“Out of the question, Herr Doktor. It will take me at least a day or two.”
“Never mind . . . though I should have liked to hear it played through before going down there this evening. . . .”
He got up, put on his spectacles again, and set about resuming his bourgeois aspect.
“Good work, Otto,” he said as he left the office. “You may rest assured that I shall listen to every intonation of his voice with the utmost attention.”
18
In the living room of the villa, Arvers was moodily contemplating a message that had just come in from London. Claire was reading in a comer of the room—or was she only pretending to be reading? Her most commonplace occupations struck him as being pretexts for spying on him, and he controlled the muscles of his face so as not to reveal a clue to his feelings.
The message was fairly long and contained nothing of particular interest, but he was irritated to detect throughout its contents a certain lack of appreciation of his work—no specific complaint, but a sort of unex- pressed regret that his activity was not more fruitful. The message acknowledged receipt of the documents that had arrived by the previous mails and especially the information sent a few days earlier by Claire, after Gleicher’s last visit. Not only did it not contain a single word of encouragement, such as: “Continue with the good work,” as often used to happen, but it was scattered with remarks of this sort: “Could be useful at a pinch,” and “This has been known to us for some time,” and even “Much more urgent to give details on such-and-such a point, the importance of which seems to escape you. More difficult, certainly, but it should be possible if reasonable risks are taken.”
He was cut to the quick by the sarcastic tone of this last remark. This was not characteristic of Austin, who generally drafted the messages. Some big shot, comfortably ensconced in his armchair, had probably wanted to add his grain of salt and show his authority. Arvers read it through again. There was no doubt about it: they were insinuating that he was not doing his best. Was it his fault that his role was so restricted and that he depended entirely on Gleicher for the information he provided? If the German was making a fool of them, he, Arvers, could hardly be blamed; all he could do was express his dissatisfaction.
Not that he ever failed to do so. The recollection of his last meeting with Gleicher did something to soothe his injured pride. Since the traitor had appeared rather resentful of his usual tone of authority, he had given him a thorough dressing-down, like a schoolboy, and intimated that he held the German’s honor and even his life in the palm of his hand—a statement from which he derived a singular pleasure. Gleicher had quickly resumed his humble attitude and promised to do his utmost to fulfill his demands. . . . Yet the last batch of information was worthless, or almost so, according to London! He made a note to take Gleicher down a peg in the course of their next meeting. Meanwhile, he himself was the scapegoat. He was the one whom his superiors appeared to consider too timid—even pusillanimous, perhaps?
PusillanimousI He became red in the face and could not suppress a gesture of anger. He regretted this at once, sensing that this movement had not escaped Claire and that she had raised her head. His whole body had become extraordinarily sensitive to Claire’s gaze. He glanced in her direction. He was not mistaken: she was peering at him over the edge of her book. He became even redder as he tried to explain his attitude.
“It’s this message,” he muttered irritably. “They really seem to think we’re just twiddling our thumbs. They don’t realize the conditions in which one has to work when engaged in clandestine activity.”
His voice sounded false and he knew it. Claire knew as well as he did that London was fully aware of the difficulties confronting secret agents. Nor did it escape her that his present job entailed infinitely less danger than many other missions. He felt the need of justifying himself still further in the eyes of this girl, whose silence was, as usual, filled with malevolence.
“If we don’t take great risks, it’s only in order to abide by their instructions.”
The “we” was a tentative effort to create a team spirit between them. He often endeavored by such means to break through the constraint and distrust that made their relationship intolerable. It had never led to any result. With a similar intention, whi
le walking arm in arm through the countryside, as they often did to ful- fill the demands of their roles, so as to be noticed by the local peasants, he had even dared, at the beginning, to make a joke of their status as a young married couple and to hold her more tightly than was strictly necessary. He did this without any ulterior motive, simply to introduce a little humanity into their relationship, but she had glared at him with such disdain that he had quickly given up these familiarities.
“Anyway, darling, I don’t see what more we can do in this hole they’ve put us in."
He sometimes called her “darling” even when they were alone together. His excuse was that he did not want to lose the habit; in fact, it was only because the word seemed to decrease the hostility of her presence. Today he was persisting in his efforts to conciliate her and doing his utmost to win her approval.
Claire said nothing in reply but allowed a faint smile to appear on her lips—her way of expressing her scornful pity and contempt, which made him tremble with anger and burn with a wild desire to show her how completely mistaken she was about him.
He sincerely regretted what he had just said, for her smile was quite plain: it meant that she, at any rate, saw quite clearly what more they could do. Without saying a word, as though he was unworthy of a fuller explanation, she thereby reminded him of an extraordinary conversation they had had the day before.
A distant cousin of Claire’s, who worked at an inn in the depths of the forest a few miles away, had given her some valuable information without himself being aware of its importance. The inn had been requisitioned for three days because a certain Herr Muller wanted to go down there for a short rest. Muller was not his real name; Claire’s cousin had discovered this, during one of Herr Muller's previous visits, from a member of his retinue who spoke French. The mystery man was none other than Dr. Bergen, a person of considerable status. Claire and Arvers were well aware of his importance, for Bergen had long ago been identified by the Allied services as one of the greatest authorities o secret weapons. They also knew he came to the coast at regular intervals and spent a few days there.
Claire had shed her usual reserve as she reported this conversation. Some networks would have paid a high price for the information her cousin had given her without having the remotest idea of her undercover activity.
"He’s arriving tomorrow. He’ll be staying three days, and his habits are well known. He works in his room all afternoon and goes for a long walk in the forest every morning. At the inn the rooms next to his are occupied by a secretary and four men in civilian clothes, probably policemen. He doesn’t seem to care for the latter’s com- pany, and they never accompany him on his walks. For their part, his bodyguards appear to treat these visits as a holiday. Their activity is limited to searching the house and reconnoitering the immediate surroundings when they first arrive. In the evenings, whereas Bergen goes to bed early, they stay up drinking until all hours and get up extremely late. Bergen goes out very early, alone. I know every inch of the forest. I often used to go there as a child. We’ll never have such an opportunity again.”
She had fallen silent, studying his reactions as usual. Then she had pointedly added:
“Bergen’s a weedy little chap and never carries a gun.”
At first he had pretended not to understand her implicit suggestion and had merely said:
“We’ll have to notify London immediately.”
“It’s much too late for them to do anything. He’s arriving tomorrow.”
“Then it will have to wait for the next time. See that your cousin gives you sufficient warning.”
“An opportunity like this doesn’t occur every day. We must snap it up and thank our lucky stars. ... I tell you, I know the forest like the back of my hand. He always takes the same path.”
Once again she had looked at him intently, and he fancied he already saw that odious smile on her lips. It was no longer possible for him to pretend that he had not grasped her meaning. Realizing he would have to give some explanation for his passive attitude, he tried to conceal his embarrassment under an almost paternal air of authority.