“The shots couldn’t fail to be heard, not only by his bodyguard but also by the French police post that is hardly any distance away. Although the forest is fairly dense in the neighborhood of the inn, it doesn’t stretch very far. They’d be bound to find us. No, that’s out of the question.”
She pretended to turn the matter over in her mind, like an eager colleague who was trying to work out for him the best solution to a tricky problem.
“Cut his throat? Perhaps. But you told me that requires a perfect and rather difficult technique. Let’s see, now ... I think,” she concluded, looking him straight in the eyes, “I think this would be an ideal opportunity to use your piano wire.”
He broke out into a cold sweat and at the same time felt a violent urge to strangle her rather than anyone else. He was the one—as usual—who had first brought up the question of piano wire: in London, when they were assembling their operational kit.
“It’s worth taking a few lengths with us,” he had said. “You can’t always find what you want on the spot just when you happen to need it.”
Flaunting his experience, he had then told her what he had learned in his special training course—according to some experts, strangling was the easiest and surest method of getting rid of an enemy in silence; the use of a knife required too much practice.
This was an obvious occasion for using piano wire; she was right. But in her suggestion he detected the devilish urge to test him to the utmost limit by multiplying the dangers of the task he had set himself in a moment of madness. “Strangling,” “stabbing”—these words caused him no concern in a training camp in England, so remote and improbable appeared the act they represented. Here, today, when it was a question of a few hours, the terms assumed a very different aspect.
He was caught in a trap. He could not think of a single valid objection to the terrible logic of her conclusion: a pistol shot was clearly unwise. It had to be the piano wire, which he himself had praised and which he had insisted on bringing along, in the event of circumstances of this very kind. At a pinch, he could still choose between this method and a knife, but he would have to make up his mind immediately; he could not stand the torment of her gaze a moment longer. She required an immediate reply and could scarcely wait to inflict that smile of hers on him again.
“I choose the wire,” he said in a flat voice.
From his mode of expression, one might have sup- posed he himself was the intended victim. He realized this and corrected himself, managing to assume a steadier tone in a heroic attempt to correct the ambiguous turn of phrase from which his merciless companion might be able to divine his pitiful state of mind.
“You're right, darling, it’s the surest method. I’ll jump on him from behind and strangle him. He won’t have time to utter a sound.”
20
“He couldn’t bring himself to do it. At the last moment he suddenly lost his nerve and col- lapsed like a pricked balloon. Thank heavens! If he had managed to bring it off, I think I should have given up the struggle. He was compelled to show his cowardice, but he did not admit it.”
In front of her mother, Claire forced herself to assume an exultant tone. As a matter of fact, she was at the end of her rope. The constant battle she waged against Arvers was beginning to wear her down as much as him. She did her best to look upon her adversary’s failure as a victory, whereas it was nothing more than a point in her favor after a long series of setbacks.
“Tell me about it.”
The old woman retained her usual self-possession. It would have needed a grear deal more than an abortive attempt on the life of a German to crush her spirit. She still had the same sullen, stubborn, obdurate expression that nothing could alter except, perhaps, the fulfillment of her highest hope—a hope that had grad- ually turned her features into a strained and frozen mask.
Claire had just arrived, out of breath, overwrought, and on the point of collapse. Her mother seemed annoyed to see her displaying such lack of self-control, and she scarcely seemed to give a thought to the danger her daughter had courted. She poured out a drink for her and repeated gruffly:
“Tell me about it.”
Claire took a deep breath and managed to master her feelings sufficiently to embark on her story. The previous evening, she had told her mother about the scheme Arvers had in mind. She reported their enemy’s gestures and actions to her every day, conscientiously listening in return to her advice, or, rather, her orders.
“We set out after dark. He hadn’t eaten anything all evening and had locked himself in his room earlier. I managed to get quite close to him before leaving the villa. It wasn’t too easy; he obstinately kept moving away. He smelled of liquor.”
“He smelled of liquor,” her mother echoed with satisfaction.
She made a mental note of every detail of Arvers’ behavior, no matter how trivial. These she mentally pieced together to form a sort of file that grew larger each day, and which she thought would finally burst open someday, revealing the truth.
“He smelled of liquor even though he had taken the precaution of cleaning his teeth. I heard him. He must have spent most of the evening at the bottle. We walked down the road in silence, then I led the way along the shortcuts. I could hear him gasping for breath just behind me. He could hardly keep up. I went on walking as fast as I could.”
“Good,” her mother observed with satisfaction.
‘‘Several times he asked me to slow down a little, ostensibly because of the darkness. Once he asked me in a hoarse voice to stop. He put his hand to his heart, he was on his last legs. I shone my flashlight in his face. He looked so ghastly that even I was terrified and took a step backward. If he had had the strength or the courage, it’s me he would have killed.”
“But he hasn’t got the strength or the courage.”
“I know. That’s what reassured me a little. We started off again. We arrived close to the inn at daybreak. I had no difficulty in finding the spot I had thought of as the most suitable for an ambush—a dense thicket, traversed by the path leading from the house. Bergen was bound to come that way. Close by there are some outcrops of rock overlooking the wood and
affording a view of the front of the house. We climbed to the top of one of them, after preparing a hide-out down below. He followed me like an automaton and kept shivering all the time.”
“Shivering,” her mother echoed.
“He flopped down on the ground, no longer capable of assuming a bold front. I felt he was on the point of collapse. I had never seen him in such a pitiful condition. His lips moved as though he wanted to say something, and he looked at me imploringly. I thought—yes, for several seconds I thought he was going to make a clean breast of everything. He was lying slightly on one side, his hand to his chest and trembling from head to foot.”
“Go on,” her mother exclaimed impatiently, without sharing the emotion her daughter felt at the recollection of this scene.
“Then he pulled himself together . .
Her mother broke in severely:
“You should have harried him, pressed home your advantage.”
“I didn’t have time to. He recovered his self-possession as the sun began to rise over the forest. He managed to sit up again. I could see he was making a desperate effort. He began keeping a close watch on the inn. The front door swung open and Bergen came out, alone. I had had him described to me—a wizened little man with short, stumpy legs. It was he, all right. He went through the garden and disappeared into the wood. In less than ten minutes he would be right below us. We just had time to climb down from our observation post, then we hid behind a bush on the edge of the path. He was bound to pass less than six feet away.”
“What was Arvers’ behavior like at that stage?”
“It struck me as rather strange. Whereas he was almost fainting five minutes before, he now seemed quite calm and almost determined. He took the wire out of his pocket and stretched it in his hands as though to test its strength. But I’m sure—in
fact, I realized later—that he had already made up his mind not to go through with it. This show of determination was sheer pretense. All he was thinking of was the excuse he would have to give me.”
“I’m sure you're right.”
“But at that moment he looked like a new man, and I wondered if he might not really see the thing through.”
“No chance of that!” her mother muttered. “I can see it all as clearly as though I had been there myself.”
“It was only when I heard Bergen’s footsteps approaching that I saw through his little game. At this point his expression changed and he tapped his forehead as though a sudden thought had just flashed through his mind. All this was only designed to cloak his insufficiency.
“When he saw Bergen fifty yards off, he seized me by the arm. I tried to slip away, but he got a firmer grip on me, knocked me over, lay down on top of me so as to pin me to the ground, and whispered in my ear: ‘Whatever you do, don’t move. It has only just struck me. We mustn’t. It’s impossible.’
“I was wild with anger. I felt like jumping up and pouncing on the German myself, just to see what he would do.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I couldn’t. He was pressing down on me with all his weight, and his hand was clamped over my mouth. Bergen went by, walking very quickly, without being
aware of our presence.
“He waited for some time before releasing me. When he was sure the German was out of earshot he spoke to me under his breath, assuming an air of assurance that infuriated me.
"‘It would have been sheer lunacy,’ he said. ‘Our eagerness made us lose our heads. Think of the reprisals such an incident would provoke throughout the whole district.’
“ ‘I thought you had weighed all the risks,’ I retorted. ‘Bergen’s existence endangers thousands, possibly millions, of human lives.’
“Those were the very words he had used. His face turned scarlet. He looked slightly put out for a moment, but went on vehemently:
“ ‘It doesn’t matter about us. We don’t count. We’ve already staked our lives. But do you realize the Ger- mans would shoot half the people in your village, which happens to be the nearest one? And have you thought about your mother?”
“This was obviously just an excuse. Even so, all the scorn I managed to put into my expression did nothing to alter the situation. He still managed to get away with it.”
“We’ll get him someday,” her mother said. “After all, it’s a setback for him. He must have realized you saw through him.”
“Naturally. On our way back he could hardly bring himself to look at me.”
“We’ll get him,” her mother repeated, nodding her head. “The next time you mustn’t let him recover his self-possession. I know what he’s like now. He’s the sort of man you have to harry. He’ll always get away with it if you give him time to think.”
21
Arvers was waiting for Gleicher, who had arrived at the villa at dusk and was to come over and join him after dinner. He tried to shake off the image of Bergen in the wood and the bitter taste left by the memory of his failure. He succeeded by concentrating on the reception he was preparing for the traitor and by repeating under his breath the orders he was going to give him. In the gloomy atmosphere in which he was struggling, Gleicher’s visits came like rays of sunshine.
The German knocked gently on the door at the appointed hour and appeared in the guise in which Arvers knew him, interweaving into his bourgeois manner a variety of facial contortions designed to express servility, greed, and fear. Arvers did not even invite him to sit down. With his hands in his pockets and a forbidding expression on his face that, to his intense delight, forced his victim to bow his head, he harshly listed his complaints. Claire was on the other side of the room, separated from them by a half-open movable partition. He spoke fairly loudly so that she should not miss a single word of his tirade.
“I may as well tell you, my good man, that I’m far from satisfied with your work. The last batch of information I bought from you was utterly worthless. I thought so at the time, and my service has since confirmed it. At the rate I pay you, I think I can expect something better than that sort of trash.”
He shifted his position slightly to see what Claire was doing. She was busy writing and looked as though she had not heard a word. He was vexed by this but derived some consolation from the manifest discomfiture of Gleicher, who was timidly mumbling some lame excuse. Arvers interrupted with a withering gesture to show he had not yet finished with him.
“I’d like to point out that up to now I’ve been scrupulously fair in my dealings with you. If you can’t be a little more conscientious yourself. I’ll have to make other arrangements.”
He felt intoxicated by the sound of his own words. Claire stopped writing and made an abrupt gesture, which his pride interpreted as a sign of approval, whereas in fact it expressed only the girl’s annoyance at his attitude. He went on, striving to create an effect by way of contrast, switching straight to a mysterious, almost sinister tone.
“Not to mention, of course, the extremely serious steps that I shan’t hesitate to take in order to ensure your discretion.”
This was the way to handle a traitor! The fellow was entirely at his mercy. He had seen through him completely. He was not only corrupt but also contemptible—the very thought of him made Arvers feel sick. To realize what sort of man he was, you only had to look at him now—cringing instead of standing up to him. Arvers interrupted him again in a furious tone:
“That’ll be all for the moment. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. Now then, what have you brought me today?”
The German opened his brief case and handed him some papers that Arvers began studying, shrugging his shoulders from time to time. Gleicher watched him closely and seemed lost in thought. His reflections must have been sufficiently absorbing to make him gradually abandon his servile manner. In the end he decided to speak, in a voice still deferential but at the same time filled with a subtle, almost imperceptible undertone that would have escaped anyone but Arvers, who was acutely sensitive to these fine distinctions.
“Herr Arvers,” Gleicher was saying, “I owe you an apology. I’m ashamed of myself, positively ashamed. You’re absolutely right: that last lot of information wasn’t worthy of you.”
Arvers’ peculiar sense was immediately alerted. He detected a note of irony in this suspicious display of humility. It was so unexpected that he felt a dull shock and shivered as though it were a portent of danger. Since his return to France, any surprise he suffered was invariably accompanied by a vague foreboding. He glanced automatically in Claire's direction, anxious to
see whether she, too, had been struck by these unusual inflections; but she had resumed her work and appeared not to have noticed.
“You’re absolutely right, Herr Arvers, that last lot of information wasn't worthy of you, and I’m afraid this batch isn’t particularly important, either. Believe me, it’s not my fault; after all, I had a great deal of difficulty getting it. But I’m anxious to give value for the money I earn and I’d like to prove this to you. Do you realize, Herr Arvers, that even before you voiced your complaints—which are justified, absolutely justified—my conscience was pricking me? Honestly, I’ve felt deep remorse at having failed to deliver the goods these last few weeks.
“I’ve done my utmost to redeem myself, and I think I've succeeded. Yes, at last I’m in a position to let you have a document of exceptional value, a document worthy of you, Herr Arver —and also of myself, for I, too, have my pride.’’
He began to reveal his heavy guns. This moment was his reward for a long period of mortification, during which he had been forced to play a loathsome role.
“And where’s this marvelous document of yours?’’ Arvers asked, making an effort to recover his air of authority. “All I see here is the usual drivel.’’
“I didn’t bring it with me. It belongs to a friend of mine who would probably let me
have it; but he is fully aware of its value. He’s asking an extremely steep price, Herr Arvers.’’
“How can I tell if it’s really worth anything or not?’’
Gleicher lowered his voice so as not to be overheard and whispered in a mysterious manner:
“You can listen to it this evening, Herr Arvers. It’s in my villa.”
“Listen to it?”
“Yes. It isn’t a piece of paper, it’s a tape recording.”
Arvers gave a start. At the sound of the words “tape recording,” which suggested no specific danger, the feeling of apprehension caused by his visitor's behavior intensified. He had the uneasy suspicion that this new material furnished an alarming explanation of the apparent insignificance of some incident—one he had forgotten long before, because of its unimportance, and that he could not yet call to mind exactly. Perhaps the truth was already beginning to emerge in his subconscious by the usual tortuous paths—paths more akin to premonition than to rational knowledge.
“A tape recording," he echoed, also lowering his voice so that Claire could not hear.
"A tape recording. When you’ve heard it, I'm sure you’ll appreciate its importance as I do—and also,” Gleicher added with a wink, "its extremely confidential character, Herr Arvers. This document must not be divulged to any subordinate. That’s why I didn’t bring it here. But if you’d be so kind as to come around to my place—it’s only a step, Herr Arvers—you’ll be able to see for yourself immediately.”
It was no longer possible to be mistaken about his attitude. This was irony—ponderous, German irony.
Arvers made yet another attempt to master his feelings and recover his position by haughtily declaring it was probably nothing but the usual trash, for which it was scarcely worth his while to go to so much trouble. Gleicher then told him he would be well advised to take the trouble; his manner was suddenly so solemn that Arvers once again felt he was losing ground. His mental anguish had become so intense that he could not bring himself to ask for further details about the mysterious tape.
A Noble Profession Page 11
