“What are you doing?” asked Logan.
“Going with my people,” replied Antoine.
“Your people?”
“That’s right . . . I qualify as one of them,” he returned bitterly.
“What?” said Logan in alarm.
“I have a great-grandfather, though always it was hidden because we were good Catholics.”
“Antoine, I can understand this must be hard for you. But you cannot do what you are thinking.”
The Frenchman’s sole response was to take another step forward.
“We need you, Antoine!” Logan called desperately.
He turned his large, shaggy head around. “I think perhaps now is a time when they need me more,” he said. “Who knows, maybe I can do some good there.” He turned back around and stepped out in line with the slow procession.
Logan said nothing further.
Perhaps Antoine was right. What might not the vibrant, passionate patriot be able to accomplish among these Jews just now to hearten them, perhaps even somehow to help deliver them? He watched as Antoine picked up two struggling children in his strong arms. No, Logan could not stop him, despite the emptiness he felt inside at the loss of his friend.
As soon as this group was past and no more gendarmes were in sight, Logan turned and walked out of his hiding place and in the opposite direction into the night.
Antoine seemed to have found his way—his special path, as had Jean Pierre. Logan wondered if he would ever find his. Tonight he had helped to save many lives, yet he could still not feel the satisfaction that should have come had what he was doing been right—truly right—for him. He had even ceased to have that tingling sense of exhilaration he had always experienced before. He was like a dead man—no past, no present, no future, no sense of who he was or who he ought to be.
But his thoughts were interrupted, as they often were these days, the next instant. At the end of the street he spotted a gendarme. Quickly he sprang into the cover of a dark building. His heart pounded and his body pulsed with the overpowering instinct of survival. No matter what his head tried to tell him, his emotions were not dead. Something was keeping him from complete despair, stubbornly stirring the embers of life inside him. He wanted to live. Is it possible, he wondered, the thought flashing through his brain in the very moment of his fear, that even though I have gone my own way, God has kept His tether tenaciously around me—this far from home, this far from my past life? Is God still there, still loving me as I felt ten years ago?
Back then life had seemed simple enough. He was a one-dimensional being. Now it had all grown so complicated. His wife . . . his daughter . . . this horrible war! Back then it had been relatively easy to say yes to God. But through the years it had proved more and more difficult to bring God into the daily struggles of life. And now . . . ? Now suddenly it seemed that so much time had passed . . . and gradually his life with God had evaporated as if it were only a distant memory. He felt as if he were a prisoner of events, herded along just like the poor Jews he had tried to save. He too was being prodded and pushed by circumstances and times and people outside his control, toward an unknown and fearsome future. For him, as for the Jews, there seemed to be no way out. What could he do to change it? People depended on him. He had cut the bonds to the past.
Yet . . . was he truly being pushed against his will? No. He was not like the Jews. They were victims; he was not. He had created his own prison—his own death camp. He could not blame the war, he could not blame Allison, he could not blame God. He knew there was only one person to blame.
The gendarme passed.
Logan had several more blocks to go before he was out of the Jewish district. His need to be especially vigilant forced his probing thoughts once more into abeyance. For the moment he must concentrate on getting home, where he would then be safe to explore the paths of his frustrated mind. By now, however, he had learned that self-examination could sometimes be no less perilous than walking the dangerous streets of Nazi-occupied Paris.
Once he had distanced himself from the Jewish sections of the city, Logan encountered no obstacles as he made his way through the deep, moonless, quiet night. Everything around him was still, even peaceful. There was, however, an eerie aspect with which the tall stone buildings were clothed. The city itself seemed to take on a sinister feel when Logan reminded himself of the awful and cruel upheaval to so many lives occurring only a kilometer or two away.
But in less than fifteen minutes Logan turned onto his own street. Soon he would be safely home, where he could rest his weary body and tormented mind.
56
In for the Kill
Breathlessly Lise stopped short at the end of the street.
She had managed to catch up with Soustelle after leaving her place, but in the dark, both staying with him and avoiding his detection was not easy. It did not take long for her to realize that he was heading directly for Michel’s. She would literally have had to fly in order to outdistance the ill-intentioned Frenchman and warn Michel before his arrival, even taking paths his auto could not traverse. So she contented herself to follow as closely as she dared. She only hoped some way help would present itself. Now she was almost to Michel’s apartment.
Soustelle braked his Renault and stepped out. Lise could proceed no farther because her prey had not gone directly to the building. Instead, he had crossed the street and was now conferring with two agents—either Gestapo or S.D., she couldn’t tell from where she stood—who had been hiding in the shadows directly across from the building. Soustelle was not in this alone; the suspicions must be more widespread than she thought if they had the whole place under surveillance!
Lise waited where she was and watched.
After his brief conversation with his comrades, the French detective turned toward the building. Michel cannot possibly have returned by now! she thought. In desperation she had phoned him ten minutes ago, nearly losing Soustelle as she had paused at a phone booth. But by then she had been sure of his destination and decided to risk the delay. In any case, there had been no answer. What was Soustelle up to? Did he plan to wait for Michel inside the building?
While she was puzzling over what to do, suddenly Lise saw Logan approaching from the opposite end of the street. He was already closer to the building than she, unaware of the two agents watching opposite, who had ducked out of sight at his approach. Lise couldn’t call out a warning now without alerting the enemy too, and there was no telling how many agents Soustelle had posted about the place.
She had to warn Michel of the trap awaiting him!
While the watching agents were hidden, Lise, now on foot, darted across to the same side of the street as the apartment, edged her way closer, trying to keep out of view. By now Logan had already entered the building.
Lise hastily scrambled her way around a corner and to an alleyway she knew. There was only one thing for her to do now—she had to try to get to Michel inside the building, and before Soustelle got his hands on him. If only she wasn’t already too late!
Once out of sight from the front, Lise tore down the alley and to a side entrance to the building she and Michel had used several times. Once inside she quietly ran along the corridor to the main staircase, turned, and sneaked hurriedly up the stairs toward Michel’s apartment.
———
Logan’s senses were keenly enough honed that he should have sensed his danger, even if his eyes did not see it.
But it was four in the morning, and he had been on his feet for twenty-four hours. All he could think of was a hot bath and a few hours sleep.
He turned in to his building, unconscious of all the eyes upon him, and trudged up the stairs to his second floor flat.
He unlocked his door, pushed it open, and entered.
Suddenly his dull senses sprang to life. A faint whiff of something lingered in the thick, dark air . . . a strange odor he had noticed on one or two other occasions. Where had he been when he had detected it before? Hadn�
�t it been when he and von Graff—
But the moment Logan remembered, and thus recognized his danger, it was too late.
Licorice!
In the very instant of the realization, suddenly the large hands of Arnaud Soustelle grabbed him from behind, wrapping a vise-grip around his shoulders and neck.
“So, Anglais!” he growled menacingly. “We meet again! But this time it is I who seem to have the advantage.”
Logan struggled to free himself, but he was no match for the overpowering bulk and street-trained skill of the Frenchman. Soustelle laughed scornfully at the attempt, then threw him crashing up against an adjacent wall, twisting Logan’s arm up mercilessly behind him. The moment Logan felt the cold steel of a blade against his throat, he ceased his writhing to get loose.
“I would like to save you for the Gestapo,” rasped Soustelle, panting from the effort of his attack on Logan, “but it would grieve me not the least to slit your throat here and now!”
“What do you have against me?” asked Logan, his voice choking from one of Soustelle’s muscular arms.
“Nothing I do not share against all Englishmen!” replied Soustelle, hatred oozing from his tone.
“I thought we were on the same side, Soustelle!” said Logan, though all his instincts told him the charade was over.
“I know all about you, MacVey, or Tanant, or Trinity, or whatever your name might be.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It’s all over, don’t you understand? I know you are a British agent!”
“Even von Graff knows that! Why do you think I’m so useful to him?”
“You are through playing games with me!” sneered Soustelle. “It’s over, I tell you. You’re still a British agent, through and through. And I think I can also prove that you are L’Escroc.”
“That’s absurd, Soustelle! Wait till I tell von Graff that you—”
The Frenchman pressed the knife against Logan’s skin. “Shut up, you miserable Anglais! You may swindle the stupid Germans, but the game is up with me. Perhaps you would like to confess now, and save us the trouble of interrogation, eh?”
Even as he spoke, Soustelle began to drag Logan toward the door of the apartment and onto the landing. Once there, he didn’t much care whether the Anglais went voluntarily or if he had to kick him tumbling down the stairs. He had him now!
“So, how did von Graff find out?” asked Logan, trying to buy time.
“Von Graff, bah!” spat Soustelle as he kicked open the apartment door and began dragging Logan toward the head of the stairway about ten feet away. “As far as that witless Nazi is concerned, you are still his little pet!”
“Well, I’m impressed, Soustelle,” taunted Logan. “I never thought you had it in you.”
“Why you filthy—!” Soustelle raised his knife ominously into the air. “I’ll kill you now—”
All at once a shot rang through the quiet corridor.
The first thought that raced through Logan’s bewildered brain was that the Frenchman must have an accomplice. Then the heavy body of his attacker slumped, and he felt the grip of his arms loosen before the ponderous heft of the ex-detective collapsed lifelessly to the floor.
The next instant, before he had a chance to collect his wits, the door below burst open and the building was filled with shouting German voices.
“The shot came from upstairs!”
“Follow me!”
“Two of you, around back!”
Logan had no time to think. He could only react as the sounds of booted feet clamored onto the stairs and toward him.
He ran hastily back into his apartment, pausing only long enough to bolt the door. Then he turned, ran to his window, and climbed out onto the fire escape.
He could hear shouts and attempts to break in the door as he scrambled down, leaping to the hard cobbles only a moment before the Gestapo agents reached the alley.
Meanwhile, upstairs two other agents bent over Soustelle’s body, one pressing two fingers against the dead man’s carotid artery. He looked up and shook his head.
“What was the fool up to anyway?” he said, “coming in here by himself?”
“He probably didn’t think the suspect would resist,” answered the other.
“More likely he overestimated his own skill.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.”
“And now he has a bullet in his back for his foolhardy independence.”
“What was he after, anyway?”
“He said nothing to me. Just wanted us to watch the building.”
“I’ll find a telephone; you see how the others are doing.”
———
While both men exited and walked back into the street, a slim figure stirred from a dark recessed corner of the upper corridor.
Still trembling, she rose, dropped the warm revolver into her handbag, and crept from her hiding place. She stole to the landing, stepped over the massive body, and tiptoed down the stairway, now deathly silent.
She tried not to think of what had just happened. Like Logan, before this moment she had never killed. But though she felt the same revulsion at taking another’s life, Lise experienced no tormenting self-recrimination.
There would be no regrets for her. She had done what she had done for a worthy cause. And she had saved the life of the man she now knew she cared more about than anyone she had ever met.
57
Outbursts
At six a.m. Logan stormed into von Graff’s office.
Even at that early hour, the general was in, awaiting preliminary reports on the progression of the raid.
“I’ll tell him you are here, Herr Dansette—” said his secretary, who had also been pressed into early service.
But Logan did not give her the chance. He rushed past her desk and burst into the inner room where the general sat. The moment he had fled his apartment, he had realized there would be but one way to save his neck and keep his position with the Nazis secure. He had to take a strong initiative, act as the aggressor, and never give von Graff the opportunity to form any conclusions of his own.
“What is the meaning of this, MacVey?” said the general, not a little taken aback by the rash intrusion, not to mention Logan’s wild and disheveled appearance.
“I am the one to be asking that question, General!” Logan shot back.
“I’m afraid I do not understand you.”
“I’ve had it with you, von Graff!” shouted Logan.
“Please, calm yourself,” replied the general, a little alarmed. He rose from his desk and hurriedly closed the door to his office. “What can be so wrong to have upset you like this?”
“We had a deal, and you reneged!” exclaimed Logan, turning on the general with a look of vengeance.
“Sit down and collect yourself,” ordered the general calmly. “I don’t know what you are talking about, but I’m sure we can—”
“I told you what would happen if you had me followed—and I was nearly killed!”
“Sit down,” repeated the general. He then took his own seat, glad to have his desk to serve as a barrier between himself and this wild man.
Logan complied with his order, but he remained on the edge of his chair, still fuming.
“But it looks as if the only one dead is Soustelle,” continued von Graff calmly.
So, thought Logan to himself, the general knows everything already. It was indeed a good thing he had played this little rant-and-rave routine rather than trying to play dumb.
“He’s dead, then?”
“Come now, MacVey . . . are you trying to tell me you didn’t know?”
“I thought as much, but couldn’t be sure.”
“The word that came to me two hours ago was that you killed him.”
“Me! That’s ridiculous!”
“Tell me what happened.”
“I’m not even sure myself,” answered Logan, making an apparent effort to control his ire. “Soustelle attac
ked me at the door to my place, pulled a knife on me, started making all kinds of wild accusations. Then suddenly a shot fired out of nowhere and Soustelle fell. I figured someone in the Resistance may have seen us and was trying to get me, or maybe both of us.”
“So, did you see who fired the shot?”
“Are you kidding? I got out of there!”
“You ran, MacVey?” said the general with a smile. “Hardly sounds like the daring courage of a double agent.”
“For all I knew a second shot meant for me would follow on the heels of the first. And in two seconds the place was crawling with blokes—Gestapo or Resistance, who knows? I didn’t wait to find out!”
“What’s important is that you are still alive.”
“No!” exploded Logan, playing his hand out to the full. “What’s important is that you went back on your word. You knew Soustelle well enough, didn’t you?”
“I knew about his crazy suspicions,” admitted von Graff. “But I warned him not to follow you. What more could I do?”
“You could have warned me!”
“You were not to be reached—and by the way, what were you doing out at such an hour?”
“You told me to keep my eyes and ears open last night. I just hope this little fiasco hasn’t jeopardized my place in the Resistance.”
“Might it?”
“Soustelle had a knife to my throat,” said Logan, “and the killer may have seen that. Since that’s hardly the act of a compatriot, perhaps my cover is still intact.”
“Good,” said von Graff optimistically. “I would hate for an otherwise successful day to be spoiled.”
“Then the raid turned out well?” Logan only barely managed to keep the distress from his voice.
“It’s too soon to tell for certain. Many have escaped, of that I am sure. But the successes I mentioned come from a slightly different quarter than the raid itself.”
“Oh?”
“Three underground safe houses were raided last night.”
“And everyone taken?”
“Yes. Besides the Jews they were harboring, we arrested eight Resistants—probably not the big fish I should like, but arrests are arrests. It’ll make my report look good, and who knows what our interrogators will get out of them. We may get a lead on L’Escroc!”
Shadows over Stonewycke Page 38