Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  Logan nodded. “The papers?”

  “Hopefully by then as well, my friend,” replied Henri. “You have decided to travel south?”

  “I must not remain any longer than absolutely necessary,” replied Logan. “If Lise doesn’t bring a message from London guaranteeing a plane, then I’ll leave as soon as I get the papers. I have a couple contacts in Lyon and Marseilles. Maybe by the time I get that far, London will have come up with something. But it will be best for me to keep moving.”

  “Forty-eight hours, then,” said Henri, rising and putting a hand on Logan’s shoulder. Logan nodded, and they left the room, Henri to exit through the cafe, Logan to follow the corridor in the opposite direction and out through the rear door into the narrow alley.

  Claude remained seated where he was several minutes more, a cynical gaze in his eye. Slowly he raised the rifle to his shoulder and took imaginary aim down its barrel. Gently he squeezed the trigger till the hammer released and clicked down upon the empty chamber with a resounding metallic echo that reverberated through the small darkened room.

  68

  An Insidious Plot

  The following morning, while Logan finalized plans for leaving the city within a day or two, Channing again walked into von Graff’s office. The general was in high spirits and broke out his best bottle of cognac.

  “Never mind the hour, Herr Channing,” he said buoyantly. “I am in the mood to celebrate!”

  “What . . . has the Reich taken Stalingrad or repelled the Allies from the shore of Tripoli?” quipped Channing as he took the offered cognac, not in the least squeamish about a shot or two of good brandy at ten in the morning.

  “Better, much better!” replied the general. Von Graff sat back and savored his drink a moment.

  “I can’t imagine.”

  “I’ve got L’Escroc!”

  “You’ve captured him?” said Channing in surprise, suddenly solemn. If von Graff saw anything unusual in Channing’s strong reaction to something he had heard about only in passing, he made no mention of it.

  “Not exactly in my hands . . . but it is only a matter of time now,” answered the general. “One of our prisoners has talked. It seems this fellow—a mere boy, really—acted as a courier for L’Escroc, picking up and leaving messages at a certain mail drop. I’ve sent a unit to watch the spot, and have every reason to believe it will lead us directly to L’Escroc himself, or at least someone high up in his network.”

  “It would seem congratulations are in order,” said Channing, wondering to himself where this latest bit of information fit into his own schemes.

  “And now I know for certain that he is indeed a British agent: I’ve learned his true identity! It seems his name is Logan Macintyre, a Scotsman. I can have my contacts in Britain get me a physical description. I anticipate having him within the week!”

  “What good will a mere description do you?” said Channing. “The man will surely take precautions. And Paris is a city of several million.”

  “We will find him,” insisted von Graff, “if I have to track him for months!”

  “If he knows one of his operative has been captured, he will no doubt try to leave the city.”

  “Are you trying to spoil my celebration, Herr Channing?” said von Graff with a frown. “Besides, precautions take time. According to this Guillaume, he did not contact L’Escroc on a daily basis. Thus he may not even know of the boy’s arrest—we have kept it quiet.”

  “Precautions take time, but so does tracking down a swindler when you have nothing to go on. And how can you be certain the lad is telling the truth?”

  “Herr Channing, have you ever had your teeth filed down, one by one? Or had a spiked belt gradually tightened around your chest? Such methods do not foster a lying spirit.”

  “All of which does nothing to satisfy my question: Even with the information you possess, how do you intend to locate this L’Escroc, this Macintyre, especially when in all likelihood he will be out of Paris for good inside the week?”

  “All of a sudden, mein Herr, your interest strikes me as something more than causal. You seem to have something on your mind.”

  “What would you say, General, if I were to tell you that I came here this morning with none other than your L’Escroc on my mind? What would you say were I to tell you that I could deliver him to you with ease, and save you days, even weeks, of grief?”

  Von Graff’s eyes glinted as he carefully set down his drink. He knew that Jason Channing possessed resources and contacts beyond imagination. Was it possible he had known of L’Escroc all along?

  “I would say that I am intrigued,” answered von Graff coyly.

  “I had certain suspicions which you have just confirmed,” replied Channing. “My personal gut feeling in matters of this kind is something I have learned to rely on. Still it is beneficial to have supporting evidence. And I assure you that I am just as keen as you to see this swindler in irons. However, I think I may have a more effective means to that end.”

  “Do you plan on making this a guessing game?” asked the general caustically. “You implied that you knew what would put this Macintyre into our hands. Do you intend to drop hints and then dangle me along like one of your lackeys?” Von Graff had never really trusted Channing, and now he definitely did not like this little game of his, or the tone in his voice, for that matter.

  “Not at all,” answered Channing. “I am merely reluctant to proceed further because I don’t know how you will respond to what I have to say.”

  “Come now, Channing, we are not children!”

  Channing cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, So be it. Then he spoke:

  “Have it your way, General. You want your L’Escroc, alias Logan Macintyre? Well, he is none other than your own Lawrence MacVey!”

  Channing’s words hit von Graff like a thunderbolt. “That’s impossible!” he declared. “He has worked with me almost a year, providing valuable information . . .”

  But though his first words were ones of denial, his voice quickly lost its vigor and faded into a stunned silence. Almost immediately he knew it was true. He had been standing at his desk and now sank back into his chair—for one of the first times in his life utterly daunted. He did not need to ponder the implications of the situation long to realize what it meant for him. He had stuck his neck out for MacVey, while all along the vermin was slowly slipping a noose around it. Unless he delivered MacVey’s head on a platter, his own career as a German commander would come to an abrupt end. He had no delusions. Himmler was hardly the forgiving sort.

  “I’ll kill him!” seethed von Graff, all his patrician refinement swallowed in animal hatred.

  “You have to catch him first,” Channing reminded him.

  “What do you know of this matter?”

  “I have had dealings in the past with Macintyre, and with people very close to him. I recognized him the moment you introduced us the other day, but it took some time to fit all the pieces together.”

  “But you said nothing.”

  “I had my reasons. I had to be sure. Believe me, I want to get my hands on him as much as you do, General.”

  Gradually von Graff began to pull his wits back around him. Channing was wrong—no one wanted MacVey worse than he! If he was going to succeed, he had to think straight. He was a soldier. He had fought in two wars. He was trained to use his head. It was the only way to remain effective. He had to keep control.

  Von Graff straightened in his chair, pulled his shoulders back, and focused on Channing.

  “What did you have in mind, Herr Channing?” he said slowly, deliberately.

  “We may have both grossly underestimated this Macintyre,” began Channing. “I thought he was nothing but a third-rate con man, and you thought he was someone you could control. Well, perhaps we were both wrong . . .”

  Von Graff shifted uneasily in his chair, but said nothing. Channing continued.

  “He follows no patterns, and it’s n
o use trying to second-guess him. What he lacks in finesse he makes up for in sheer audacity. He is L’Escroc—The Swindler—and he won’t easily fall for tricks from others. If he is still in the city at all, you may be sure he will not return to any of the places where you might think to look for him. Neither will he look like the MacVey you know. He has probably already adopted one of his many disguises. And he will certainly never walk into one of your snap controls. He knows his man has been arrested, and so is probably already making arrangements to leave the country, even as we talk.”

  “You make it sound rather hopeless,” said von Graff cynically.

  “All these preparations will take time, even for L’Escroc.”

  “So what do you propose, Channing?” Von Graff’s voice rose as he spoke, on the bare edge of control.

  “We would be fools to go after him,” replied Channing smugly. “He’s too cagey. But he does possess one weakness, which might bring him to us!”

  Channing smiled, his cunning eyes flashing triumphantly. “He has a family—”

  “Of course!” exclaimed von Graff. “It’s inspired! But can we do it? Is there time, before he returns and whisks them to safety?”

  “I have a man on his wife at this very moment.”

  “You already knew . . . I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “As I said, I have other interests in his family. I’ve had a tail on her for some time, even before Macintyre stumbled across my path. One call and I can have her here in twenty-four hours.”

  “Then what are we waiting for!” exclaimed von Graff, jumping up and pulling a telephone toward him. “We’ll call—now!”

  “There is still the matter of how to contact Macintyre once we have our prize and the snare is set.”

  “No problem! We’ll be able to get a message to him!” said von Graff eagerly. “Just grab the girl and leave the rest to me!”

  He rubbed his hands together in anticipation. This was an inspiration! Small wonder that Channing was such a successful businessman! After all this time, L’Escroc had been under his nose all along! Well, now he would walk right into his arms. This would be better than just putting a bullet through him, though he’d enjoy that pleasure too. But in addition he would have the man’s wife to use as leverage. What information might not he be able to drag out of the traitor! It would more than exonerate von Graff in the eyes of Herr Himmler! And when L’Escroc had spilled his guts, then—and not before—he would put a bullet through his heart . . . with his wife looking on! Ah, the revenge would be sweet! It would almost make it worth having been temporarily played for a fool!

  The general was practically drooling with evil anticipation as he lifted the receiver to ring the switchboard.

  “Get my radio man in here,” he said. “We have to contact London immediately.”

  69

  Logan’s Decision

  It was five in the afternoon when Logan again made his way into the alley and through the back door of the cafe. He’d been wearing the disguise of a French beggar all day and the beard itched terribly. He hoped good news would be awaiting him.

  Claude was sitting silently in the same chair as before, the rifle across his lap, looking as if he hadn’t moved in forty-eight hours. Logan merely nodded, then shook Henri’s hand where he stood on the other side of the small room.

  In answer to Logan’s unspoken question, he held up a handful of papers in front of him, smiling broadly.

  “Yes, Michel, they are here. I have your papers!” he said.

  Logan sighed deeply. “It is a sad day, Henri,” he said in reply after a moment. “A sad day in which to bid friends farewell. Sad . . . but necessary.”

  “Yes, Michel. You must go.”

  Unconsciously Logan glanced toward the door.

  “She will be here, my friend,” said Henri. “I spoke with her around noon. She knows you leave Paris tonight.”

  “Then there is still no word of an airplane?”

  “Not as of then.”

  A noise at the door forced the two men into sudden silence. They did not move for a long moment. Then came a soft knock—

  “It’s me . . . Lise,” whispered a voice.

  Logan strode to the door, unlocked and opened it just wide enough to let her in, then shut and bolted it again.

  She looked at each man, but there was no friendly greeting in return to the probing warmth of anticipated farewell in Logan’s eyes.

  “I take it there has been no message?” he said.

  “Not the one you have hoped for,” answered Lise solemnly.

  “Then you have been contacted?”

  “Not by London!”

  “What are you telling us, Lise?” asked Henri.

  “It looks as if Paul has talked,” she said bluntly.

  “Poor boy!” sighed Henri.

  “Are you certain?” said Logan.

  “I went to my mail drop before coming here,” she replied. “Paul uses it sometimes. I had hoped perhaps—”

  “I had forgotten about the mail drops,” groaned Henri.

  “I picked up the messages—actually there was only one—and started to leave,” Lise went on. “Then I realized I was being followed.”

  “Followed?” said Logan. “You mean no attempt was made to arrest you?”

  “I know what you are thinking,” she replied. “They hoped that whoever picked up the mail would lead them to the whole nest. But I lost them.”

  “Are you certain?” put in Claude sharply.

  Lise ignored his question. “The odd thing,” she added, “is that this message is addressed to Logan Macintyre.”

  Slowly Logan reached for the small paper Lise now held out to him. He stared at it a long while before he finally tore open the envelope. He quickly scanned the message.

  “Dear Lord!” he breathed as he sank into a chair, handing the folded paper to Henri.

  Henri looked at the words, shook his head, then read them aloud:

  “Greetings, Logan Macintyre—alias L’Escroc, alias Trinity, alias Lawrence MacVey! Yes, mein Herr, we know who you are! We know all about you. And we also know that within twelve hours you will freely unarmed and alone walk through the doors of S.S. headquarters and voluntarily give yourself up. How do we know this? Because we have at this very moment in our possession something you will desperately want. We have your wife, Herr Macintyre! If you do not believe us, her signature at the close of this note is all the proof we will provide. You have but a matter of hours to decide. At five a.m. of the morning following the date of this communique, she will be shot as a spy if you have not made your appearance.”

  So, thought Logan, the nightmare has come full circle. It hardly seemed possible that Allison could be dragged into this world which had so occupied him these many months. But he knew even before he saw her handwriting that von Graff was not bluffing. His gambler’s instincts had not dulled over the years; he had always been good at sniffing out the false show of a worthless hand. This was not one. Von Graff held the cards.

  And now, at last, Logan had his answer. He had been praying for guidance about what to do. Now he knew. There would be no storming of the gates, no escape plans, no daring rescues, no more deceptions. It had to end—here and now. Help me, Lord, he said silently, to have the courage to trust you now, rather than trying to do it by myself.

  Resolutely Logan stood up.

  “What are you doing?” said Lise.

  “I am going to the avenue Foch.”

  “Michel! They will kill you!” she almost shrieked. “And probably never let her go even if you do give yourself up.”

  “We must try to get her out,” interjected Henri. “I have other people we could use. You would not have to—”

  “No, Henri,” said Logan. “I can’t do it that way. The time has come for me to lay down my arms. The fight is no longer mine, but the Lord’s. He will protect and deliver her.”

  “You speak of ancient myths when the Nazis are holding your wife!” spat Claude.
“You have lost your senses!”

  Logan looked around at his friends. How could he make them understand all that was going on within him?

  “The power of God is greater than a division of Nazis,” he replied. “I cannot explain it. I only know that I must do what I must do. You may each be called differently. But right now, at this moment, this is my destiny. I must go.”

  He turned toward the door, but Claude’s voice intervened from his dark corner.

  “So, Anglais, it has come to this! You intend to walk straight into the arms of the S.S.?” It was a challenge, not a question.

  “I have no choice.”

  “Here is your choice!” shouted Claude, wielding his rifle in the air in a defiant fashion. Then, with a quick motion, he tossed it across the room to Logan.

  On reflex, Logan caught the weapon, just as he had Major Atkinson’s gun that day so long ago in England. For a moment he held the rifle in his two hands, staring down at it; then he glanced back toward Claude. But for an instant he did not see the Frenchman, or indeed any of his present surroundings. Many images raced through his mind—but not the images of a crook named Lombardi, or even of a dead German soldier in a blood-stained French wood. He saw instead images of a man who had spent his life hiding behind one role, one charade, one con game after another. A man who had been careening along his own path for years, grasping at the only way he knew, a way of self-sufficiency and independence—afraid to let it go, afraid of what might happen if he relinquished control of his life, afraid of the path that had beckoned to him more than ten years ago . . . fearful of the way God might want him to follow.

  Suddenly Logan realized that his way of life—having to trust solely in his own strength—had become an awful burden, dragging him down like a giant millstone. As a Christian he suddenly saw that it hadn’t had to be that way, that he could have chosen to trust in God, but he had not wanted to see that path. He had wanted to go his own way, to be his own man. It had been easier to blame everything on externals—on Allison, on the marriage, on his lousy jobs, on his prison record. On anything but his own blind self-reliance!