poison that was consuming him.
He managed to summon enough strength to revive his favorite fantasies and re-create the image of his ideal hero. Every morning he forced himself to make this mental effort, which for him took the place of prayer and from which he derived fresh strength to continue the daily struggle.
He fell to dreaming. He had no need to improve on reality to make the torrent of glory he needed spring forth from his adventures. He merely had to focus a spotlight on certain aspects for them to become immediately so brilliant as to outshine the few insignificant details that were consequently lost in the shadows. He had practised these mental gymnastics for so long now that he performed them automatically. . . . Was he not a secret-service agent of outstanding ability and daring? Had he not succeeded, thanks to his own resourcefulness, in escaping his redoubtable foe, the Gestapo? Having gotten back to London—a unique feat, he knew, in the annals of the service—had he not insisted on returning to the hell he had only just left, even though the danger was magnified tenfold by his previous arrest? His superiors had been amazed, and yet they were only too familiar with acts of courage. They had wanted to restrain him, to save him from his own temerity. He had had only to say the word—not even that, he had had only to stay put and say nothing—to have seen the war out in a staff appointment. He had rejected this security and plunged voluntarily once more into the abyss. He had dropped by night from a plane into a country where the worst possible dangers awaited him. All this was true; no one could deny it.
And yet his superiors did not show him the consideration he deserved and expected. Faced with these proofs of his courage, they should have entrusted him with a task involving the highest responsibilities. He felt he was capable of being Number One in the service for the whole of France.
He brooded for some time over his present functions, trying to persuade himself that his contact with Gleicher was of extreme importance to the conduct of the war and that this mission was a mark of the esteem in which he was held by his superiors. He succeeded in this endeavor fairly often, but this morning the effort was too great for his physical resources. He could not blind himself to certain obvious signs of reserve in this respect: an incomprehensible, unjustified reserve that was intolerable to a man of his character and that, so obsessively conscious of it was he, impeded the fruition of his dreams of glory.
Dr. Fog had congratulated him, to be sure, but he had assigned him to a subordinate position. This fellow Austin, a mere stripling, was in command. Austin was the one in charge of the general organization, over and above him. True, he was allowed a certain initiative in his dealings with Gleicher, but all the other arrange- ments were made without consulting him. He knew nothing about the messenger who came to fetch the mail. Claire herself took it around to her mother’s place. Of course, this method seemed reasonable from the security point of view: it was only natural for Claire to go and call on her mother quite often. Just the same, Austin might have consulted him before coming to this decision. Why hadn’t he done so? Was it possible that they did not consider him absolutely reliable?
Try as he might, he could not get rid of this horrible idea, and the thought of Morvan’s mother added to his dismay. He had met her only once, but he could not bear the way she had looked at him. He never went into the village. It was quite enough, having to live with the daughter. His dreams were taking a decidedly gloomy turn.
He toyed with the idea of having another swig of alcohol but changed his mind for fear his breath might betray him. He got out of bed, this time making no pretense about it, and opened the shutters. The view of the neighboring town he could see through the trees suggested a more engaging theme for his thoughts, and he managed to derive a little comfort from the prospect of his next meeting with Gleicher. The German was to come down the following day and would hurry around, as usual, to get in touch with him. Arvers took infinite pleasure in making him feel his superiority and, in his company, experienced moments of almost complete euphoria. He despised Gleicher wholeheartedly—a man of the lowest type, who betrayed his country for money. Arvers never missed an opportunity to show the German what he thought of him, and his pleasure was twice as great when the meeting took place in front of Claire.
16
As he left the restaurant in the Champs Élysées where he had treated himself to a delicious meal including five French wines, for which he had a weakness, Gleicher saw that he still had several hours before catching the train for Rennes. A car would be waiting for him there, and it would be dark by the time he reached the villa where he spent an occasional week end. He had finished all his other business in Paris. All that remained was to prepare for his meeting with Arvers, which he always did with particular care.
He walked along at a leisurely pace until he came to a modest building in the Quartier de l’Europe. It was here he had set up his office; although he was in a position to requisition the most sumptuous house, he preferred to be discreet. The building had no elevator. With his brief case under his arm, he walked up the three flights of stairs at a fairly brisk pace but without being able to conceal his slight limp. He was a heavily built man in his fifties, bald and wearing spectacles—to all outward appearances, one of those German businessmen engaged in industry or finance who frequently visited Paris, were absorbed in their work, but were not averse to the pleasures that were available in the capital at bargain prices. His official position was inscribed on the door, which he reached slightly out of breath—“Re- info
rced Concrete Construction. Inspector’s Office”—a civilian job that accounted for his knowledge of important military secrets.
As he climbed the last few steps, his appearance underwent a slight change. His back stiffened, his stomach seemed to decrease in volume; his limp assumed a different aspect. He went in without knocking, left his hat in the hall, and entered one of the two rooms constituting the office. Otto rose to his feet as he came in. Otto, his assistant, must have been about the same age as himself. The formality of his greeting was in the true German tradition and appeared faintly incongruous against the background of a business concern.
Gleicher’s features now showed an authority that was not apparent in the street and still less so in the restaurant. Before sitting down in the chair Otto had just vacated, he placed his spectacles on a corner of the desk. He did not need them here.
“Is the Spielmaterial ready?” he asked.
“Yes, Herr Doktor. Our special branch let me have it this morning.”
The “Herr Doktor” was odious to the ears of Colonel Count von Gleicher, ex-officer of the Wehrmacht, who had been persuaded to transfer to the Abwehr as a result of a nasty wound and the friendship of Admiral Canaris. If this form of address was necessary in front of others, Otto, he felt, might at least address him by his military rank when they were alone together. He had often felt like mentioning this but had demurred for fear of being thought ridiculous. Otto, however, seemed to stress the “Herr Doktor” intentionally, as though his purpose was to make an amateur aware of the rigors of the job at which he himself was a seasoned professional.
“Is it all right?” he asked, taking a pile of documents his assistant handed to him.
Otto pursed his lips and remarked pompously:
“It’s not too bad, I suppose. As usual, all the information is plausible and quite a lot of it—what we know to be already in the hands of the enemy—is accurate. Just the same, Herr Doktor, if this business develops as we hope, our technicians will have to make a greater effort.”
“Really?”
“The British services responsible for interpreting the Spielmaterial are also fairly astute, Herr Doktor,” Otto said with an air of great experience. “In my opinion it would be advisable to ask the head of our special branch to see that the next supply shows some improvement.”
“Right,” the Herr Doktor replied gruffly. “I’ll do so in good time, if it proves to be necessary. Meanwhile I’ll just glance through this.”
As he bent over the file, Otto went on: “I feel it's even more important, Herr Doktor, since the Arvers affair might eventually be extremely interesting. There’s some new information about his character.”
In spite of himself, Gleicher pricked up his ears.
“It’s a long story, which our service seems to have pieced together pretty well, Herr Doktor. It’s like this . . ”
“If it’s a long story, you’d better tell it to me later. Let me get on with these documents first.’’
Otto was beginning to get on his nerves. In the respectful manner in which he made certain suggestions, in the way he uttered the words “our special branch,” Gleicher detected only too clearly a feeling of condescension toward a regimental officer who had become his chief by force of circumstance but who would never be as familiar as he was with the finer points of clandestine
organization. Ex-Colonel von Gleicher was not displeased to be offered this opportunity to put him in his place. Having done so, however, he realized he himself was being somewhat touchy, and he tempered his severity with a joke.
“After all, I’d better know something about the intelligence I'm going to hand over to the enemy!”