Logan glanced at the grimy, stained wall of his prison cell. He found a rusty old nail that had fallen into a crack in the floor, probably left by some other chronicler of the past. He reached up and pressed its point into the ancient plaster, recalling to mind an old hymn.
“I am Logan Macintyre,” he wrote. “I was lost, but now am found. I was blind, but now I see. I was dead . . . but at last I am ready to live!”
75
The Approaching Sound of Heavy Boots
For two men who had seen their designs so successfully concluded, von Graff and Channing appeared particularly glum.
“I’m afraid,” said von Graff dolefully, “if a man doesn’t talk in two weeks, the chances are slim that he ever will.”
“Time always works for the victim,” offered Channing, puffing grimly on the Cuban cigar von Graff had provided. “I never thought he had it in him.”
“You yourself said we had underestimated Macintyre.”
“The scoundrel! You’d think he really was one of them!”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” Channing replied. Yet he could not get out of his mind how the infernal Duncan clan always managed to get the upper hand. And now, even in the death of the blasted woman’s son-in-law, they were about to do it again! Just knowing he had failed to thoroughly break the principled fool was enough to twist this at least half into a victory for them!
“I dare not torture him further,” said von Graff. “It would take all the meaning out of the firing squad. A man has to be in his right mind as he stares down the barrels of those rifles, knowing he’s only moments away from eternity. It’s that look of terror in his eyes that is the ultimate triumph.”
“You don’t fool me, General,” chided Channing. “You don’t want to torture him further because you are still sentimental about your protege.”
“Ha!” Von Graff savagely ground his half-finished Havana into an ashtray. “I’m only afraid he’ll drop dead under the whip and cudgels and deprive us at the last of watching him shot.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. We must have that, at least.” Channing studied the burning end of his cigar a moment. “And how much longer must we wait?” he asked.
“I was still hoping his wife would provide us with something,” answered von Graff.
“She’s still in Paris?”
“Yes. I’ve had men on her constantly. And I must say her movements are a bit strange for a woman about to become a widow. But nothing suspicious. And certainly nothing of any use to us. Apparently she was telling the truth, and does, in fact, know nothing about her husband’s activities.”
“Then why is she still here?”
“Probably waiting to take the body home—who knows?”
“You’re going to give her the body?”
“I thought you suggested that earlier—something to do with your old feud with her family?”
“Ah, yes! How considerate of you.”
“The point is, the girl will be of no use once her husband is executed. Perhaps we’ve played them both to the limit, and it’s now time to have done with them.”
“That would be my vote,” said Channing with something akin to glee.
“Then let’s pull the Macintyre woman back in, and proceed with her husband’s execution.”
“Yes! Yes!” agreed Channing enthusiastically.
Von Graff leaned over to switch on his intercom. “Please send in Captain Neumann,” he said to his secretary.
In another five minutes a brisk knock came and von Graff told his aide to enter.
“Captain Neumann,” he said, “will you inform Fresnes that they are to prepare the prisoner Macintyre for execution at Montrouge.”
He turned to Channing. “How does seven a.m. tomorrow morning sound?”
Channing nodded with a lusty puff of smoke billowing through his lips.
“He is to face the firing squad?” said Neumann.
“Is there some problem?” asked von Graff sourly.
Neumann snapped to an even smarter attention than he had already been assuming. “Nein, mein General!” he rejoined obediently. “I shall make all the arrangements, sir.”
———
At six-thirty the following morning the winter sky showed no signs of the approaching dawn. The five persons exiting the S.S. headquarters, however, paid little attention to the portents of the sky. The two S.S. officers at the lead of the group walked with precise military gait. They paused when they reached the S.S. staff car parked at the curb. The lieutenant stepped forward and climbed in behind the wheel, while Captain Neumann opened the rear door for the three others of the small entourage.
Channing climbed into the back seat first, followed by Allison. Von Graff slid in beside her. Neumann briskly shut the door, then opened his front passenger door. Before climbing in, he glanced momentarily over the roof of the automobile, as if scanning the area for something, probably just the first hints of coming daylight and an end to this assignment. Then he, too, ducked into the car.
The automobile proceeded east on the avenue Foch, then south down the avenue Marceau, crossing the Seine at the Place de L’Alma. The dark streets were quiet; the City of Lights had not yet come to life on that chilly Sunday morning. It was a ten-minute drive over the uncongested streets to Fort Montrouge. The black of the sky had begun turning gray with the first light of dawn, and a mild drizzle had begun to fall as the car turned into the old fort.
The stone walls of the fortress had seen more glorious days; now age and disuse coupled with infamy to tarnish its reputation, for here the Third Reich performed many of its grim executions. Allison gave a shudder as they drove through the gates. To her left stood the execution post, with its two deadly shot-riddled scars in the wood, one at eye-level for bullets to the head, and one lower down for bullets to the heart.
Dear God, she prayed silently, be very near to us now!
The car slowed to a halt and soon the car doors were opened. Allison was ordered to get out. Von Graff and Channing stood next to her, the rain beginning to fall more earnestly now, but hardly dampening the spirit of their triumph.
In another moment her concentration was distracted from the morbid sight as two “Black Marias” rumbled through the gates, just moments after she and von Graff and Channing had stepped out of their vehicle. The two vans stopped next to the execution site some fifty feet from them.
Out of the back of one of the vans clambered eight armed German soldiers. They jogged to the execution post where the prisoner would be tied, then turned and paced off their positions. They then stood attending to their rifles. At the same time the driver of the second van had emerged; now he walked around to the back, opened the wide door, and reached inside to haul out his passenger.
Allison could not hold back a gasp as Logan was dragged out and forced to stand beside the van. When he had been nearly dying from the gunshot wound he had received eleven years ago, he had not looked so dreadful. Even in the dim pre-dawn light, she could see that during the two weeks of his imprisonment he had lost a great deal of weight. His hollowed eyes were ringed with dark circles, or perhaps bruises, Allison could not tell. A definite wound, festering and dirty, crossed the side of his cheek. Dried blood was evident from a wound on his arm, and he walked with a painful and unsteady limp. The injured arm hung limp by his side.
Allison glared at von Graff, her eyes dark and searing.
“How can you do this to fellow human beings?” she demanded. “You must be an animal!”
Von Graff’s eyebrows raised and his jaws tightened, but he made her no reply. Her words were perhaps too disquieting to one who had always considered himself a cultivated man. This war was indeed turning men into beasts, but he could not pause to consider the implications of her statement just now.
Logan paused, perhaps hearing a familiar voice through the hazy morning. A look of distress passed across his sallow face when he saw Allison. He jerked his eyes to von Graff.
&n
bsp; “Why did you bring her here?” he demanded sharply, though his voice was so weak it lacked force.
“I would not want to deprive a wife a last moment with her husband,” replied the general.
But Logan had turned his attention back to Allison and was slowly limping toward her. The guards made no move to stop him.
“Be brave, Ali,” he said. “It is not really so bad—I will die with honor. God is with me.”
At last, prompted by a jerk from von Graff’s head, one of the guards grabbed Logan’s arm and pulled him roughly away.
“Logan . . . have faith!” called Allison. “I love you!”
The guard jerked him forward, but he called over his shoulder, “I have always loved you, Ali—”
His words were cut short by a sharp blow to the back that sent him to his knees. Allison stifled a scream, her eyes at last filling with tears. Painfully she watched as the guard yanked Logan back to his feet and slammed his back up against the firing post. While the guard was securing him, von Graff turned to his companions.
“Herr Channing,” he said, “why don’t you and Frau Macintyre retire to that guardhouse over there where you will have a clear view and remain dry at the same time. This cursed rain is becoming annoying. I will join you momentarily.”
“Capital idea, General,” said Channing.
Von Graff left them and strode to where Logan was now tied securely to the post.
Logan spoke first.
“Von Graff, I don’t care what you do to me, but you have no reason to harm my wife. Let her go back to England. She knows nothing of all this.”
“I cannot promise anything,” replied the general. “You should know by now that I am not my own man.”
“She knows nothing, I tell you.”
“After watching her these past two weeks, I am inclined to believe you. She is a woman with peculiar shopping habits, and with a tendency toward odd associations. But one day with her confirms that she is no spy. She is of little use to us. I assume she will go unharmed.”
He paused, then held out the blindfold to Logan.
Logan shook his head.
“The stoic to the end?”
“No stoic, General. Just a man who is finally prepared to face life as it comes to him, without trying to hide behind any masks. Life . . . and death.”
“An admirable point of view, for anyone but a man facing a firing squad.”
Logan did not reply.
“I want you to know, Macintyre,” von Graff continued, “that despite this unfortunate end to our relationship, I have nothing personal against you. Actually, I have a great deal of regard for you. You played well, Macintyre.” He paused and sighed. “But, alas, we were both always fully aware of the rules of the game.”
“I know now, General, that this was no mere game,” said Logan.
“Dying men always have their ‘revelations.’ But tell me, Macintyre, now that it is over, and you are about to die an ignominious death which no one will ever know about—tell me, do you have any regrets?”
All was silent for a moment about them. Thirty feet away the execution squad stood resolutely at attention. Not a sound could be heard throughout the semi-deserted compound.
“Regrets, General?” said Logan at length. “Sure I regret that I lived my life so long for myself. Regrets, perhaps—but no doubts. For I know that my life is not now given without meaning. I am laying it down for my wife and for my God. And there are few causes worthier to die for than helping rid the world of your kind of evil.”
Von Graff smiled, thinking back to their first conversation aboard the sub in the North Sea. “You are a fanatic, after all, Herr Macintyre. As much as I admire you, I have to admit to some disappointment.”
“I apologize for nothing, General.”
“I would hardly expect it.”
“One last thing, General,” said Logan.
“Yes?”
“Though it may not matter to you, I bear you no malice. As God forgives you, so do I.”
“You waste your last words on such sentimentalities.”
“Perhaps someday they will mean something to you.”
Von Graff shrugged, then turned to go. Almost as if an afterthought had just occurred to him, he paused and looked back.
“You will want a word with the priest now I assume,” he said.
“Priest?”
“The priest you requested.”
“Yes, certainly, but I—” replied Logan, puzzled. He had asked for no such thing. But by now von Graff was fifteen steps from him and walking briskly away.
The general had nearly reached the guardhouse when a new figure stepped out of one of the “Black Marias.” He was tall and walked with a practiced poise, marred only by a slight limp, his black cassock trailing out behind him. A thick graying beard and moustache covered his face, and wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his finely chiseled nose.
He approached close to Logan and laid one hand on his shoulder. In the other, Logan saw he clutched a missal and a rosary.
The priest looked deep into Logan’s eyes.
“God be with you, my son,” he said.
“And with you, Father,” replied Logan, his eyes opening wide in dawning awareness.
“Take courage, my son . . . this is your final performance.”
Logan’s dulled senses suddenly sprang fully alert as he recognized the voice of the only priest in France he had ever known.
76
Tour de Force
Inside the guardhouse, Channing had taken up an advantageous position in front of the window. At the moment, however, his gaze was fixed on Allison, who had retreated a safe distance away.
“Come closer, my dear,” he said in a smug voice. “This is your husband’s moment of honor—probably the only one he has had in his crooked and dishonest life.”
“My husband is worth a hundred of you, Mr. Channing!” declared Allison proudly.
“You might cause me to enjoy this less,” sneered Channing, “if you made some attempt at contrition. But then, I forget whose daughter you are.”
“A daughter whose father is a true man alongside snakes like you!”
Channing stepped toward her, grabbed her arm, and forcefully drew her nearer the window.
“You will watch your husband die!” he growled. “Then we will see what comes of your Scotch stoicism! I’ll see you on your knees before this day is through, and then your mother will know to whom the final victory belongs!”
Allison watched as the priest approached Logan. Then von Graff entered the guardhouse, distracting her attention.
“It won’t be long now,” he said. “Blast this rain keeping us from a clearer view.”
“It will be clear enough, won’t it, my sweet?” taunted Channing.
Allison stuck out her chin and straightened her shoulders, but said nothing.
“You’re just like that cursed mother of yours,” muttered Channing. “We’ll see what good that stubborn pride does you now!”
But before Allison had the chance to utter the biting reply that sprang to her lips, the dreaded command filtered into the guardroom from outside in the yard:
Ready!
Eight rifles were instantly readied at shoulder level.
Aim!
All at once Allison saw from the corner of her eye that Channing’s gaze was fixed, not on the window nor the proceedings outside at all, but on her. He cared nothing about Logan—alive or dead. The true focus of his malicious revenge was centered only on her, and the family she represented.
Fire!
Instantly a salvo of shots rang through the morning air.
Logan’s body slumped over on the post, kept from falling by the ropes that bound him.
A piercing scream escaped from Allison’s lips.
“Logan!” she cried, making for the guardhouse door.
But Channing grabbed her arm and kept her from running out into the compound.
“Not so fast, my haughty little he
iress!” he said with self-important satisfaction. “Stay here with us to complete my celebration!” He wrenched her backward and threw her against the far wall of the small room, where she fell on the floor.
Channing looked outside again to see several men removing Logan from the post to take him away.
“Well, General,” said Channing, “it would appear that we have done it!” His voice was jubilant.
“So it would appear,” replied von Graff in a subdued tone, his eyes casting some doubt on the extent of his triumph.
They turned away from the window toward the middle of the room.
“I took the liberty of making some small preparations for this great moment,” said Channing as they approached a small table. On it stood a bottle and two crystal glasses. “It deserved at least a minor ceremonial remembrance. Will you join me in some champagne, General?”
“Of course, Herr Channing.”
Channing uncorked the bottle and poured out two generous measures of the bubbling liquid.
He took one of the glasses, then handed the other to von Graff.
“May I propose a toast?” he said.
Von Graff nodded, as if to say, “The moment of victory is all yours.”
Both men raised their glasses as Channing spoke: “To the now-departed L’Escroc. We have outswindled the Swindler!”
Behind them an unexpected but familiar voice broke through the morning air:
“Ah, L’Escroc . . . it was indeed one of my finest roles!”
Spinning around in shock, Channing’s glass fell to the floor with a shattering crash. Logan stood before them in the doorway. Allison jumped up from the floor.
Shadows over Stonewycke Page 49