“But then, I shouldn’t have liked to be in Morvan’s, either.”
PART THREE
15
Arvers opened his eyes with a start as he heard the shutters bang in the adjoining room. Even before recovering consciousness, he felt the painful spasm in all his organs, and the discomfort of his body aggravated that of his uneasy mind. It was the sort of horrible awakening he experienced every morning: for several minutes at this time of day the physical and the
mental would react on each other with the pitiless regularity of a machine.
A faint light filtered into the room. Among the objects just beginning to come into focus, the heating stove directly opposite his bed appeared to him once again as an evil phantom placed there by the hand of a demon to remind him of some distant hell. He would gladly have got rid of the wretched contraption, he would at least have moved it to some other position so as not to have it before his eyes on waking up, but he did not dare: Claire would have been sure to notice. Her twisted, hostile imagination would have seized on this simple gesture and read some sinister meaning into it. He was fully aware of the malevolence of her constant spying.
He listened to her footsteps in the adjoining room and trembled as they approached the connecting door. It was the sound of her shutters being flung open that had waked him. She made no attempt to open them quietly—rather the opposite, in fact. She knew he never managed to get to sleep until it was almost dawn, and did her utmost to allow him no rest. When the sound of her footsteps ceased, he imagined her standing motionless and intent, her eyes fixed on his room, listening to the sound of his breathing.
He got out of bed cautiously, taking care not to make the springs creak, and tiptoed over to the hiding place where he kept a bottle of cheap Calvados. He took several minutes to turn the key in the drawer, casting anxious glances in the direction of the door. He silently took a couple of mouthfuls, careful not to let the liquid gurgle in the bottle. If she had suspected he regularly took a nip of alcohol first thing in the morning, she would have been certain to infer that he was lacking in innate courage.
After finishing his drink, he stood motionless for a moment, waiting for the comforting fumes to rise to his head. Then he put the bottle back with the same care, but with a steadier hand, and went back to bed again. The alcohol was not sufficient in itself to dispel the unbearable sensation that her distrust caused him, but it acted as a catalyst on his mind—that mind which alone had the power to concoct the antidotes against the
poison that was consuming him.
He managed to summon enough strength to revive his favorite fantasies and re-create the image of his ideal hero. Every morning he forced himself to make this mental effort, which for him took the place of prayer and from which he derived fresh strength to continue the daily struggle.
He fell to dreaming. He had no need to improve on reality to make the torrent of glory he needed spring forth from his adventures. He merely had to focus a spotlight on certain aspects for them to become immediately so brilliant as to outshine the few insignificant details that were consequently lost in the shadows. He had practised these mental gymnastics for so long now that he performed them automatically. . . . Was he not a secret-service agent of outstanding ability and daring? Had he not succeeded, thanks to his own resourcefulness, in escaping his redoubtable foe, the Gestapo? Having gotten back to London—a unique feat, he knew, in the annals of the service—had he not insisted on returning to the hell he had only just left, even though the danger was magnified tenfold by his previous arrest? His superiors had been amazed, and yet they were only too familiar with acts of courage. They had wanted to restrain him, to save him from his own temerity. He had had only to say the word—not even that, he had had only to stay put and say nothing—to have seen the war out in a staff appointment. He had rejected this security and plunged voluntarily once more into the abyss. He had dropped by night from a plane into a country where the worst possible dangers awaited him. All this was true; no one could deny it.
And yet his superiors did not show him the consideration he deserved and expected. Faced with these proofs of his courage, they should have entrusted him with a task involving the highest responsibilities. He felt he was capable of being Number One in the service for the whole of France.
He brooded for some time over his present functions, trying to persuade himself that his contact with Gleicher was of extreme importance to the conduct of the war and that this mission was a mark of the esteem in which he was held by his superiors. He succeeded in this endeavor fairly often, but this morning the effort was too great for his physical resources. He could not blind himself to certain obvious signs of reserve in this respect: an incomprehensible, unjustified reserve that was intolerable to a man of his character and that, so obsessively conscious of it was he, impeded the fruition of his dreams of glory.
Dr. Fog had congratulated him, to be sure, but he had assigned him to a subordinate position. This fellow Austin, a mere stripling, was in command. Austin was the one in charge of the general organization, over and above him. True, he was allowed a certain initiative in his dealings with Gleicher, but all the other arrange- ments were made without consulting him. He knew nothing about the messenger who came to fetch the mail. Claire herself took it around to her mother’s place. Of course, this method seemed reasonable from the security point of view: it was only natural for Claire to go and call on her mother quite often. Just the same, Austin might have consulted him before coming to this decision. Why hadn’t he done so? Was it possible that they did not consider him absolutely reliable?
Try as he might, he could not get rid of this horrible idea, and the thought of Morvan’s mother added to his dismay. He had met her only once, but he could not bear the way she had looked at him. He never went into the village. It was quite enough, having to live with the daughter. His dreams were taking a decidedly gloomy turn.
He toyed with the idea of having another swig of alcohol but changed his mind for fear his breath might betray him. He got out of bed, this time making no pretense about it, and opened the shutters. The view of the neighboring town he could see through the trees suggested a more engaging theme for his thoughts, and he managed to derive a little comfort from the prospect of his next meeting with Gleicher. The German was to come down the following day and would hurry around, as usual, to get in touch with him. Arvers took infinite pleasure in making him feel his superiority and, in his company, experienced moments of almost complete euphoria. He despised Gleicher wholeheartedly—a man of the lowest type, who betrayed his country for money. Arvers never missed an opportunity to show the German what he thought of him, and his pleasure was twice as great when the meeting took place in front of Claire.
16
As he left the restaurant in the Champs Élysées where he had treated himself to a delicious meal including five French wines, for which he had a weakness, Gleicher saw that he still had several hours before catching the train for Rennes. A car would be waiting for him there, and it would be dark by the time he reached the villa where he spent an occasional week end. He had finished all his other business in Paris. All that remained was to prepare for his meeting with Arvers, which he always did with particular care.
He walked along at a leisurely pace until he came to a modest building in the Quartier de l’Europe. It was here he had set up his office; although he was in a position to requisition the most sumptuous house, he preferred to be discreet. The building had no elevator. With his brief case under his arm, he walked up the three flights of stairs at a fairly brisk pace but without being able to conceal his slight limp. He was a heavily built man in his fifties, bald and wearing spectacles—to all outward appearances, one of those German businessmen engaged in industry or finance who frequently visited Paris, were absorbed in their work, but were not averse to the pleasures that were available in the capital at bargain prices. His official position was inscribed on the door, which he reached slightly out of breath—“Re- info
rced Concrete Construction. Inspector’s Office”—a civilian job that accounted for his knowledge of important military secrets.
As he climbed the last few steps, his appearance underwent a slight change. His back stiffened, his stomach seemed to decrease in volume; his limp assumed a different aspect. He went in without knocking, left his hat in the hall, and entered one of the two rooms constituting the office. Otto rose to his feet as he came in. Otto, his assistant, must have been about the same age as himself. The formality of his greeting was in the true German tradition and appeared faintly incongruous against the background of a business concern.
Gleicher’s features now showed an authority that was not apparent in the street and still less so in the restaurant. Before sitting down in the chair Otto had just vacated, he placed his spectacles on a corner of the desk. He did not need them here.
“Is the Spielmaterial ready?” he asked.
“Yes, Herr Doktor. Our special branch let me have it this morning.”
The “Herr Doktor” was odious to the ears of Colonel Count von Gleicher, ex-officer of the Wehrmacht, who had been persuaded to transfer to the Abwehr as a result of a nasty wound and the friendship of Admiral Canaris. If this form of address was necessary in front of others, Otto, he felt, might at least address him by his military rank when they were alone together. He had often felt like mentioning this but had demurred for fear of being thought ridiculous. Otto, however, seemed to stress the “Herr Doktor” intentionally, as though his purpose was to make an amateur aware of the rigors of the job at which he himself was a seasoned professional.
“Is it all right?” he asked, taking a pile of documents his assistant handed to him.
Otto pursed his lips and remarked pompously:
“It’s not too bad, I suppose. As usual, all the information is plausible and quite a lot of it—what we know to be already in the hands of the enemy—is accurate. Just the same, Herr Doktor, if this business develops as we hope, our technicians will have to make a greater effort.”
“Really?”
“The British services responsible for interpreting the Spielmaterial are also fairly astute, Herr Doktor,” Otto said with an air of great experience. “In my opinion it would be advisable to ask the head of our special branch to see that the next supply shows some improvement.”
“Right,” the Herr Doktor replied gruffly. “I’ll do so in good time, if it proves to be necessary. Meanwhile I’ll just glance through this.”
As he bent over the file, Otto went on: “I feel it's even more important, Herr Doktor, since the Arvers affair might eventually be extremely interesting. There’s some new information about his character.”
In spite of himself, Gleicher pricked up his ears.
“It’s a long story, which our service seems to have pieced together pretty well, Herr Doktor. It’s like this . . ”
“If it’s a long story, you’d better tell it to me later. Let me get on with these documents first.’’
Otto was beginning to get on his nerves. In the respectful manner in which he made certain suggestions, in the way he uttered the words “our special branch,” Gleicher detected only too clearly a feeling of condescension toward a regimental officer who had become his chief by force of circumstance but who would never be as familiar as he was with the finer points of clandestine
organization. Ex-Colonel von Gleicher was not displeased to be offered this opportunity to put him in his place. Having done so, however, he realized he himself was being somewhat touchy, and he tempered his severity with a joke.
“After all, I’d better know something about the intelligence I'm going to hand over to the enemy!”
Otto acquiesced and waited for his chief to finish reading through the file. Gleicher devoted a great deal of attention and care to this task, turning each detail over in his mind, jotting down notes and occasionally asking his assistant for further explanations. Since there was one point that was still unclear, Otto, at his request, had a long conversation with one of the technicians in the section that manufactured information designed, in secret-service jargon, to “deceive” the enemy. Gleicher was a sensitive man and was eager to prove that he did not fulfill his functions like an amateur, as Otto sometimes seemed to think. Entering into the character of the Herr Doktor, he had forced himself to study the technicalities of reinforced concrete construction, with special reference to fortifications, which he was supposed to inspect. He wanted to be sure that no question on this subject would find him without an answer.
When everything was clear to him, he placed the papers methodically in his brief case.
“I’ll run through them again in the train,” he muttered. “Now then, Otto, let’s hear your story about our friend Herr Arvers.”
17
“I’ll have to go back quite a bit, Herr Doktor. You remember that business about the Cousin network and the Lachaume farm?”
“As though I could ever forget it!” Gleicher broke in with feeling. It was one of the first affairs for which he had been made responsible after transferring to the Abwehr. He had only just had time to look into the case and draw up his plans when the Gestapo intervened with their usual brutality.
“Those Gestapo swine sabotaged my work completely. If we'd waited another fortnight we should have had the whole lot in the bag, whereas all they got was the small fry.”
“They’re always in too much of a hurry,” Otto agreed.
Otto unreservedly shared his chief’s feelings on this point. The spirit of hostile rivalry between the Abwehr and the Gestapo was apparent to every member of both organizations and sometimes resulted in their jeopardizing the efficacy of the common struggle against Allied spies.
“And yet," he went on, pursing his lips, “they got some results on that occasion.”
“What results?” Gleicher protested. “A few subordinates arrested; some poor bloody fools wiped out who wanted to destroy three old locomotives and that’s all.”
“Not very important people, it’s true,” Otto conceded. “Nevertheless, about fifty of the enemy liquidated. . .”
“And the means employed to attain this brilliant success?” Gleicher demanded. To him the men of the Gestapo were odious for a number of reasons. He had espoused the cause of the rival organization; he hated the secret police instinctively; and he had been reprimanded at a high level for letting them steal a march on him. “The means? Torture. That’s all they know. Take away their blackjacks, their electric-shock machines, and the rest of their repulsive contraptions, and they’re incapable of obtaining the slightest information. I, on the other hand, as I’ve said before, Otto, would have nabbed the whole lot, and without grilling the soles of anyone’s feet, as they did, apparently.”
“I’m sure you would have, Herr Doktor. Please don’t think I’m trying to stand up for them; although, in certain circumstances, brutality. . . .”
His reticence showed that even though he hated the Gestapo at least as much as his chief, he was not absolutely opposed on principle to some of its methods. Colonel von Gleicher, who felt deeply on this subject, declared in a biting tone:
“I tell you, Otto, those practices are not only dishonorable but stupid. When you think in those terms, you’re incapable of proper planning and find yourself hoodwinked by the first fool you come across who invents some cock-and-bull story for fear of being maltreated. No one is going to use torture in this service as long as I have the honor of directing it. Der Nachtrichtendienst ist ein Herrendienst, and don’t forget it.”
Otto acquiesced, as he always did when his chief quoted this particular phrase attributed to Admiral Canaris—which he was apt to do at least once a week. Gleicher continued:
“Just look at their stupidity. In the case of the Lachaume farm, they were clumsy enough to let the principal character and his radio operator escape before getting all they knew out of them, simply because they were impatient to make some spectacular arrests and have a good laugh at our expense.”
&nb
sp; “That’s not altogether accurate, Herr Doktor. One of the two men, Cousin, it is true, did get away. The other,
the radio operator, died.”
“Does that make it any better? So he died, did he? That’s even more stupid. The result of their treatment, I suppose?”
“They deny it, Herr Doktor, but it’s more than likely.”
Gleicher raised his eyes to the ceiling and heaved a sigh.
“Oh, well . . . Go on with your story.”
“To get back to that business . . . did you know, Herr Doktor, that the Gestapo officer and his second-in-command were killed that night during the ambush they had set for the raiding party? In spite of being surprised, the saboteurs put up a stiff fight before being wiped out.”
“I didn’t know, but I can’t say I’m terribly sorry.”
“Since the two henchmen who stayed behind at the farm to guard the prisoners were also killed, there seems to be no living witness to the revelations made by one of the men.”
“Imbeciles,” Gleicher muttered.
“Not entirely, at least not in this case, Herr Doktor, for the man’s confession was taken down on a tape recorder, and the tape has been found intact. Cousin failed to destroy it when he made his getaway; perhaps he didn’t know the machine was there.”
“And this tape?”
“Was examined carefully, of course, by the Gestapo, and all the information followed up some time ago. It’s now filed away in the archives.”
Gleicher peered at his assistant intently.
“How do you know all this, Otto?”
“I planted an agent among those gentlemen,” Otto admitted. “It has proved quite useful at times.”
Colonel Count von Gleicher eyed him with disdain, unwilling to approve of this underhand spying on a rival service. He also resented the fact that his subordinate should have acted on his initiative without first consulting him. He did not remonstrate with him, however, considering, on second thought, that these practices, which perhaps were very useful, should remain unknown to the lords of the profession.