The Monte Cristo Cover-Up

by Johannes Mario Simmel

  "As—as what?" she whispered.

  "A German Intelligence agent," retorted Thomas Lieven. "What are you worrying about? Did you suppose I could take you to Lisbon as a French partisan?"

  114]

  The regular night express to Marseilles, leaving Paris at 9:50 p.m., included three sleeping cars. Adjoining central compart-

  ments of one were reserved on the evening of September 17, 1943, for members of German Intelligence.

  Ten minutes before the departure of the train a smartly dressed civilian appeared in the corridor of the car in question, accompanied by an elegant young lady, and beckoned to the French guard. The lady wore a camel-hair overcoat with an upturned collar and a hat like a man's, with a broad rim, at that time the latest fashion. It was rather difficult to see her face.

  The gentleman showed his reserved ticket to the guard and tipped him lavishly.

  "Thank you, monsieur. I'll bring the glasses at once ..." The guard opened the doors of the two compartments reserved for German Intelligence. In one of them a silver ice bucket contained a bottle of Veuve Clicquot. On the adjustable table by the window stood a vase of twenty red carnations. The communicating door between the compartments was open.

  Thomas Lieven closed both the doors into the corridor. Yvonne Dechamps took her big hat off. She was again blushing deeply.

  "I've told you not to blush like that," said Thomas. He pulled up the window blind and looked out onto the platform. Two non-commissioned officers of the German Army Railways Control Service were just passing. "H'm." Thomas pulled down the gleaming black curtain again.

  "What's the matter?" he asked. "What are you looking at me like that for? Have I been betraying France again?"

  "That champagne—and the flowers ... why do you do that?"

  "Oh, just to calm your nerves a bit. You're nothing but a bundle of them at present. You jump at every sound. You look back at everyone we pass. And yet you're perfectly safe, you know. Your name is Madeleine Noel and you're a German Intelligence agent. You have a German Intelligence pass."

  In order to get that pass Thomas had' been obliged to talk himself black in the face at the Hotel Lutetia for a whole day. At last Colonel Werthe, with a sigh, had shaken his head. "Lieven, you'll be the death of Paris Intelligence. You're just about all we needed to put us out of business!"

  "Ah, here come the glasses," cried Thomas gaily. "Just put them down, Emile. I'll open the bottle myself."

  He did so. They were just drinking their first glass when,

  two minutes before the train left, the two non-commissioned officers of the Railway Control Service appeared in the compartment.

  Yvonne proved that she did not always behave hysterically. She remained perfectly calm. The soldiers were very polite. They asked to see the passengers' passes, saluted, wished them a pleasant journey and departed.

  "Well, there you are," said Thomas Lieven. "Everything's going according to plan!"

  [15]

  After the first bottle of Veuve Clicquot, Yvonne stopped worrying. Her hysterical stiffness came near to relaxing. The conversation grew almost cheerful. At one moment they were both laughing when Yvonne suddenly fell silent, moved away, stood up and looked in another direction.

  Thomas understood what she was feeling. He had once rejected her advances. No woman ever forgets such a thing. No woman wants such a thing to happen again.

  Accordingly, they bade each other good night at about half-past eleven. It's best that way, thought Thomas ... or is it? As it happened, he didn't feel too sober and Yvonne seemed to him extremely attractive. When he kissed her hand at parting she drew back, smiled stiffly and again seemed to turn to stone.

  Thomas undressed in his own compartment, washed and had just pulled on his pajama trousers when the engine braked violently and slewed around an abrupt curve. Thomas lost his balance, reeled across his compartment and crashed heavily against the communicating door, which flew open. He fell rather than staggered into Yvonne's compartment. She was al-. ready in bed and sat up in -alarm. "For heaven's sake!"

  He regained his footing. "I beg your pardon. I didn't do it on purpose—really I didn't ... I ... good night ..." He turned back to the open door. Then he heard her call out in an agitated tone: "Wait!"

  He looked around. Yvonne's eyes were half closed and very dark. Her lips were parted. She gasped: "Those scars!" She was staring at the bare upper half of his body. Right across the left side of his chest ran three ugly, swollen weals of a peculiar shape, inflicted by blows with a rubber-covered steel spring.

  "Oh—that—" Thomas turned his head away, involuntarily raising an arm to cover the scars. "I had an accident..."

  'That's not true ..."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I had a brother who was twice arrested by the Gestapo. The second time they hanged him. The first time they tortured him. When"—her voice broke—"when he came home, that first time, from hospital, he had ... scars like yours ... and you ... I cursed you ... I suspected you . . . you of all people . . ."

  "Yvonne..."

  He went to her. The lips of a beautiful woman kissed the scars of wounds which a brutal man had inflicted. Then for Thomas and Yvonne the hostility of the past was swept away in a flood of tenderness. The engine's whistle sounded. The wheels of the train clattered incessantly. The vase of red carnations rattled almost inaudibly.

  [16]

  The twin-engined courier aircraft with the German markings rushed faster and faster down the runway of the Marseilles airfield. The morning was overcast. A light rain was falling.

  At one of the windows of the airport building a man with many false names was standing. His real name was Thomas Lieven. Both his hands were plunged in the pockets of his fleecy overcoat, the thumbs and forefingers pressed together.

  Yvonne Dechamps sat in the courier aircraft. She was bound for Madrid and then on to Lisbon.

  They had only spent a single night of love together. And yet now, as the aircraft disappeared into the clouds, Thomas felt lonely, forsaken and very old.

  He shivered. Good-bye, Yvonne, he was thinking. In your arms, for the first time in months, I forgot Chantal. But we could not remain together. This is not an age for lovers. It tears them apart or kills them. All the best, Yvonne. I don't suppose we shall ever hear from each other again.

  But he was wrong there.

  On September 22, 1943, Thomas Lieven returned to Paris. His pretty black-haired maid, Nanette, who so much respected him, announced: "M. Ferroud telephoned four times while you were away. He said he must speak to you on urgent business."

  "Come to my house about four o'clock this afternoon," Ferroud requested, when Thomas called him up at his bank.

  As soon as our friend arrived the white-haired, elegant man of millions embraced him with tears in his eyes.

  Thomas coughed. "M. Ferroud, Yvonne is safe. But you are not. You are in more danger than ever."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Before we get down to our own affairs—I have fulfilled my side of the bargain and now you must fulfill yours—I'd better tell you quickly what my investigation of your transactions has so far revealed."

  Thomas had discovered Jean-Paul Ferroud to be a lawbreaker of a peculiar kind. Like other black market dealers he had cornered enormous quantities of materials required for war purposes, not, however, in order to sell them to Germans but in order to keep them out of German hands. He was thus the very opposite of the ordinary racketeers who were selling up French property. His object was, on the contrary, to preserve it. That was why he had falsified balance sheets, showing the wrong production figures for undertakings managed by his bank, and negotiated fictitious sales, on a vast scale, to German buyers.

  All these operations by Ferroud were now described to him by Thomas to his face. Ferroud blanched. He began by protesting, but finally ceasing speaking and turned his back on the other.

  Thomas concluded: "It was absolutely idiotic, monsieur, to behave in such a way. The
almost immediate consequence will be the expropriation of your factories. And then what will happen? From the French point of view your behavior is intelligible enough. And for that reason I'll give you a private tip before they catch up with you. Appoint German trustees at once. Then they'll leave your factories alone ... and I don't suppose you'll have any difficulty in getting the trustees to play ball with you—or will you?"

  Ferroud swung around. He nodded. He swallowed hard, twice. Then he said: "Thanks."

  "Not at all. Well, now to our own business. But I warn you, Ferroud. If your information turns out to be useless to us, I'll blow you sky-high."

  Ferroud took a step toward him. "And what I am going to tell you may help you to crush one of the biggest black market rings of all time. It is an organization which has already done very great damage to both our countries. During

  the last few months German Treasury bills have been pouring into France in unprecedented quantities. You know what bills I am talking about?"

  Thomas did know. They were a kind of occupation currency, used in every country invaded by the Germans. The object of such bills was to prevent excessive disbursement of genuine German bank notes abroad.

  Ferroud continued: "Those bills are numbered in series. Two of the figures used—they are always to be found in the same place—indicate in which country they are to be employed. Well, my friend, during the last six months French goods to the value of about two milliards have been bought up in the black market with German Treasury bills. But over a milliard's worth of the bills were not earmarked, in their serial numbers, for France, but for Rumania."

  "Rumania?" Thomas gave a start. "How could bills for Rumania reach France in such enormous quantities?"

  "That I don't know," Ferroud went to his desk and took from it two thick bundles of German Treasury bills to the value of ten thousand marks each. "All I know is that here they are. Look, these are the figures that mean 'for Rumania.' But in my opinion, monsieur, no Frenchmen would be in a position to let loose a flood of this stuff, meant for Rumania, into their own country ..."

  [17]

  'Terroud doesn't know how those Rumanian bills got into France," Thomas reported to Colonel Werthe in his office at the Hotel Lutetia two hours later. Thomas was talking fast. The fever of the chase was in his blood. He didn't notice that Colonel Werthe and the ambitious little Major Brenner, who was also listening, were exchanging significant glances. Quite carried away, he rattled on: "But Ferroud is quite certain that the bills could only have been brought into France by Germans and consequently that Germans must be running the whole racket!"

  "So that's what your M. Ferroud believes, is it?" drawled Colonel Werthe, with a glance at Brenner.

  "Hey, what's going on here?" Thomas had now perceived that something was wrong. "What do these ominous glances mean?"

  Colonel Werthe sighed: "Tell him, Brenner."

  Major Brenner bit his lips. "Your friend Ferroud is in seri-

  ous trouble. Security Police have been in his villa for the last half-hour. He's been under house arrest ever since they arrived. If you had stayed talking to him a bit longer you'd have been able to say good afternoon to your old friends Sturmbannfiihrer Eicher and his adjutant Winter."

  Thomas's blood ran cold.

  "What has happened then?"

  'Two days ago a certain Untersturmfuhrer Erich Petersen was murdered in Toulouse. Shot in his hotel. The Hotel Victoria. The murderer got away. The Security people are convinced that the motive was political. The Fuhrer has already ordered a state funeral."

  "Himmler has called for a thorough investigation," said Colonel Werthe.

  "The Toulouse Security Office has contacted the French police," Brenner said. "And they've given the Gestapo a list of fifty Communists and one hundred Jews. Some of them will be shot in retaliation for what is believed to have been the assassination, on political grounds, of Petersen."

  "Most obliging of the French police, was it not, Herr Lieven?" Colonel Werthe commented sarcastically. "Always keep well in with the Gestapo, even at the cost of the lives of your fellow countrymen"

  "Just a moment, please," said Thomas. "I don't quite follow all this yet. Why such a fuss about Herr Petersen?"

  "Because he had the Order of the Blood," Brenner replied. "That's why the Security head office is raising hell. That's why Bormann dashed off in person to Himmler and demanded bloody vengeance."

  "Ah," said Thomas. "Now I see. But I have a second query. What has my banker Ferroud got to do with a murder in Toulouse?"

  "The Toulouse Gestapo have been interrogating a whole lot of witnesses. One of their riej:s, a moneylender in a small way named Victor Robinson, swore that your pal Jean-Paul Ferroud had instigated the murder of Untersturmfuhrer Petersen."

  Our friend's brain started working at top speed. Petersen, a member of the Order of the Blood, murdered. Ferroud suspected. I know a lot about him. But he also knows a lot about me now. Has he turned me in? Did he tell the truth? What will happen to him? And to me? And to the fifty Communists? And to the one hundred Jews?

  He had to cough before he could speak. "Colonel, Ferroud

  is convinced that Germans are at the head of a gigantic swindle with German Treasury bills." He spoke hesitantly, seeking for the right words. "Isn't it rather strange that the Security people dropped on that banker Ferroud just at the very moment when we were beginning to be interested in him?"

  "I don't understand a word of all that," said the worthy Major Brenner.

  "I didn't suppose you would," said Thomas, not at all disagreeably. He added, to Werthe: "I can't prove I'm right, but I have the feeling that we ought not to abandon Ferroud just yet. Intelligence ought to be on the ball with the rest of the team in this affair."

  "How do you suggest we act, then?"

  "Colonel, as you know, I used to live in Marseilles. At that time I got to know two men who came from Toulouse, Paul de la Rue and Fred Meyer ..."

  These were the two formerly hardened gangsters who had been trained by Thomas, in a grueling crash course, to become gentlemen, before they relieved the jeweler Marius Pis-soladiere of bracelets to the value of about eight million francs.

  Thomas Lieven described in discreet language the true nature of his dealings with these two underworld characters and added: "I should like, therefore, to go to Toulouse."

  "Why?"

  "Because those two couldn't possibly know nothing of a crime committed in their own home town. And they'll tell me, if no one else, what they know."

  "And how are we to handle the Gestapo?"

  "I suggest you go to Eicher yourself, Colonel, and explain that for the moment Ferroud is extraordinarily important to us. After that you could offer Eicher the collaboration of Intelligence in the investigation of the murder of Untersturm-fiihrer Petersen."

  Little Major Brenner took off his spectacles and polished them thoroughly. Biting his lips, he thought, I burned my fingers in that crazy partisan affair. Then I tried crossfire and chanced a big bluff. The consequence was—Major Brenner glanced down at the braid of his left epaulette. "On mature consideration I am of Heir Lieven's opinion. We really ought not to allow ourselves to be played off the field. We really ought to keep on the ball. That Treasury bills case is too important ..."

  Thomas turned his head away to hide a covert grin.

  Colonel Werthe demanded in an exasperated tone: "So you want me to go crawling to those swine again and sit up and beg?"

  "No need to sit up and beg, Colonel," exclaimed Brenner. 'Try the old trick again. Go across in full uniform and show them a top secret army file!"

  "You're crazy, both of you," said Colonel Werthe. "That fellow Eicher goes purple in the face the moment he lays eyes on me."

  "Colonel, we rescued Heir Lieven with a forged 'Gekados.' What's to stop us taking a hand in the Petersen affair with a real one?"

  [18]

  "That thrice-accursed god-damned swine of a Lieven," said the jovial, undersized and red-faced
Sturmbannfuhrer Walter Eicher. He was sitting in his office in the former library of No. 84, Avenue Foch. Confronting him were his adjutant Fritz Winter and Obersturmfuhrer Ernst Redecker, a blonde esthete who loved Rilke and Stefan George.

  It was a few minutes to seven p.m. on September 23, 1943. Sturmbannfuhrer Eicher had finished work. He often liked to linger an hour or so after the day's labor, over a drop of the best, with his adjutant. Nor did he object at all to the presence of Obersturmbannfuhrer Redecker on these occasions. For that ambitious officer had a special point in nis favor. He was actually the brother-in-law of the Reichsfiihrer SS and Chief of the German Police, Heinrich Himmler. From time to time Redecker received personal letters from "Reichsheini," which he preserved with loving care and passed around with very natural pride. Eicher was of the opinion that such people must be kept sweet and he acted on this principle.

  Yet this time he was not in the right mood for chatting around the fire. "There's fres"h trouble every day," he growled. "Colonel Werthe, of Intelligence has just been to see me." Again the Sturmbannfuhrer cursed. "That god-damned swine of a Lieven!"

  "The one we had in hand?" asked the adjutant, with glittering eyes.

  "Unfortunately we didn't have him in hand long enough. My apologies, Obersturmfuhrer. I don't usually go on like this. But that sod gives us nothing but trouble."

  "What's it about this time?" Winter demanded,

  "Oh, the Petersen murder."

  The actual brother-in-law of "Reichsheini" put down his glass of brandy with a bang. His features twitched. He lost color. It was generally known that a warm friendship had existed between Obersturmbannfiihrer Redecker and Erich Petersen, who had been shot in Toulouse. The former's agitation was therefore understandable.

  Eicher explained that Colonel Werthe had called to tell him that German Intelligence took a very deep interest in the banker Ferroud, suspected of complicity in the assassination, and a key figure of the highest importance in a formidable currency-smuggling ring to which it was evident that even Germans belonged.