The Monte Cristo Cover-Up

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  Olive and two of his waiters served the first course of cheese soup. Thomas had prepared it in the Chez Papa kitchen. The restaurant had also supplied the crockery and cutlery.

  "Good appetite!** cried Thomas heartily. He sat at the end of the table, with certain mysterious objects beside him. No one could guess what they were as they were covered with napkins. The ends of the railway tracks were also hidden under these little heaps of cloth.

  The men sampled the soup in silence. Nevertheless, as Frenchmen, they knew how to appreciate good food.

  Chantal never took her eyes off Thomas. An entire gamut of feeling was reflected in them. Hoofy ate with bent head, mute and sullen.

  Then came the rabbit stew. Next, Olive and his waiters trundled in, with considerable effort, a dish which looked like a colossal pie. It was placed on a side table next to Thomas Lieven.

  Thomas seized a prodigious knife. While he sharpened it, be observed: "Gentlemen! I now venture to set before you a novelty, my own invention, so to speak. I know there are considerable differences of temperament among you. Many of you are good-natured and ready to forgive me. But others have hot tempers and would like to make an end of me." He raised his hand. "That's understandable. There's no accounting for tastes. But for that very reason I should now like to serve a dish which will appeal to all tastes." He pointed to the pie. "And there it is—the Surprise Pie!"

  He turned to Chantal. "My dear, would you prefer beef, pork or veal?"

  "Ve ... ve ... veal," Chantal croaked. Then she cleared her throat violently and almost shouted: "Veal!"

  "Just coming!" Thomas gave the pie a keen look, turned it round a little and cut out of a certain third of it a fine slice of veal with its accompanying pastry and laid it on a plate.

  Then he removed the napkins and revealed the objects hidden beneath them. Bastian's model locomotive, its tender and a big goods truck, flanked by an electrical switchboard, came into view.

  Thomas placed the plate of veal on the truck and switched on the current. With a whirring sound the engine proceeded to pull its tender and the truck carrying the plate along the whole length of the table, past the fifteen astonished gangsters. The train stopped in front of Chantal. She took the plate from the truck. Some of the men uttered surprised laughs. One clapped.

  Thomas reversed the engine, with its empty truck. Then he inquired calmly: "What would the gentleman on Chantal's left like to have?"

  A savage-looking fellow with a patch over one eye shouted back, with a ferocious grin: "Pig!"

  "Pig, by all means," replied Thomas. He again glanced keenly at the enormous pie, turned it, cut a slice of pork out of a second third and dispatched it in the same way as before.

  The men began to be amused. They exchanged comments on Thomas's idea. Then one called out: "Beef for me!"

  "With pleasure," rejoined Thomas, serving him. Several of the men now clapped.

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  Thomas glanced at Chantal, closing one eye. She couldn't help smiling in return. The noise round the table increased, growing more and more exuberant. Orders poured in pell-mell. The little train ran backward and forward along the table.

  At last only Francois, alias Hoofy, was left with an empty plate. Thomas turned to him. "And you, monsieur?" he demanded, resharpening his great knife.

  Francois gave him a long, brooding stare. Then he stood up slowly, fumbling in his jacket pocket. Chantal screamed. Bas-tian surreptitiously drew his revolver. He had perceived that Hoofy now had that dreaded knife of his in his hand. The blade flashed out. Hoofy took a single, noiseless, limping step toward Thomas. Then another and another, till he stood quite close to him. The room grew deathly still. For ten seconds Frangois looked Thomas steadily in the eye, while the latter stood quietly before him. Then the cripple suddenly chuckled. "Take my knife," he said. "It's sharper than yours. And give me some pork, you damned rascal!"

  [11]

  On December 8, 1940, Sturmbannfiihrer Eicher and his adjutant Winter—in civilian clothes—arrived at Marseilles, where they demanded the surrender of de Lesseps and Ber-gier, whom they immediately took back with them to Paris. Once there, the two buyers were subjected to a grueling investigation.

  On December 10, 1940, the Paris Security Service office sent out a search warrant to all its branches.

  On December 13, accordingly, in a room of the discreetly camouflaged Hotel Lutetia, Paris, serving as Intelligence headquarters, Captain Brenner of Section III read the order issued by his German competitor. He read it once casually, then gave a start and read it again more carefully.

  The wanted man was a certain Pierre Hunebelle, accused in the order, rather vaguely, of "betraying Security Service personnel to French authorities."

  Captain Brenner read the description a third time. "Pierre Hunebelle, narrow face, dark eyes, close-cropped black hair, height five and a half feet, slim build, in possession of gold repeater watch with which he often plays. Special peculiarity: fond of cooking."

  H'm.

  Fond of cooking.

  Captain Brenner rubbed his forehead. Wasn't there a ... yes, there certainly was ... a general who had been double-crossed by someone who was fond of cooking. That was about the time of the fall of Paris. There was a file on the subject.

  File ... file ...

  An hour later Captain Brenner had found what he was looking for. There wasn't much in the file. But the captain's memory had not played him false. There was the man's name. Thomas Lieven, alias Jean Leblanc. About five and one half feet tall, narrow face, dark eyes, dark hair. In possession of an old-fashioned gold repeater. Special peculiarity: passion for cooking.

  The fever of the chase arose in Captain Brenner. He had private correspondents in the Security Service. He cultivated them for three days. Then he knew why Sturmbannfuhrer Eicher was searching so grimly for Herr Hunebelle, alias Leblanc, alias Lieven. Brenner, with a grin, drew up a report to the most eminent of his superiors.

  Admiral Wilhelm Canaris read Captain Brenner's report in his Berlin office on the Tirpitz Embankment with ever growing satisfaction. The joy which his subordinate in Paris had felt communicated itself to the admiral. What a game, eh? Security Service head office plundering unoccupied Francel I'll rub Herr Himmler's nose in that!

  And the Security people were played up by a certain Hunebelle, alias Leblanc, alias ...

  The admiral grew serious. He read the last paragraph again. He read it a third time. Then he sent for his secretary. "Fraulein Sistig, my dear, would you please bring me the Thomas Lieven file?"

  Fifteen minutes later he had it. A big black cross had been drawn on the cover.

  On the top sheet he read:

  Cologne, 4 December 1940

  FROM: Cologne Intelligence. TO: Head of Berlin Intelligence. SECRET 135892/ Vc/ 40/ LV

  On my return from Lisbon I beg respectfully to inform the Herr Admiral of the death of the double agent and traitor Thomas Lieven, alias Jean Leblanc ...

  Canaris sat motionless for a long time. Then he lifted the telephone receiver. His voice sounded quiet but ominous. "Fraulein Sistig, be so good as to get me Cologne Intelligence, Major Fritz Loos ..."

  [12]

  On the stormy evening of December 28, 1940, Thomas Lieven was listening to the 10:30 p.m. French broadcast from London. He listened to the London radio every evening. It was necessary for a man in his position to be well informed.

  He was sitting in Chantal's bedroom. His beautiful mistress had already gone to bed. Her hair was piled high on her head and she wore no make-up. Thomas preferred her that way-She was stroking his hand as he sat beside her. They were both listening to the broadcaster's announcements.

  "... resistance to the Nazis is on the increase in France. Yesterday afternoon a German troop train was blown up on the line between Nantes and Angers, near Varades. The engine and three coaches were entirely destroyed. At least twenty-five German soldiers were killed. Well over a hundred were wounded, some seriously."

  Chantal's fi
ngers continued to stroke Thomas Lieven's hand.

  "... by way of reprisal the Germans immediately shot thirty French hostages ..."

  Chantal's fingers ceased to move.

  "... yet the struggle still goes on, in fact it has only just begun. Merciless underground activity continues against the Germans day and night. We hear from reliable sources that substantial stores of gold, currency and other valuables recently fell into the hands of the Marseilles resistance group. These articles were the proceeds of robbery and plunder by the Nazis and will enable the struggle to be extended and broadened in scope. The action at Varades will be followed by others of a similar kind ..."

  Thomas had turned pale. He couldn't bear to listen any longer and switched off. Chantal lay on her back, motionless, looking at him. And suddenly he found that he could no longer bear that either.

  With a groan he dropped his head in his hands. The words "twenty-five Germans, thirty Frenchmen, more than a hundred wounded, only a beginning, the struggle goes on, financed with substantial quantities of Nazi gold and Nazi cur-

  rency, seized in Marseilles," re-echoed in his brain. Misery, blood and tears. Financed by whom? With whose help?

  Thomas Lieven lifted his head. Chantal was still looking at him without moving. He said quietly: "You were right, you and Bastian. We ought to have kept that stuff. You two saw the truth instinctively. A betrayal of Simeon and the French secret service would have been by far the lesser evil."

  "Not one of the jobs we did in my gang ever cost an innocent life," Chantal said in a low tone.

  Thomas nodded. "I can see," he said, "that I shall have to change my way of life. My ideas are outmoded. My notions of honor and loyalty are false and dangerous. Chantal, do you remember what you once suggested to me in Lisbon?"

  She sat up quickly. "Yes, that you should be my partner."

  "I will be, Chantal, from today on. No more mercy or pity. I'm fed to the teeth. It's the swag I'm after now."

  "Sweetie, I couldn't agree with you more!"

  She flung her arms round his neck and kissed him passionately.

  That kiss sealed a very remarkable partnership and collaboration which is still talked of in Marseilles, and with good reason. For between January 1941 and August 1942 southern France was afflicted with a positive earthquake, a regular flood, of criminal activities. It sounds almost fabulous, but they had one feature in common. No one felt any pity for the victims.

  The first was the Marseilles jeweler Marius Pissoladiere. If it hadn't been raining on January 14, 1941, in Marseilles, that gentleman might perhaps have been spared the tragic loss of over eight million francs. But unfortunately it poured from morning till night and fate took its inevitable course.

  Marius Pissoladiere's smart shop was situated in the Can-neblere, the main street of Marseilles. M. Pissoladiere was an enormously rich man, fifty years old, rather stout and always dressed in the height of fashion.

  In former years Pissoladiere had built up his fortune by dealings with the Riviera international set. But recently a new but equally international circle of customers had opened its ranks to him. He now dealt with refugees from all the countries invaded by Hitler. Pissoladiere bought up these people's jewelry. They needed money for further emigratioa and to bribe officials, for entry permits and forged passports.

  In order to pay the lowest possible prices to the refugees, the jeweler had recourse to an extremely simple system. He

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  haggled with the sellers for days and weeks on end. At last the poor devils came to the point when they must have money or perish. Pissoladiere would have been only too glad to see the war last another ten years.

  But even as it was, he really couldn't complain. His business was doing splendidly. And no doubt it would have gone on doing so if it hadn't rained on January 14, 1941, in Marseilles.

  On January 14, 1941, just before eleven o'clock in the morning, a gentleman aged about forty-five entered Marius Pissoladiere's shop. The customer wore a Homburg hat, an expensive fur-lined overcoat, spats and thoroughly respectable trousers, striped black and gray. .Naturally enough, too, he carried an umbrella.

  Pissoladiere considered the narrow, pale, aristocratic features of the visitor. Strikingly refined, they suggested exhaustion, wealth and ancient lineage, precisely those characteristics the jeweler preferred in his clients.

  Pissoladiere was alone in the shop. Rubbing his hands and bowing respectfully, he wished the visitor a good morning.

  The elegant gentleman acknowledged Pissoladiere's greeting with a weary inclination of the head and hung his umbrella, which had an amber handle, on the edge of the counter.

  When he spoke, his accent sounded slightly provincial. Aristocrats, Pissoladiere reflected, probably talk like that in order to prove their liberal views. That they are people just like you and me. Splendid! The gentleman announced: "I should like—h'm—to buy a little jewelry here. I was told at the Bristol that you had a good selection."

  "The finest in Marseilles, monsieur. May I ask what you had in mind?"

  "Well—er—a sort of—er—diamond bracelet or—h'm— something of that sort."

  "We have such articles at all prices, monsieur. About what price would monsieur wish to pay?"

  "Well—er—something between-^-li'm—two and—er—three million," replied the gentleman, yawning.

  My word, thought Pissoladiere. This is the day! He went to a big safe and spun the combination, remarking: "We have of course some very ine pieces at about that price."

  The thick steel door swung back. Pissoladiere chose nine diamond bracelets and laid them on a black velvet tray, which he placed on the counter for the customer's inspectioa.

  The aine bracelets glittered and glowed hi all the colors of

  the rainbow. The gentleman examined them for a long time in silence. Then he lifted one of them in his small, well-manicured hand. It was a particularly fine specimen, with costly flat bands and six two-carat stones.

  "How much is—er—this one?"

  "Three million francs, monsieur."

  The bracelet had belonged to the wife of a Jewish banker from Paris. Pissoladiere had acquired it, or rather extorted it by blackmail, for four hundred thousand francs.

  "Too much," said the gentleman. %

  Pissoladi&re at once perceived that his client was an experienced purchaser of jewelry. Only amateurs agree without argument to any price first named by the seller. Some stubborn bargaining began, neither party yielding much ground.

  Suddenly the door of the shop opened. Pissoladiere looked up. A second gentleman had entered. He was not quite so well dressed as the first, but pretty nearly. Seemed a retiring sort. Clothes and demeanor quite decent. Herringbone tweed overcoat, gloves, spats, hat and umbrella.

  Pissoladiere was just going to ask this second visitor if he could wait a little, when the latter said: "I only want a new watch strap, please." So saying, he hung his umbrella as close as it would go to the umbrella of the gentleman in the fur-lined overcoat, who was apparently unknown to him. *

  At that moment Marius Pissoladiere was already, so to speak, lost and done for.

  [13]

  The two gentlemen who met on the morning of January 14, 1941, in Pissoladiere's jewelry shop as perfect strangers were in reality old friends. But during the last two weeks they had each undergone a metamorphosis both outwardly and inwardly.

  Only a fortnight ago they had been in the habit of swearing like cabmen, spitting on the floor, wearing bright yellow shoes and putting far too much padding in the shoulders of their jackets. Their fingernails had always been black and their hair always too long. They would have been clearly recognizable as active members of that mysterious, antisocial caste usually called by respectable citizens, with a shudder, the "underworld."

  Who could possibly be entitled to the credit of having turned two hardened rascals, in such a short time and by so

  evidently strenuous a course of intensive training, into two new-born ge
ntlemen?

  The intelligent reader will have already guessed. The credit was due to none other than Pierre Hunebelle, alias Jean Le-blanc, alias Thomas Lieven.

  In order to prepare the two rogues mentally, as a start, for the proposed fishing expedition to Pissoladiere's, Thomas Lieven had invited them, two weeks ago, to a meal. :

  It took place in a back room of the famous or infamous black market restaurant known as Chez Papa, in the rue de Paradis, near the Stock Exchange. Thomas Lieven and his mistress were the only others present. The two ruffians selected appeared in their original persons and under their right names, Fred Meyer and Paul de la Rue.

  They had belonged to Chantal's mob for years but worked at a distance, in Toulouse. The organization had several branches. It had been built up on a sound basis.

  Paul de la Rue, descended from a Huguenot family, was tall and slim, by profession an expert picture faker. He spoke with a southern accent. In spite of his disreputable appearance there was something aristocratic about his narrow cranium.

  Fred Meyer had learned the safe-cracker's trade. But he also dabbled in the kindred spheres of burglary, hotel thieving and smuggling. He, too, spoke in the accents of southern France.

  These two arrived for the meal rubbing their hands and grinning. The Huguenot black sheep blurted out: "What about another little snifter afore we stoke up, hey?"

  "Before we eat," rejoined Thomas Lieven icily, "you gentlemen will not be taking another little snifter but going downstairs to the barber, where you will be shaved, have your hair cut and wash your necks and hands. You can't sit down to table in your present state."

  "To hell with that," growled Fred, who, like his companion, was not yet well acquainted with Pierre Hunebelle. "We don't take orders from you. Chantal's the boss here."

  Chantat said primly: "Do what he says. Go to the barber. You look like a couple of pigs." The two men departed, muttering oaths.

  Alone with Thomas, Chantal proved that, although she had changed her characteristic style of dressing in some respects for his sake, she hadn't changed her true character. She hissed at him like a wildcat: "I didn't want to make you look like a fool. I'd lost all my authority over the boys if they saw me