Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  Logan was certainly that, and more, though it was only then, with the concerned words of this kindly gentleman, that he realized just how taxing his two-day journey to Paris had been. He had eaten but scantily since his drop. Though he had a pocketful of perfectly good, however forged, ration coupons, he had not mastered the local idiosyncrasies well enough to use them with confidence, despite his training in current regulations. He had nearly blown his cover in his fumbling novice attempt last night at dinner, and had ended up with nothing more than bread and coffee. Since then he had managed only a few turnips plucked from the fields this morning on his way into the city. Sleep had posed an additional problem; even for a city lad like himself, Paris was an intimidating place, and it was hardly worth the effort to try to locate a hole to curl up in for a while.

  Renouvin set Logan up in a hotel a few blocks from the bookstore, with effusive regrets that he could not open up his own small flat to him. Such a plan would have been to court danger needlessly, however, and they both realized it. He then saw to it that Logan had a nourishing meal, while filling him in on more details of his organization. And while Renouvin had been genuinely concerned about Logan’s rest, he talked with him far into the evening.

  When Logan at last finally did lie down on his cheap hotel bed, he hardly noticed how hard and coarse it was. He fell soundly asleep within minutes, and it is doubtful even a Gestapo raid could have wakened him.

  *Boche—French slang for Germans.

  21

  The Resistors

  Though the bright morning sun shone with a particular brilliance outside, Henri Renouvin’s back room remained dim. But the figures gathered around his little table more than preferred their present business to remain ensconced in shadows.

  “It’s not like Jean Pierre to be late.” The voice seemed to echo through the small room. It was an animated voice, full of vigor and haste, medium-pitched, though its owner’s massive build gave him the appearance of a basso profundo.

  “Keep your voice down, Antoine!” said Henri, looking over toward the table from where he stood at the sink filling a coffeepot with water.

  Though a bear of a man, towering over six feet and weighing in excess of two hundred pounds, the speaker Antoine jumped up agilely from where he sat on a rickety crate barely able to sustain his weight, and began pacing nervously on the tiny floor space the cluttered room allowed. Every ounce of the man seemed a powerhouse of energy in constant motion, whether sitting or standing. His lively manner belied his fifty years, as did his thick, unruly black hair and beard, which held not a trace of gray. Even his eyes were alive and vibrant, emanating a love of life that seemed impervious to his present agitation. He appeared to be a man who both laughed and wept easily and without shame.

  “I tell you, I don’t like this,” said Antoine, making a supreme effort to quell the natural booming timbre of his voice. “And where is Lise? Something must be wrong! Claude, you were the last to see her. She said nothing about being late for today’s gathering?”

  “Non,” answered the third man in the room.

  “Is that all you have to say?” exclaimed Antoine, as if he had been somehow cheated by the brevity of Claude’s reply.

  “Oui, Antoine,” answered Claude quietly, apparently unaffected by his companion’s anxiety. He was of about Henri’s diminutive stature. However, at that point any resemblance ended. At thirty, the man was sinewy and muscular, and, but for several deep scars about his face, might have been handsome. One scar, in particular, situated over his left eye and causing it to droop slightly, gave him an especially sinister air. This impression of lurking evil was compounded by a crooked nose and dark eyes that flashed hatred just as Antoine’s sparkled with life. Claude had received his scars, if not his hatred also, at the hands of the Gestapo when he had been captured with Antoine’s wife and daughter. He had been severely tortured before finally getting away in the escape plot which had killed Antoine’s daughter.

  “You talk too much, Claude,” snapped Antoine sarcastically. “Are you not even worried for our comrades?”

  “I am more concerned about this Anglais we will soon be forced to entertain,” replied Claude. His every word was uttered with effort, as if speaking wasted energy that could better be used for more lethal tasks.

  “Forced,” rejoined Antoine. “He brings us a million francs! For that I will kiss his feet.”

  “You don’t think his money comes without strings?” returned Claude darkly. “In return he will expect to control our operation.”

  “He did not strike me as that sort,” put in Henri.

  “Who cares?” said Antoine extravagantly. “With that kind of money we will be able to do much damage to the Boche. Tell me that bothers you, Claude.”

  In response, Claude just shook his head grimly, with the barest hint of a smile on his face.

  “Ha, ha!” laughed Antoine. “There is nothing you like better than killing our enemy, eh, mon ami?”

  “I think perhaps he likes it too much,” muttered Henri under his breath.

  Claude bristled. “What do you know, Monsieur Mouse?” he sneered. “You sit here all day safe in your little bookstore—”

  “Claude!” remonstrated Antoine, ominously halting his pacing.

  “Never mind!” said Henri, with a self-deprecating wave of his hand. “Maybe he is right. Who knows?”

  “None of us risks more or less than the others,” Antoine replied firmly with a pointed look toward Claude.

  “So be it,” said Claude in a tone that made it uncertain if his words represented apology or condescension. “But I won’t do the bidding of this Anglais,” he continued resolutely, “no matter how much money he brings.”

  As if Claude had planned the timing of his last word, the discussion ended abruptly when the bell over the outer door clanged loudly. The three men started, then went rigid, none moving for some time, as if fearing this intruder might validate their earlier fears.

  At last Henri stirred into motion. As the proprietor, he must greet everyone who came through his door. He set the coffeepot on the hot plate, then strode through the curtain to the front of the store.

  In less than a moment he reappeared, beaming with relief. He was followed by a priest, who entered the dingy room with an air of practiced grace and aplomb, like a man well accustomed to socializing.

  Antoine fairly leaped from his chair and took the newcomer in a huge embrace. “Jean Pierre!” he exclaimed.

  “What a reception!” the man replied, breathless from the zeal of Antoine’s greeting. “And I am only half an hour late.”

  “What kept you, mon père?” said Henri. “You know ordinarily we set our clocks by you.”

  “The Boche can sometimes be just as punctual,” said the priest. “They were at my door at seven a.m. sharp.” He wore a cool composure even as he delivered what could be none other than shocking news.

  “Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Antoine. “What happened?”

  The priest gathered his black cassock around him and lowered his trim, stately frame onto one of the crates. Everything about the man spoke of a noble breeding, a savoir-faire that seemed to stand in sharp contrast with his priestly calling. Even his handsome, Patrician features were smooth and unlined, refuting on the surface the venerability that one might automatically associate with his holy robes. Only his gray hair, though thick, hinted at his forty-nine years.

  “Ah, merci,” said Jean Pierre as Henri set a steaming cup of ersatz coffee before him. “You really must not be so concerned for me,” he added, noting Henri’s pained expression of concern. “Once or twice a month the Gestapo try to make life difficult for me, rousting me out for questioning, occasionally arresting me. It has become almost a ritual I depend on. They put me through their ridiculous little barrage of interrogation, then release me because they never have enough evidence to hold me. I think they are naturally skeptical of anyone whose business it is to do good in the world.”

  “Someday they may get
lucky,” warned Antoine.

  “But I have more than mere luck on my behalf, eh, mon ami?”

  “Those collaborators in your congregation will not stick their necks out for you indefinitely, mon père,” cautioned Henri.

  “It was not collaborators of whom I spoke, Henri,” said Jean Pierre. “There is a heavenly Protector who will never fail me.”

  “And what about the rest of us?” challenged Claude, disgruntled as always by Jean Pierre’s composure, as well as his irritating habit of making absurd references to a higher power.

  “He will protect even you, Claude,” smiled the priest, with more fondness than disdain.

  “Nevertheless, Jean Pierre,” said Antoine, “and I mean no disrespect, but do you think it wise for you to have come directly here? How can you be certain you were not followed?”

  “You know I am always followed,” answered the priest. “But the last thing the Gestapo suspect is a priest visiting his favorite bookstore.”

  “Mon Dieu!” exploded Claude rising. “Do you mean you led them here, and they are watching us? They may have seen the rest of—”

  “Relax, my friend,” assured the priest, scarcely raising the volume of his voice despite the other man’s angry outburst. “You may rest assured that in honor of today’s special significance, I gave my shadow the slip long before I came anywhere near the rue de Varennes.”

  He paused and glanced around the room, as if noticing for the first time that something was out of place. “Where is Lise?” he asked.

  Henri merely shook his head and sighed. Antoine continued with his pacing, and Claude, who had reluctantly resumed his seat, only grunted, as if the priest’s question was in itself proof of some point he had just made.

  Before anyone had the opportunity to answer, the bell clanged again. All movement in the back room stopped once more as Henri made his way to the front, with only slightly less trepidation than before.

  22

  First Meeting

  Logan had overslept on his first night in Paris.

  It was little wonder, for he had not slept soundly in days. Even prior to leaving England, he had been so steeped in his preparatory efforts and so keyed up in anticipation of this mission that he had slept little. But though he might be justified in sleeping so long, to sleep so soundly in the midst of this Gestapo-infested city was nothing short of pure folly, or so he told himself as he hastened out of bed. He would have to be more careful of that in the future.

  He had hoped to have time to unpack and study the layout of the hotel, but that would have to wait. He was already late for his scheduled appointment with Renouvin. He dressed quickly, found he was too late for the stale roll and coffee provided to guests on the premises, ate a hurried breakfast in a cafe across from the hotel, then headed toward the rue de Varennes. Knowing he was a good thirty minutes late, his most difficult task was to walk casually and take a sufficiently roundabout route; to run or even rush his walk could mean death to an agent. Any appearance of haste could do nothing but draw attention to him, and that was the last thing any agent wanted behind foreign lines, where all eyes were suspicious.

  When he pushed open the door of the bookstore, setting off the overhead bell, he had only a moment to wait before Renouvin emerged to greet him. Henri’s face was tense, missing its usual affable smile.

  “I’m sorry to be late, Henri,” said Logan, assuming his tardiness the cause of the man’s anxiety.

  “Think nothing of it,” replied Renouvin, attempting a smile for his guest’s benefit. “It appears everyone is late this morning. Come back and meet my compatriots.”

  That morning in Renouvin’s storeroom Logan met the oddest-matched aggregate of men he could possibly imagine. He studied each in turn as he was introduced to them, wondering how the suave, urbane priest, the dark, dangerous Claude, and the vibrant, boisterous Antoine could have come to be associated with the mild-mannered bookseller, Henri Renouvin. If it was true that politics bred strange bedfellows, then perhaps the politics of resistance carried the old adage to the extreme. Common cause, common hatreds, common fears were enough to bring both villains and saints together against a universal enemy.

  He immediately noted the air of tension in the room. Henri told him that the fifth member of their group was also late, and they were growing concerned. Henri poured out coffee for everyone, and they took up again the debate they had begun before Logan’s arrival: whether they should do anything about their comrade’s absence.

  “If she isn’t here in ten minutes,” declared Antoine, “I’m going to look for her.”

  “You must use discretion,” cautioned Henri. “Haste in our business can always lead to danger.”

  Jean Pierre smiled. The idea of the big emotional man using discretion seemed altogether incongruous. But he said nothing.

  “Lise knows how to take care of herself,” said Claude bluntly.

  “Which means we should ignore the fact that she might be in danger?” shot back Antoine.

  “Which means that if she can’t cover her tracks, there’s nothing we can do to help her anyway,” replied Claude. “Like I said, she can take care of herself.”

  “You’re not going to have much of an organization if you all don’t try to take care of one another,” said Logan, but he regretted his words almost before they were out of his mouth.

  “Who are you to judge us, Anglais?” sneered Claude.

  “For once I agree with Claude,” boomed Antoine, forgetting Henri’s previous injunction to be quiet. “We do take care of each other, and we are a good organization!”

  “I didn’t mean—” began Logan, but Claude quickly cut him off.

  “We know what you mean, Anglais!” he seethed. “You think your English money gives you the right to tell us what to do.”

  “You’re all wrong,” returned Logan. For a brief moment his eyes locked with Claude’s in what was nothing less than a power struggle between two proud men who had never seen each other five minutes before.

  “For heaven’s sake!” exclaimed Henri. “This gets us nowhere!”

  “And certainly does not help Lise,” added Jean Pierre, “whom I believe is our main concern at the moment.”

  “You’re right, mon père,” said Logan, calming. “But I think at the outset I should make one thing clear. What Claude said is not true. The last thing I want to do is tell any of you what to do. That’s not what I was sent here to do. I want to help—that’s all.”

  “C’est bien, Monsieur Tanant,” said the priest diplomatically. “And help is exactly what we need at the moment. We would be fools not to accept it.”

  The heated atmosphere relaxed, and Henri opened his mouth to make another suggestion regarding their absent member, when the bell in front again arrested their attention.

  Henri jumped to his feet, but before he could enter the store, the curtain swept aside. From the relieved exclamations on the part of the men in the storeroom, Logan surmised it to be Lise, who now hurriedly entered the room.

  A petite woman of no more than thirty years of age, on first glance she appeared rather plain. She had, in fact, arranged herself to achieve exactly that effect. She wore a simple gray wool skirt and cardigan sweater over a white cotton blouse, with thick, serviceable shoes on her feet. Her brown hair was pulled haphazardly back into a pony tail that reached midway down her back, and she wore no makeup, not even a trace of lipstick. But before the war, when she had dressed for an evening at the theater or the opera, the beauty she so carefully downplayed, now that her city was crawling with Germans, had been clearly evident. Even then, however, it was not immediately discernible in her high cheekbones or perfectly chiseled nose or her intriguing widow’s peak. Nor was it her eyes, black and shimmering as onyx, which first drew attention. Rather, her first attraction was her quiet, unaffected charm, her sensitivity, and chiefly the intense fervor in her contralto voice when she spoke of things that mattered.

  Everyone except Logan spoke at once with the
ir relieved greetings. Antoine embraced her in a hug that nearly swallowed her small frame, while Jean Pierre took her hands in his and squeezed them tenderly.

  “Mon cher,” said the priest when the others had quieted. “You are in trouble, non?”

  “Not I so much, mon père,” she answered, “but there is trouble.”

  “Sit down,” said Henri, ever the thoughtful host. “Have some coffee and tell us about it.”

  She let Henri guide her to a chair, but all the while her eyes rested on Logan. She had known there would be a stranger in their midst this morning; that was the purpose of the meeting. But still she studied Logan, as if, despite what anyone else said, she must draw her own conclusions regarding his merit. Logan found himself squirming under her scrutinizing gaze. Instinctively he knew it was important to be accepted by her, not so much because she held any particular power in the group, but rather because he immediately sensed that she was the kind of person whose opinion was worthwhile.

  “You can speak in front of Monsieur Tanant, Lise,” prompted Henri.

  She gave Logan a final glance, as if to say, I still haven’t decided, but I must speak anyway.

  “Madame Guillaume is being watched,” she began, then paused to take a sip of Henri’s coffee. “She took in two escaped British airmen yesterday, and now she is beside herself with anxiety. She called me this morning when she thought she saw the Gestapo again prowling about the neighborhood.”