When Logan left von Graff’s office that Monday afternoon, December 8, 1941, he was feeling more than usually pleased with himself. War had been raging in at least two corners of the world, and now all at once—with the outbreak of hostilities between Japan and the United States—it looked as if all four would now be involved. His own tiny homeland across the Channel to the west was taking a terrible beating. Yet Logan could not help feeling that he, at least, had just won a small victory. The misfortune of being caught the previous Friday night was turned suddenly around and now looked like it might prove fortuitous indeed for the fortunes of L’Escroc.
Somehow he had just managed to pull off the biggest swindle of his life since Chase Morgan. Immediately as the thought formed in his mind, he recalled his prayer while at S.S. headquarters. Could what happened have been God’s way of answering that prayer for deliverance? Logan had no doubts about God’s capacity to answer prayer. But over the course of the past year or two, he had never really imagined God’s blessing to be on his life or what he was involved in. After all, he had not even seen Allison in . . . he didn’t even know how long. He had made some halfhearted attempts to get Arnie to contact her to let her know he was okay. And since coming to France, things had been moving so fast. How could God possibly have anything to do with him anymore. The prayers he had offered arose more from desperation than from faith. And if he were following the wrong path, as Jean Pierre had suggested, then why would God help him now?
The whole thing was puzzling, and called into his mind many random images out of his past—conversations with Lady Margaret and Dorey and his in-laws, and even with Allison during their first blissful days together as young believers in a God who could be an intimate friend. It had all faded since then. God seemed once again remote. Yet he had prayed . . . and now this turn of events with von Graff.
Did God still care about him? He continued to search his mind for something that might answer the question, but he could not get that realm of his thoughts to come altogether into focus. He would have to talk to Jean Pierre again.
He turned down rue Leroux deep in thought. He should have taken a tram, but the clean, crisp winter air felt good. The sun had come out earlier, warming the icy atmosphere, and in spots melting the snow. He could take his time. He still had over two hours until his next rendezvous. That would give him plenty of time to circle around, double back, and make sure no eyes were upon him that shouldn’t be.
He hoped Jean Pierre had been able to set it up with Lise as they had arranged before he left the rectory that morning. He wanted to see her, knowing it would be a far less troublesome contact to explain—if they happened to be spotted—than a meeting with Henri.
Even then, if Lise agreed to see him, the meeting in the Left Bank Cafe was to appear as nothing more than a chance encounter by two strangers. Logan had purposefully chosen a cafe in a part of Paris where he had never been before. From now on he would have to avoid those places he had frequented before. One chance word which revealed that he had been in Paris months before running into von Graff would land him into hot water with the S.S. It would be tricky; he had met a lot of people. But Paris was a huge city, and it would not be impossible. It helped that Lise had relocated since the raid near her apartment.
Logan paused at a newsstand to buy a paper. He would need it for his meeting with Lise. While glancing around, waiting for his change, he sensed he was being watched. He paused before continuing on, peering casually at the headlines, while out of the corner of his eye trying to focus on the faces off in the distance to see if his instinct had been correct.
He could see no one he recognized. Yet as he walked on, the feeling became stronger and stronger. Whoever it was behind him was good. And he was certain there was someone back there!
Could this be von Graff’s doing again? He thought the near promise he’d managed to extract was as close to a guarantee as he was likely to get that there would be no surveillance. The possibility that the general had gone back on his word was not altogether remote. But that same instinct which told him someone was following him also told him his tail had nothing to do with von Graff.
Logan walked on another block, turning over in his mind several options for losing the unwelcome shadow. Whatever precautions he and Lise took, he still couldn’t be followed to the cafe. Somehow he had to find out who was back there, and why. He at least had to know if it was friend or foe.
Lost in thought, Logan was suddenly nearly smashed into by a young girl who had lost control of her bicycle. She was already on her way down when she brushed by him. He reached out a hand, but he was too late to prevent a nasty spill. The incident came about so unexpectedly that it caught Logan’s tail by surprise, and he drew a bit too close. As Logan stooped down to help the girl up, he managed to catch a brief glimpse of a furtive figure scuttling back into the shadows between two buildings. Everything happened too quickly for him to see the face or make out any details. But the size and bearing of the man bore an uncanny resemblance to someone Logan hardly knew but knew he didn’t like.
Logan helped the girl to her feet, saw her safely off once again on her bicycle, then continued on himself, crossing the busy street just in front of a passing tram. Hidden momentarily by the large vehicle, Logan broke into a run and ducked into an alley way on the other side. Peering around the corner, he saw the bewildered Frenchman looking up and down the street for his quarry once the tram had passed. Then he turned in Logan’s direction. Logan pulled back inside, picked his best spot, and waited.
The moment the ex-detective entered the opening of the alley Logan leaped out, grabbed him by his jacket, and yanked him into the dark recesses of the passage. It was risky business in broad daylight, but no one in Paris these days had much taste for getting involved in petty street crimes that might bring them face-to-face with their Nazi occupiers.
“Okay, Soustelle! What are you doing following me?” said Logan, as with one swift motion he slammed the Frenchman up against the wall, his nose pressed into the rough brick.
Soustelle merely growled in reply, struggling to free himself. He was larger than Logan, and probably would have made quick work of an all-out fistfight or street brawl and left Logan unconscious in a matter of seconds. But Logan was younger and lighter, and had learned a number of swift-moving tricks as part of his training.
“I will kill you for this, Anglais!” snarled Soustelle.
Logan wrenched one of the man’s arms back, then swung his own arm around Soustelle’s neck in a grip that would have made it impossible for the burly Frenchman to move without the risk of getting his neck broken. Thus the battle, what there was of one, was brief, leaving the former gendarme helpless and at the mercy of one he considered a puny runt half his own size.
He made a few further vain attempts to struggle free.
“C’est assez! commanded Logan. “That’s enough! I don’t want to break your neck, but I think you know I can from this position.”
“Allez au diable!” spat Soustelle, panting.
“Not before I find out what your game is, Monsieur Soustelle,” rejoined Logan. “Why are you following me?”
“You are an Anglais. That is reason enough!”
Logan jerked Soustelle’s neck painfully. “Think again, Soustelle! What are you up to? And consider the consequences before you answer. I know von Graff didn’t put you up to this.”
Soustelle moaned, beads of sweat dripping down his brow. “What do you know?” he said, “and what does von Graff know!”
“You think I’m going to usurp your territory, is that it?” said Logan.
Soustelle remained doggedly silent.
“Well, perhaps I may do just that,” Logan went on. “Or, we can work together. That is your choice. But if I catch you or anyone else on my tail again, you will be very sorry, Monsieur. Not only will you have to answer to me, you will also have to explain to von Graff and the S.S. just why you chose to countermand their orders. And you well know that once you have fallen into disfavor with the Germans, you will wish that I had broken your neck here and now. So what is it going to be, Soustelle?”
“I would sell my soul to the devil before I would work with an Anglais!” spat Soustelle.
“That will be a fine arrangement with me,” said Logan. “I half thought you had already made such an agreement with him. In the meantime, I will do what I have to do. And I won’t see you behind me again, will I?”
Logan punctuated his final words with a stiff jab upward of Soustelle’s arm. The Frenchman winced in pain, but remained proudly silent, even in temporary defeat. Logan yanked once more.
“All right! All right! Have it your way!” he growled, his voice seethed with hatred.
Logan immediately slackened his hold.
“I’m going to let you go,” said Logan. “I want you to turn to your right and walk down the street, and keep walking. This incident can be our little secret, but if I so much as see you look back, I will go directly to the general. Is that clear?”
Defiantly Soustelle nodded.
“You will pay for your arrogance, Monsieur MacVey!” he said. “You will live, and perhaps die, regretting this day!”
Even as he spoke, however, he began walking away from Logan and did not turn back, shuffling off down the sidewalk in mingled shame and fury. Logan watched him until he was out of sight.
His last glimpse was of the Frenchman digging his hand into his pocket, then tossing something into his mouth.
———
Soustelle continued down the street. His pride would not let himself show so visible a reaction to his defeat; but inside, his entire being pulsed with an indignation that quickly became a seething cauldron of hate.
He stuffed another licorice into his mouth and ground it mercilessly between his teeth, stained indelibly from the juices of his habit.
The arrogant Anglais would soon pay for his impudence!
It was not long, however, before the Frenchman began to examine his hatred with an eye toward its practical implications. This MacVey possessed the confidence of General von Graff, that much was apparent. Thus the threats in the alley were not idle. Von Graff may not have said it in so many words, but the implication was still there—MacVey was the darling of the S.S., and he must be placated at all costs.
“Le quel salaud!” spat Soustelle. “The dirty dog!”
But that’s how it was. The French were nothing to the Germans—serfs and slaves, hated for their victory in the first war, despised for their defeat in the second!
But the British—they were different. Even Hitler admired them. And how much better an Anglais turned Nazi! Oh yes, they would do anything to keep him content, thinking nothing of stepping on a lowly French policeman in the process!
Yes, Soustelle told himself, I had better leave the Anglais alone—for the time being, at least. He would get around to Monsieur MacVey when the time was right. His chief objective for the present must be catching that other dog, L’Escroc. In doing that he would inflict more damage to MacVey’s esteem in the eyes of the S.S. than anything else, not to mention raising his own. After that could come the real vengeance—the kind a man like Soustelle hungered after.
His footsteps soon quickened. He had another task ahead of him that afternoon which would help satiate that gnawing appetite after evil. He hailed a velo-taxi to take him across town. There lived the employers of a certain chauffeur; judicious dealing with them would bring him one step closer to his diabolical goal.