Redecker took another sip of brandy. He had suddenly grown so nervous that he spilled some of the liquor. He demanded hoarsely: "So what? What had Petersen to do with currency smuggling?"
"Nothing, of course. But Werthe wanted me to agree to the collaboration of Intelligence with ourselves in the investigation of that vile assassination of our comrade."
Redecker asked in considerable excitement: "Naturally you refused, did you not, Sturmbannfiihrer?"
"Naturally I refused—at first. But Werthe immediately began talking about 'Gekados' and so on. He insisted upon telephoning to Canaris from my office. Canaris obviously consulted your brother-in-law. For half an hour later I had a teleprinter from Security headquarters. The investigation is to be conducted in common with Intelligence."
For some obscure reason drops of sweat suddenly came out on Redecker's forehead. No one noticed it. He stood up, turned his back on the other two and wiped the perspiration away. At the same moment Eicher's angry voice rang out "Werthe's already gone down to Toulouse. And who went with him? Herr Lieven! A blasted double agent! A swine who's put it across us, the Security Police! He ought to have been in a mass grave years ago!" Eicher took a pull at his brandy in great excitement. "If I ever get my hands on that fellow again ... Yes, what is it?"
One of his subordinates had just entered.
time he nodded. At last Thomas said: "So I came down with my colonel in hope that you two might be able to help me. I see you're a posh outfit these days, the pair of you ..."
"Posh outfit be damned! That real estate notice on the door is just a blind. We're in the market, naturally, like everyone else here. But we use a bit more savvy, thanks to you. You did us a good turn in those days."
"Yes," said Thomas calmly. "And now you can do me a good turn. I've got to know who plugged that Untersturm-fiihrer Petersen. I've got to know whether it was one of the maquis boys."
"Couldn't have been the resistance. Nothing political in it."
"You'll have to prove that. Who shot Petersen, how and why?"
"But look here, Pierre. You can't expect me to squeal on a Frenchman who plugs a Nazi. That's not reasonable."
"Listen to me, Paul. The Nazis have arrested a hundred and fifty Frenchmen, some of whom will be shot in revenge for Petersen. We shall only be able to stop them doing it if we can prove that politics had nothing to do with his murder, that the fellow had blotted his copybook some other way, see? Can you get that into your thick skull, hey?"
"For Christ's sake don't yell at me like that! I'm quite willing to have a bit of a snoop around ..."
[2]
Three days later, on September 27, 1943, three gentlemen sat down to lunch at Paul de la Rue's place. They were Paul himself, Thomas Lieven and Fred Meyer.
Paul had rung up Thomas at his hotel. "I think we've some information for you. Come and see me. Fred will be there. Perhaps you could cook us something a bit extra? The Marseilles boys told us you once put up a real stunner for them."
"Okay," Thomas had answered. He had worked for three whole hours that morning in Paul de la Rue's kitchen. The two gangsters wore dark suits in honor of the reunion, with white shirts and light gray ties. They had been so well trained that they tried to eat the first course—stuffed celery—with their knives and forks and found it extremely difficult
MENU
Stuffed Celery
Spanish Frico
Flambe ^Peaches
TOULOUSE, 27 SEPTEMBER 1943
A tasty meal that led to the breakup of a racket worth millions.
Stuffed Celery
Wash well fresh, firm stalks of celery. Mix well equal quantities of butter and Gorgonzola or Roquefort cheese to make a creamy paste. Cut the natural lengthwise groovings of the celery stalks a little way down, fill the stalks with the cheese mixture and chill. Serve upright in a glass vase with the small green leaves on top. Fill the spaces in the vase with chips of ice.
Spanish Frico
Cut small steaks from a fillet of beef and beat until tender. Spread them with mustard, salt and pepper. Cut peeled potatoes into thin, round slices. Fry sliced onions in butter till golden-brown. Sprinkle bread crumbs in a well-greased, fireproof casserole. Place a layer of potato slices, with dabs of butter and salt and pepper, at the bottom of the casserole. On this base place a layer of the steaks. Cover them with onions and a layer of the potato slices. Continue this process till the casserole is full. The top layer should be potatoes dabbed with butter. Mix half a cup of red wine, cream and stock in equal proportions and pour it over the potatoes. Cover well and steam for one and a half hours. Turn out onto a large dish*
Flambe Peaches
Prepare a light caramel with a little butter, granulated sugar and blanched almond chips. Pour into it the freshly pressed juice of oranges and lemons, in the proportion of one to two. Add one dash each of Cointreau, maraschino and cognac. Place fine drained halves of tinned or bottled peaches in the
liquid. Baste them continuously until they are heated through. Then pour on more cognac and light it. Place the hot peaches on a plate over a portion of vanilla ice cream, pour the liquid over them and decorate with whipped cream.
To prepare this dish a strong, thick frying pan of stainless steel should be used on the dining table itself, over a spirit burner.
"With this sort of food," said Thomas, "it is absolutely correct, by way of exception, to take the stalks in one's fingers."
"Thank God for that," said Fred. "What kind of cheese is this?"
"Roquefort," said Thomas. "Now, who killed Petersen?"
"A certain Louis Monico, a Corsican, called the Dreamer."
"In the maquis?"
"Good Lord, no. He's a thoroughgoing crook. Quite young. But a serious tubercular case. He's already done four years for manslaughter. According to what we have been told—and our informants are absolutely reliable—that fellow Petersen was a most fearful swine. Order of the Blood and Gestapo agent, my foot! Don't make me laugh! Petersen came down here as an ordinary citizen, see? And do you know what he was up to? He was buying gold!"
"Well, well, well!"
"In any quantity. He paid good prices, too. Must have been in pretty big time. The Dreamer had already sold him a few bits and pieces, never very much at a time, now and then."
Thomas thought, So Herr Petersen of the Security Police was an illicit gold buyer. And the Fiihrer has ordered him a state funeral. And hostages are to be shot And Germany has lost a hero. Glory be!
. "Well, after a time the Dreamer began to trust Petersen. And one day he turned up at Petersen's hotel with a really big consignment of gold ..."
[3]
The pallid, slightly built Louis Monico placed two heavy boxes of gold coins and ingots on the rococo table in the drawing room of Suite 203 at the Hotel Victoria. The effort made him pant. The breath came whistling from his chest. His eyes shone feverishly.
A short man in a gray flannel suit was standing opposite the Dreamer. He had watery eyes, an almost lipless mouth and a
mathematically exact parting through his cropped fair hair. All that Louise knew of him was that he called himself Petersen and bought gold. Good enough, thought Louis. That was all one needed to know.
"What's the quantity this time?" Petersen asked.
'Three hundred louis d'or and thirty-five gold ingots." The Dreamer opened the two boxes. Gold glittered in the electric light from the chandelier.
"Where's the money?"
Petersen put his hand in his inside breast pocket. When he drew it out it held a pass. He spoke in icy tones. "I am Unter-sturmfuhrer Petersen of the Security Police. You are under arrest"
Louis Monico had kept his right hand in his jacket pocket while Petersen was speaking. He did not remove it He fired from the pocket Three bullets struck Erich Petersen, Member of the Order of the Blood, in the chest. He died instantly. He lay staring at the ceiling with the light fading from his eyes.
The Dreamer said to the dead man: "You picked the wrong sucker tonight,
you bastard." Then he stepped over the corpse, crossed to the double doors of the suite and opened them. The corridor was empty. The Dreamer picked up his two boxes of gold and went down to the lounge, where no one took any notice of him.
[4]
"No one noticed him in the lounge," Fred Meyer concluded i his report.
"And who told you all that?" Thomas asked.
'The Dreamer's brother."
"He didn't attempt to suppress anything?"
"No, because meanwhile the truth had ceased to matter to i him. I told you the Dreamfer's lungs were affected, didn't I? 1 Well, three days ago he burst a blood vessel. He's in the hospital now and won't live to the end of the week."
"You can go along there with your colonel," said Paul. "The lad's ready to make a statement"
At 1615 hours on September 27, 1943, the telephone on j little Major Brenner's desk tinkled. He lifted the receiver and recognized the voice of his chief. "Werthe here. I'm speaking from Toulouse. Listen carefully. What I'm going to tell you is of the most vital importance."
"I'm listening, sir."
"We've found Petersen's murderer." Werthe described the consumptive Louis Monico and the confession he had made. "Lieven, two Security Police officers and I were at the bedside."
"Good God Almighty, sir!" exclaimed Brenner. His heart was beating wildly. That Lieven! That devil of a Lieven! Thank God I backed up his idea right away this time.
Something else occurred to Brenner. "That moneylender* Victor Robinson—he falsely accused Ferroud."
"We've accounted for that too, now. Robinson was in on Petersen's racket. He had formerly been employed by Ferroud, who had dismissed him. Robinson wanted to pay him out. But that still isn't all, Brenner. Here's the main point. So far as Lieven could ascertain Petersen used the gold to get in on a gigantic swindle in connection with German Treasury bills ... Brenner, are you listening?"
Brenner licked his dry lips. Good heavens, those Treasury bills! It's getting more and more complicated. And, good Lord, here I am in the middle of it! He called back tensely: "Yes, sir. I'm listening."
"We don't yet know the details. But there's not a second to lose now, Brenner. If we can prove that Petersen was in on the Treasury bills racket, there'll be a simply terrific scandal. The Security people will of course do their utmost to hush everything up. For the moment we're ahead of them, though only for a few hours at most. Major Brenner, you are to take five reliable men—"
"Yes, sir!"
"Petersen has an apartment at No. 3 Avenue Wagram. It's his official residence. You will first search the premises."
"Yes, sir!"
"Lieven has discovered that Petersen also has a secret hideout in the Avenue Mozart, No. 28, of which the Gestapo apparently know nothing. You are also to visit those premises."
"Yes, sir!"
'Turn both places inside out. Do what you like. Lieven is already on the way back to Paris to contact you. Put all suspected material under seal before the Security people can make it disappear. D'you hear me?"
"Yes, sir!" cried Brenner.
As the result of this conversation the little major plunged into an adventure which was to make his honest chubby cheeks turn red with shame. It was a shocking, a truly Pari-
sian adventure. It is to be hoped that Major Brenner's adventure can now be related in the necessary discreet language.
[5,
With screaming tires the army Mercedes came to a halt outside No. 3, Avenue Wagram. Out sprang little Major Brenner. He squared his shoulders and straightened his gold-rimmed spectacles with a resolute gesture.
A gray army truck pulled up behind the Mercedes. Five men in uniform climbed down into the street, which was reflecting the last sunshine of a fine, warm autumn day. It was 1646 hours on September 27, 1943.
"Follow me!" ordered the little major, pulling the pistol in his belt around to the front. Then he raced, with his five picked men, into the house. But the official residence of the dead Petersen was empty. The doors stood open. The carpets and furniture had disappeared.
The fat concierge explained, shrugging her shoulders: "Everything was taken away early this morning."
'Taken away? By whom?"
"By furniture movers, of course—and a German officer, a friend of Herr Petersen's, who often came here. Name of Redecker."
"Redecker?" Little Major Brenner had his connections with the Security Police. He knew Obersturmfuhrer Redecker, own brother-in-law to the Reichsfiihrer SS and Chief of the German Police, Heinrich Himmler.
Brenner became distinctly uneasy. Were Redecker and Petersen so intimate? If so, then there really wasn't a second to lose. He had been too late at the official residence. But the hideout in the Avenue Mozart was allegedly unknown to the Security people. So that must be the next port of call.
The five reliable men tore down the stairs behind their major and out into the street. Accelerators roared. The vehicles shot forward. Major Brenner's heart was beating wildly. He felt just like the Demon King. Hey, presto! Here I come!
In the fashionable Avenue Mozart, a few minutes later, Brenner tried to explain to the concierge of No. 28 in his schoolboy's French that he had orders to search the apartment of Herr Petersen on the second floor.
"But, monsieur," the porter's wife objected, "the ladies are there just now."
"Ladies? What ladies?"
352
"Mme. Lily Page and her maid."
'Who is Mme. Page?"
"M. Petersen's mistress, of course. He's been away for the last few days.
Brenner made a lightning deduction. Hereabouts, obviously, nothing was yet known of the murder of the member of the Order of the Blood and illicit gold buyer. He dashed off again with his five men, but this time up to the second floor.
An uncommonly pretty maid opened the door to his ring. Brenner explained his mission, without however—must keep one's head!—letting slip a word about the sad fate of the member of the Order of the Blood. The pretty maid appeared confused and called her mistress.
Mme. Page arrived in a sketchy costume which even in the dim light of the hall could not be otherwise described than as bewilderingly transparent. She seemed to be about thirty-three years old, most attractive and of a rather full figure. In all she made a stimulating impression with her almond eyes and snow-white skin.
The major perceived that the eyes of his five realiable men were popping out of their heads. Fritz Brenner had never in his life so far dealt with ladies of this kind. He cleared his throat in some embarrassment and explained in polite but definite language the purpose of his visit.
Then he marched, the very incarnation of conscientiousness, straight into the drawing room, which was furnished with extraordinary elegance and lavishness. On the walls certain extremely indecorous pictures were to be observed. Brenner, naturally, did not observe them.
Meanwhile Lily Page strolled gracefully to the window and drew down the sun blind, though at this time of day it was really no longer necessary.
I'm not a born idiot, thought Brenner. That must be a prearranged signal to someone in the street. Accordingly he crossed the room to the side of the opulent Lily, drew the sun blind up again and pronounced with cast-iron gallantry the words: "I beg to be allowed to contemplate madame's beauty in the full light of day."
"Charmant!" smiled the lightly clad Lily. She dropped into a deep, soft armchair and crossed her legs. "Please begin your search, Major."
Brenner's five men had obviously already started it. He could hear them banging about next door and chaffing the
maid. Confound the fellows! No seriousness, no sense of duty! What a conception of the Service ...
In this mood of irritation and also embarrassed by the proximity of the lady, Brenner opened a tall mahogany cabinet. Its contents made him blush to the roots of his hair. He gasped for breath. The dark-haired Lily smiled sardonically. The major shut the cabinet with a bang. For the second time he felt distinctly uneasy.
Major Bren
ner had of course heard it alleged that certain books, drawings, photographs and other objects existed which had to shun the glare of publicity. But he had never been able to imagine what they might be like. Now that his unsuspecting glance, when he opened that cabinet, had fallen upon such filth, he felt sickened to the very soul. Atrocious! Monstrous! Decadent! Corrupt! No wonder such a people had lost the war . . .
Carefully suppressed caterwauling and guffaws from the next room made the major wince. The almond-eyed lady murmured languidly: "Your men seemed to have found the library."
Brenner rushed into the adjoining room. Four of his picked men were crowding around a bookshelf. The major shuddered when he saw what was causing their hilarity. He turned to look for the fifth picked man and found him in the maid's room.
Brenner forbade the group of four to go near the bookshelf and forbade Number Five to go near the maid. The situation began to get a bit beyond him. For this apartment was turning out to be a positive museum of the unspeakable.
The major's face assumed permanently the color of an overripe tomato. Drops of sweat stood out on his brow. In desperation he dashed to the telephone and put through an urgent call to Toulouse through the army exchange Leander 14.
Thank God! Werthe was still there. Brenner groaned with relief when he heard his colonel's voice. Breathlessly the major explained what a cesspool he had fallen into.
Colonel Werthe, in Toulouse, also groaned—over his ultra-respectable major. But Brenner did not notice the groan. He only heard Werthe demand: "What about material? Treasury bills and so on? Didn't you find anything?"
"No, sir."
"Look here, Brenner. Lieven will be in Paris very shortly. You must stay where you are and not say anything to anyone about Toulouse."
"Tunderstand, sir. I stay here and keep absolutely mum."
"Call up the Lutetia and Lieven's villa. The moment he gets to Paris he's to join you."
Brenner replaced the receiver. Lieven! Thomas Lieven! A ray of hope at last, the Sonderfiihrer! If only he'd come quickly.. .
Major Brenner heard the maid squeal, as though she were being tickled. In a rage, he rushed off to apprehend the malefactor. Heavens, what a disagreeable situation!
The Monte Cristo Cover-Up Page 38
