Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  “Charmed,” said Channing, offering his hand.

  “The pleasure is all mine, Herr—what was it . . . Channing?—” said Logan brightly, shaking his hand firmly.

  “Herr MacVey is one of my agents,” went on von Graff, oblivious to the stirrings within his guests, “who is aiding us in the capture of a desperate French criminal.”

  “Desperate criminal?” said Logan, a bit perplexed.

  “L’Escroc,” said von Graff, and turning toward Channing, explained further, “an underground leader in the Resistance.” Then to Logan again he said, “Surely you have not already forgotten him?”

  “We haven’t heard from him in so long, I thought perhaps he was no longer a threat.”

  “We have reason to believe he came out of hiding last night. That is why I had you called.”

  “So,” said Logan, “who have you lost this time?”

  “An attempt was made to rescue an old friend of yours, the priest, de Beauvoir.”

  “I’m sorry you lost such a prize.”

  “You misunderstood me, Herr MacVey. We lost no one—the attempt was foiled.”

  “My congratulations, General,” replied Logan brightly. “But that doesn’t sound like the work of L’Escroc.”

  “Perhaps it is presumptuous of me to ask,” put in Channing, “but who is this fellow? He sounds intriguing.”

  “L’Escroc . . . the name means The Swindler,” answered von Graff. “He is a low-life British agent whom the ignorant people have turned into a folk hero.”

  “I thought you said he was French?”

  “French . . . British—who knows? One time he is reported to be one, the next another. One rumor came in that he was Hungarian. But the most reliable word is that he is indeed British. Unfortunately, we can’t seem to get our hands on him to learn his identity for certain.”

  “We don’t even have a reliable description,” added Logan, playing his part so thoroughly that the humor of his words hardly fazed him.

  “But after last night’s fiasco, we’re closer than ever,” said von Graff. “We captured two of his compatriots—men who worked with him and know him.”

  Logan masked his surprise and dismay. He had arrived in Paris only a few hours ago, after a grueling night trying to elude the Gestapo. He had fallen asleep in his room; when he awoke, the desk clerk gave him the message from von Graff to come by his office. He had not taken the time to make contacts that would sort out the aftermath of the ill-fated rescue, for the others would no doubt have had to stay away from the city longer than he. Thus he had seen no one since they all separated at the depot. He had assumed—hoped—that all had made it.

  Perhaps, had he known more of how things had ultimately turned out he might have delayed this meeting with the general. But there should be nothing to fear: none of the men working with him yesterday knew him as anything but a bespectacled old man. And none knew the name Michel Tanant . . . no one, that is, except—”

  But just as the thought crossed his mind, the voice of von Graff intruded into his reflection as if he had read his very thoughts, “And these two will talk,” the general continued, “before we shoot them.”

  “What makes you think,” said Logan, revealing no hint of strain from the sense that all at once everything was closing in on him, “that you haven’t got L’Escroc himself?”

  “Our police described one of the men who escaped—a gray-haired old man who ran like a youth!”

  Von Graff’s eyes narrowed and his mouth tightened. “That was him—I know it! He is too smart to be caught so easily. Besides, of the two we captured, one is a boy and the other doesn’t fit the vague description we do have of the so-called swindler.”

  Poor Paul! thought Logan. I should never have left him alone!

  But in his anguish over the lad, Logan momentarily forgot his own imminent danger. For Paul knew Michel Tanant. And from his capture and the events of the previous day, the Germans could well trace Logan’s underground identity. Indeed, Paul knew plenty—enough to convince von Graff that Logan’s true allegiance lay to the west, not the east.

  Logan realized that as of now he would have but a matter of days, perhaps only hours, to get permanently underground and out of von Graff’s clutches for good. The jig was now assuredly up. But he had to know still one more thing before he began to beat his retreat.

  “What of de Beauvoir?” he asked.

  “He’ll be questioned when he is released from the infirmary,” replied von Graff. “He broke his ankle in the attempt.”

  “And then shot with the others?”

  “You appear uncharacteristically concerned over the man’s fate, Herr MacVey.”

  “He was a likeable chap,” replied Logan without flinching. “It would seem such a waste.”

  “Well, rest easy. Baron de Beauvoir still calls the shots where the priest is concerned.” He chuckled. “No pun intended.”

  It was a small comfort that at least Jean Pierre might still make it. He would have to take some immediate action to see what could be done about freeing the others. Only one thing was positively clear in his mind—he would never enter this building again. His stint as a Nazi was up.

  When Logan left von Graff’s office a few minutes later, he had all but forgotten about Jason Channing in the wake of the news of his friends. Before he had stepped onto the avenue Foch, he already had the beginnings of a plan in his mind for another rescue attempt. When reason prevailed some time later, however, after a serious talk with Henri, he saw that the time for his involvement in such things had passed.

  “We will get them out, Michel,” his friend had assured him. “But the game has now changed. L’Escroc is dead and must never resurface. Neither can Michel Tanant or Trinity. Until we have Paul safely back, and learn from him what the Boche know, we must take every precaution. Your life is in danger.”

  “But I must—”

  “No, Michel! You must not. The season of your valiant service to our cause is past. It is time you began preparations to return to England.”

  “But, Henri,” protested Logan, “there is still—”

  Henri calmed him with his silencing hand. “Please, my friend,” he said, “do not make this more difficult for either of us. In your heart you knew this time was coming. And now, as leader of La Librairie, I tell you, it has come. You have done all you could do. You have fulfilled your mission.”

  66

  Channing’s Realization

  Jason Channing dined with friends that evening at Shéhérazade.

  He had by no means forgotten his encounter with Logan Macintyre. Though the remainder of the afternoon had been occupied with various appointments and business matters, Macintyre remained on the edges of his consciousness the whole time. Without Channing’s even being aware of it, his intuitive, suspicious nature had been probing, doubting, wondering. He had a sixth sense about these sorts of things. And he could detect the faint smell of deception in progress, though he hadn’t even taken the time to examine the precise reasons for his uneasiness.

  As conversation lagged, however, he found himself giving it fuller consideration. He had said nothing to von Graff about his knowledge of MacVey’s true identity. On the surface it did not seem to have any bearing on matters with the general. Von Graff undoubtedly knew MacVey to be an assumed name; no one in the spy business used his real name. So Channing knew Macintyre’s family—what of it? von Graff would say.

  But the strongest reason for his silence was simply that Channing had not yet figured out how best to use what he knew. He would not divulge information prematurely. And in this present case, he was still not sure he grasped fully the complexities of what was going on.

  What was going on? That was the question. Something smelled wrong. He hadn’t liked the look in Macintyre’s eye. His responses to von Graff were . . . he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

  For years he had been on the prowl for some bit of slander to use against the Stonewycke brood. On the surface it
would seem he had been dealt the very cards to bring down their spotless name—one of their own number a German spy! The scandal could cause an uproar in Scotland and bring down the high and mighty Joanna once and for all.

  That had always been the problem—they were all so confounded above reproach. He’d thought he had them when that Macintyre married into the family ten years ago. But no—the whole matter was treated openly as a matter of public record. Imagine, an elite family of the British nobility admitting a confidence man into their number, a common swindler becoming one of the family; the facts of his past, even his run-ins with the authorities, couldn’t be used against them!

  There is no justice, mused Channing to himself.

  Now, it seemed as if he finally had something really good. He had stumbled upon a major discovery, one even more powerful if Macintyre didn’t realize who Channing was—which was certainly possible.

  But Channing had grown wary over the years. Those infernal MacNeils had a way of coming out on top, and he had learned to show more caution than usual where they were concerned. Their son-in-law a Nazi! What a find! It was enough to disgrace any British family. Yet those people were such oddballs—it probably wouldn’t bother them. They’d accepted him as a swindler, why not as a Nazi?

  And still there was that something stirring in his gut which said things were not what they seemed.

  Channing brought his glass to his lips. Again his train of thought shifted back to the encounter in von Graff’s office. There was something there, something he could use. He knew it.

  Some indefinable peculiarity of MacVey’s interaction with the general had set his subconscious to work. Was Macintyre completely on the up-and-up? He had shown a bit too much concern for the captured priest—even von Graff had noted that.

  But no, there was something else. Was he too eager, too cocky, too unflinching?

  They had talked about the rescue of the priest, the captures. But what was it they had mentioned before that? A fellow they were after, a British agent whom no one could even describe?

  L’Escroc, that’s what they had called him. The Swindler . . .

  Channing leaned back, the word spinning with gathered momentum in his brain. L’Escroc . . . British agent . . . master of disguises . . .

  Suddenly Channing set his glass to the table with a thud.

  The Swindler! Of course!

  A swindler and a con man had married into the highbrow Stonewycke clan. And now that same man was swindling the Germans! It is almost too fantastic to believe, thought Channing, an evil smile of mingled esteem and scorn spreading over his cunning lips.

  Macintyre playing a double game! He could almost admire the man. If it weren’t for his in-laws, he might try to find a place for him at Channing Enterprises after the war! But as it was, this was his key to bringing down the whole lot of them!

  Of course, he could never prove any of it to von Graff. The man had obviously bought Macintyre’s act hook, line, and sinker. And all he had to go on himself was his intuition and his ability to read people’s motives, sometimes even better than they knew them themselves. But he had learned over the years to trust that intuition. It had served him well. And this present discovery would make up for that one glaring time when his perceptions had failed him, when he had sought to make an innocent young lady his own, and been rebuffed for his efforts.

  Yes, his revenge would come at last! And would be all the sweeter in having taken so long to bear fruit.

  67

  End of the Charade

  They met in the back room of a cafe belonging to one of Claude’s friends. It was now too dangerous to go to La Librairie.

  Claude sat on a bench against a grimy wall cleaning and oiling a rifle. Henri was seated at a plain wooden table with an untouched glass of wine in front of him. Logan paced the floor in front of him. There were only three of them; the war had brought many changes.

  Logan didn’t know why he was so agitated. He wasn’t nervous. He didn’t think he was afraid. Yet he was unable to sit still. Perhaps it was because he knew he had something to do, but everything was taking too much time.

  The air in the small, dimly lit room was pungent with the odor of cigarette smoke and cheap wine, and jovial voices drifting in from the cafe. It served to remind each person present how isolated he was from a normal existence—now more than ever.

  Logan paused in his pacing and looked at Claude. “Why did you bring that thing in here?” he asked peevishly. “It’s bad enough that the place is crawling with Germans tonight.”

  “It’s a pretty specimen, non?” returned Claude, purposefully ignoring the thrust of Logan’s remark. “A friend found it in the sewer and made it a special gift to me.” Claude almost let a smile slip across his scarred countenance. “Those criminals in the old days did not know that when they dumped their incriminating weapons, they would be arming the people for a revolution.”

  “‘Divisés d’interêts, et pour le crime unis.’ Divided by interests, and united by crime.’” quoted Henri dryly.

  “Bah!” spat Claude. “Even your de Gaulle has called the French people to revolution. That is the one good thing that will emerge from this war—a new France!”

  “The old France was not so bad.”

  “What do old men know?”

  Henri merely grunted, apparently deciding that his time was best occupied with his wine. Then he looked up at Logan.

  “Please, mon ami,” he said, “sit down. You are making us nervous.”

  “It’s just that I had come here prepared to say my final goodbyes.”

  “I know,” replied Henri. “But the delay could not be helped. Your new identification papers are not yet ready. And as I told you, Lise got word to me that she could not come. She was being watched and thought the danger to you would be too great.”

  “I know,” said Logan, at last taking a chair. “And Paul?” he said after a pause. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Whether he has talked? No, we have not heard. He is young and untried.”

  “I hate to think of what they might do to him!”

  “Then do not think of it,” said Henri. “You must trust us, that we will get him out. In the meantime, while we are making preparations for that, you must bide your time. You must remain until the new papers are ready, otherwise you will never get out of France. The rest of us have done what we can to protect ourselves.”

  “Besides,” put in Claude flatly, “you and Lise were the only ones he could betray.”

  “Do not fool yourself, Claude,” said Henri. “When one is in danger, all are in danger.”

  “Philosophies!” muttered Claude as he cocked the rifle several times to work in the oil.

  The room fell silent. This would be one of their last times together, yet the gathering lacked essential warmth. It would have been better, thought Logan, if Claude hadn’t come. But no, it was as much his fault as the Frenchman’s. He had been tense and short-tempered too. Mostly he was angry with himself for bringing about this catastrophe. He had played it too close—not just with the Jean Pierre rescue, but the whole Trinity business. He had started out too sure of himself, overconfident. Then when the reality of the dangers involved had gradually become clear, he was in so deep it seemed it could only end one way. He should have taken Henri’s advice and pulled out before it came to this.

  But he hadn’t. He had been waiting for God to show him. Was this now God’s answer?

  Even if by some miracle they got Paul out before he talked, he could not go on. Only last night he’d remembered that Paul not only knew a great deal about his operations in the French underground, he also knew Logan’s real name from that blunder he had made months ago when talking to the Scottish flyer they had helped escape. Too many threads were coming unraveled. In a way it was a relief. It would be over soon—it almost didn’t matter how it ended, only that he would be able to go back to a somewhat normal existence. Henri was right—he knew that now. His days as Michel Tanant were
past.

  But now that the die had been cast, it only added to his present tension to prolong the inevitable. It had been two days since Paul’s arrest. Logan had not been back to his room. He had already contacted Atkinson, but the major’s reply had been far from encouraging. A plane could not be spared; could he make it out over the Pyrenees? They’d keep trying on the aircraft, but just in case, he ought to get things rolling on the other option. Things had changed; the war was heating up. It wasn’t as easy as it used to be.

  The prospect of still another identity to cope with, as well as weeks of travel through the south, now also occupied by the Nazis, was not an appealing one. It was nearly impossible to find guides willing to risk the Pyrenees crossing now that there were heavier German patrols guarding the frontier. Some were charging as much as 100,000 francs for the job, and Logan feared he would have to resort to his old shady life to garner that kind of money.

  Well, maybe Atkinson will still find a way to dredge up a plane, thought Logan. But in the meantime, the uncertain waiting was hardest of all. Before he realized it, his thoughts had him pacing once more.

  “I thought we’d have more to discuss,” said Logan, jamming his hands into his pockets and glancing around. “Maybe it wasn’t as necessary as I thought to get together.”

  He paused. “I wanted to make sure I had a chance to say goodbye,” he went on. “But then Lise isn’t here, and the papers aren’t ready.”

  “We will meet again in two days at this time,” said Henri. “You may see her then. I know that is what you are waiting for.”