“I know that, sir. I’ll hold my tongue all right.”
“Have you got a girl friend here?” Cousin went on, looking him straight in the eye.
“No, sir,” Morvan replied, blushing scarlet.
“Good. This business is so important that even if you were married, your wife could not be told what you were up to. Do you understand?”
“Only my sister knows that I’m leaving, but it wasn’t I who told her.”
“It’s not your fault, but it’s a pity just the same.”
Claire knew about their mission because she now held a fairly important post, as secretary to one of the heads of the service. Cousin, although he was convinced of her discretion, was anything but pleased that she was acquainted with the project and never missed an opportunity to make her brother conscious of this. The Germans went on with their search and appeared not to bother about the two men. After feverishly racking his brains, Cousin came to the conclusion that there was nothing incriminating for them to find—except the radio set, of course! Even in his suitcase there was no document that could betray their activities. The only dangerous papers were the ones Morvan had burned.
Morvan had shown great presence of mind, admittedly. Quick reactions—Cousin was forced to recognize this, albeit reluctantly. But then, think of the ingenuity he himself had displayed in the six months he had been operating as a spy under the very nose of the enemy!
After looking into several enterprising schemes involving a submarine landing or a parachute drop, he had returned to France quite openly, with Morvan, in broad daylight and under his own name, crossing over from Spain with a group of his compatriots who had opted for the Vichy regime and were allowed to leave England. He played his part so well that he allayed all suspicion. He managed to pass himself off as a fervent supporter of collaboration, which made it easier for him to travel about the country and embark on his undercover intelligence activities. He established valuable contacts in several districts and gradually built up a network that provided a considerable amount of information. Living for the most part in the Free Zone, he succeeded in extending his organization into Occupied France. He had found an ideal infiltration point, the Lachaume farm, a tumble-down building just south of the border, whose owner, a rather simple-minded old man, lived alone and had agreed to put the place at his disposal for a modest remuneration. A born poacher, Lachaume knew every inch of the surrounding countryside, and crossing the line was child’s play to him. Cousin often used the farm as a meeting place for agents arriving from the north.
He chided himself for having made his visits there too long and too frequent, but the place suited him perfectly. Its peaceful atmosphere and isolated situa- tion were conducive to the vast schemes he kept turning over in his mind. On this occasion he had been there for over a week, having made it his headquarters for various operations—in particular, for an important raid that was to take place that very evening, in a few hours’ time, about thirty miles away: the sabotage of a railroad roundhouse.
He had planned the whole thing with infinite care, attending to every detail himself. It was the first time he had organized an operation of this kind. As he had been told in the course of his training, action groups, and those responsible for intelligence, should always restrict themselves to their own specific functions, and he belonged to the latter. But considering the cooperation he had managed to obtain in this district, the opportunity seemed so perfect that London finally gave
its approval to the scheme, forbidding him, however, to take part in the actual raid, as he was too valuable to risk. He had acquiesced with great reluctance, inveighing against the hidebound attitude of the bureaucrats who deprived him of this fun. The leader of the raiding party was to send him a runner on the following day to inform him of the result, which Morvan would then wire back from the farmhouse.
Morvan had been with him ever since his return to France. He had acquitted himself well; there was no denying it. Cousin even admitted objectively that he was a useful colleague and that his initial distrust seemed groundless. Morvan was obviously discreet and knew his job backward. Thanks to him, contact with London was maintained permanently, and he had succeeded in recruiting and training other operators in various parts of the country.
Cousin had not seen fit to conceal his satisfaction. Little by little he had abandoned his stand-offish attitude. He had even gone so far as to acquaint Morvan with a number of the network’s secrets and the names of several important agents. Morvan therefore knew all about the operation that had been planned for that night.
Cousin now cursed himself for having been so indulgent. How could he tell if Morvan, without any intention of doing mischief, but by letting slip some thoughtless remark, was not responsible for the disaster? Someone had talked, that was obvious. The dislike he had instinctively felt for Morvan at the start welled up all over again.
He was just beginning to convince himself that Morvan was at the root of the trouble when the Gestapo leader came over toward him with a deliberately casual air that sent a shiver down his spine.
7
The Germans had found nothing, but a mere glance at their officer’s face made Cousin realize they were not going to relinquish their prey. They must have been well informed to have made straight for the farmhouse. If they had accorded the Frenchmen a few minutes’ respite and had appeared not to bother about them, apart from slipping handcuffs around their wrists, this was not
due to hesitation on their part. It was part of their usual procedure to punctuate brutal treatment with intervals of inactivity that gave the victim fresh grounds for hope, so as to crush his spirit all the more thoroughly with a subsequent spell of violence.
The officer’s expression now indicated that the serious business was about to begin. He spoke French fairly well. He turned to Cousin.
“Mr. Cousin?”
Too terrified to speak. Cousin gave a nod of assent.
“I’ve known about you for some time, Mr. Cousin. I’ve suspected your activities for several months, but I wanted to catch you red-handed. I must congratulate you. You’ve been pretty clever up to now. I was beginning to think I might even have been mistaken about you.”
In spite of his mental anguish, Cousin felt a surge of childish pride at the thought of his merits being recognized by the enemy; but this petty satisfaction was soon destroyed.
“But this seems to me conclusive proof of your activities,” the Gestapo officer went on in an icy tone, indicating the radio transmitter. “I feel sure you won’t make any difficulty about giving me all the information I want on your work and your accomplices. There are several questions I should like to ask you, and this will do to begin with: What have you been doing in this place for over a week?”
Cousin did not reply. His mental turmoil was such that he could not think of a single excuse, no matter how improbable. The officer then turned to Morvan and put the same question to him. Morvan, whose face was ashen white, also held his tongue. Cousin sensed that he was trying to catch his eye, but he could not bring himself to raise his head.
“So you’re not prepared to answer, is that it?”
The officer stepped back and held a brief consultation in an undertone with one of his colleagues who appeared to be second in command. Cousin, who spoke German fluently, understood from this that they could not decide whether to take the prisoners away at once
or to hold a preliminary interrogation on the spot. The strange emphasis laid on the word “interrogation” made him shudder. His fears increased when he gathered that the officer, after hearing his subordinate’s opinion, was in favor of the second procedure.
“Don’t forget,” the latter reminded him, “that the Abwehr are also following this scent, and have been for some time, I know. If we waste any time, they’re liable to beat us to it.”