
“C’est assez! commanded Logan. “That’s enough! I don’t want to break your neck, but I think you know I can from this position.”
“Allez au diable!” spat Soustelle, panting.
“Not before I find out what your game is, Monsieur Soustelle,” rejoined Logan. “Why are you following me?”
“You are an Anglais. That is reason enough!”
Logan jerked Soustelle’s neck painfully. “Think again, Soustelle! What are you up to? And consider the consequences before you answer. I know von Graff didn’t put you up to this.”
Soustelle moaned, beads of sweat dripping down his brow. “What do you know?” he said, “and what does von Graff know!”
“You think I’m going to usurp your territory, is that it?” said Logan.
Soustelle remained doggedly silent.
“Well, perhaps I may do just that,” Logan went on. “Or, we can work together. That is your choice. But if I catch you or anyone else on my tail again, you will be very sorry, Monsieur. Not only will you have to answer to me, you will also have to explain to von Graff and the S.S. just why you chose to countermand their orders. And you well know that once you have fallen into disfavor with the Germans, you will wish that I had broken your neck here and now. So what is it going to be, Soustelle?”
“I would sell my soul to the devil before I would work with an Anglais!” spat Soustelle.
“That will be a fine arrangement with me,” said Logan. “I half thought you had already made such an agreement with him. In the meantime, I will do what I have to do. And I won’t see you behind me again, will I?”
Logan punctuated his final words with a stiff jab upward of Soustelle’s arm. The Frenchman winced in pain, but remained proudly silent, even in temporary defeat. Logan yanked once more.
“All right! All right! Have it your way!” he growled, his voice seethed with hatred.
Logan immediately slackened his hold.
“I’m going to let you go,” said Logan. “I want you to turn to your right and walk down the street, and keep walking. This incident can be our little secret, but if I so much as see you look back, I will go directly to the general. Is that clear?”
Defiantly Soustelle nodded.
“You will pay for your arrogance, Monsieur MacVey!” he said. “You will live, and perhaps die, regretting this day!”
Even as he spoke, however, he began walking away from Logan and did not turn back, shuffling off down the sidewalk in mingled shame and fury. Logan watched him until he was out of sight.
His last glimpse was of the Frenchman digging his hand into his pocket, then tossing something into his mouth.
———
Soustelle continued down the street. His pride would not let himself show so visible a reaction to his defeat; but inside, his entire being pulsed with an indignation that quickly became a seething cauldron of hate.
He stuffed another licorice into his mouth and ground it mercilessly between his teeth, stained indelibly from the juices of his habit.
The arrogant Anglais would soon pay for his impudence!
It was not long, however, before the Frenchman began to examine his hatred with an eye toward its practical implications. This MacVey possessed the confidence of General von Graff, that much was apparent. Thus the threats in the alley were not idle. Von Graff may not have said it in so many words, but the implication was still there—MacVey was the darling of the S.S., and he must be placated at all costs.
“Le quel salaud!” spat Soustelle. “The dirty dog!”
But that’s how it was. The French were nothing to the Germans—serfs and slaves, hated for their victory in the first war, despised for their defeat in the second!
But the British—they were different. Even Hitler admired them. And how much better an Anglais turned Nazi! Oh yes, they would do anything to keep him conten
t, thinking nothing of stepping on a lowly French policeman in the process!
Yes, Soustelle told himself, I had better leave the Anglais alone—for the time being, at least. He would get around to Monsieur MacVey when the time was right. His chief objective for the present must be catching that other dog, L’Escroc. In doing that he would inflict more damage to MacVey’s esteem in the eyes of the S.S. than anything else, not to mention raising his own. After that could come the real vengeance—the kind a man like Soustelle hungered after.
His footsteps soon quickened. He had another task ahead of him that afternoon which would help satiate that gnawing appetite after evil. He hailed a velo-taxi to take him across town. There lived the employers of a certain chauffeur; judicious dealing with them would bring him one step closer to his diabolical goal.
43
Friendship Renewed
Logan ordered a café au lait from the garcon in the little cafe where he and Lise were to meet. Despite his run-in with Soustelle, he had arrived five minutes early and Lise was not yet there.
He sipped his warm drink, spent a few moments reading his newspaper, but before long set it aside to concentrate on his drink in what seemed a bored, detached manner. All the while, however, he remained acutely aware of each person who came and went from the small sidewalk cafe.
In about five minutes Lise entered. She took a table ten feet away from Logan, though she paid him little heed. When the garcon came, she gave him her order, while glancing causally about. Her roving eyes were arrested by the newspaper lying on Logan’s table. She stood and walked over to him.
“Pardon, Monsieur,” she said, “but I have not read a newspaper in two days. Would it be an imposition if I borrowed yours while I waited for my order?”
“Not in the least,” replied Logan, handing her the paper. “But perhaps you would prefer more human companionship?” He smiled up at her as any Frenchman might at a pretty girl. “You are welcome to join me.”
“I would not want to impose,” she answered. However, the coquettish tone of her voice would tell anyone who by chance was listening that she had indeed hoped from the start for such an invitation from this handsome stranger.
“To tell the truth,” said Logan, “the prospect of having coffee alone is rather a dreary one.”
“In that case . . .” she said, pulling out the chair opposite Logan.
For the following fifteen minutes the conversation progressed as it might had they indeed only just met. For both it was a frustrating span of time, for each was eager to get on with what really mattered. But they played out the charade until they had completed their hot drinks and Logan could make the request anyone observing them might expect.
“Well, I must be on my way,” he said, rising.
“It was very nice to meet you,” Lise replied. “I’m sorry you must go so soon.”
Logan paused, seeming to consider his words, then added, “Would you care to join me? I have no particular commitments at the moment.”
Lise nodded with a smile, and they left the cafe together. Even von Graff would only suspect that Logan had simply sought out some female companionship to brighten his stay in Paris. The ensuing relationship between the two should then appear quite natural.
As they began walking down the sidewalk, Logan could tell that beneath Lise’s well-controlled cover, she was tense and even more reserved than usual. He waited until they had walked a good distance from the cafe and he was certain they weren’t being followed, then said, “Lise, what’s wrong?”
“There is much to discuss and so little time,” she replied evasively.
“You too are worried about my Nazi ties?”
“We all are, Michel. How can you expect us—”
“All?” interrupted Logan.
“Jean Pierre told us everything.”
“But I only just saw him this morning.”
“He set up a meeting immediately afterward. We were all there. We discussed the situation, and what we should do about . . . you.”
“And what did you decide?” asked Logan caustically.
“Come on, Michel, what did you expect us to do?” said Lise. “We had all confided in you; we thought we knew you. Now this. Jean Pierre owed it to all of us to let us share in the decision. You must know how it looks to the rest of us.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“We didn’t really decide anything, if that’s what you mean.”
“And so,” asked Logan coldly, “are you not going to send the message I gave to Jean Pierre? Are you going to keep England in the dark about me and let me dangle and see what happens? Is that how you treat your comrades?”
“We risk our lives for our comrades,” returned Lise sharply. “You know that! The question is whether you are a comrade. The underground is a dangerous business. You get killed for small mistakes. We have to take every precaution. You would do no different in our shoes.”
Logan was silent. She was right, and he knew it. Still, it hurt.
“And you?” he said at length. “Do you trust me? Or do you think I’m Boche too?”
Now it was Lise’s turn to walk along in silence. Logan held his breath, afraid to say anything further. He did not want to press, though something inside him had to know. How he hated this feeling of alienation that the war brought to everything—separation from friends, from family, even from oneself. This kind of work was lonely enough, and he had come to appreciate the feeling of camaraderie that had been developing between them. Now suddenly it was gone. Would he face the same cold reception from Henri? Jean Pierre had seemed so open, yet apparently he still doubted Logan, too. She was right—there was a great deal to discuss, and time was too short.
His thoughts were finally broken by her answer to his question.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I have to be truthful. I’m a little shaken by what Jean Pierre told us.”
“But as I told him, it was all a dodge.”
“A plausible enough explanation.”
“A true explanation!” insisted Logan.
“I pray everything is just as you say,” said Lise. “Time will clarify it all, as it has a way of doing.”
“And in the meantime, I’m on my own?”
“No. I said I didn’t know what to believe. That does not mean I will automatically disbelieve you. I want to believe you, and will do what I can for you until you give me reason to do otherwise.”
“That’s magnanimous of you, I must say,” said Logan sarcastically.
Lise sighed. “I’m sorry. I know you want something more out of me—”
“A little trust would be nice!”
“Trust is an expensive commodity during wartime. Unfortunately—perhaps, as you say, through no fault of your own—your credibility has been damaged for a time. You will have to earn back our trust. But please, Michel, do not be offended. Try to see that you would feel just the same toward me.”
“You will send my message?” asked Logan, hardly satisfied, but resigned to the way things stood.
“Yes. But you had already asked Jean Pierre to do that. Why did you want to see me?”
“I suppose because out of all the others, I thought you—and Henri—would be the ones most likely to believe me. I guess I had to know what you thought. And I knew it would be far less likely to raise suspicions by being seen with you—a man and a woman in Paris, you know—than with Henri. I didn’t want to endanger him . . . or the group.”
“Is that all?” asked Lise.
“At the time—this morning when I was with Jean Pierre—yes. But since then something’s come up. I was with the general again this afternoon and I learned of some people who are in terrible danger. You’ve got to get word to them . . . and soon.”
“Who are they?”
“Have you heard of the Gregoire family?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You must get a warning to them that the Gestapo is likely to visit them soon.”
“How
do you know this?” asked Lise, still cautious.
“That’s not important for now. If you find you can trust me, then I’ll fill you in on everything too. Just answer me this: do you know a Frenchman, a collaborator, by the name of Soustelle?”
“I have heard the name. An evil man. But I have not met him.”
“He is in league with von Graff. If he gets to this family before your people do, I fear for the result.”
Logan and Lise had been walking toward a little park. It was too cold and icy to sit and relax, though patches of grass peeked through the snow in places, and children were tossing crusts of bread to the pigeons. Logan marveled that they had bread to spare. Maybe, he thought, they are trying to fatten up the birds for this evening’s stew pot.
All at once a young man stepped into their path, hailing Lise with a friendly greeting.
“Bonjour, Paul,” Lise replied. Then turning to Logan she made introductions, presenting Logan as Michel Tanant.
Logan immediately recognized the young man as Mme. Guillaume’s nephew who had assisted them in transporting the two British airmen when Logan had first arrived in Paris.
“I thought it would look better,” explained Lise, “if it appeared you two were just meeting for the first time.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” agreed Logan. “These last four months can’t exist for me any longer. It must from now on be as if I only arrived in Paris this week. But is there some reason you set up this meeting today?”
“Henri thought that since your contact with La Librairie must be more limited now,” said Lise, “a courier would be useful for you. Paul is willing to help, and has far fewer ties to the underground. He will raise no suspicions.”
“It is nice to see you have such a high regard for my safety,” said Logan, “dubious member of your clandestine entourage though I am.” A trace of his former humor came through in the words.
“We have our own interests to protect,” replied Lise. “And that includes our investment in you. If you are not on the up-and-up, you will be dead before you know what we know. Claude will see to that. And if you are still with us, then we owe you a great deal and we must do our best for you.”
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