terrorists meet regularly, twice a week, for the last month. Two weeks ago, they were joined by one of the most skilful Communist propagandists in France. I know enough about these men, their politics, their past history—” He had become deadly serious. He pointed once more to his report for Walt Penneyman. “You read, in there, about the minor officials connected with our government whose gossip helped to make the foreign journalists so bewildered about America. Their connections gave a special significance to any hints or criticisms they passed around. You understand?”
Fenner nodded. Gossip about an international crisis was only speculation if it came from a grocer or bank clerk. But from anyone connected with a Foreign Office or State Department, gossip might seem inside information.
“For that reason, I was alarmed by that crop of rumours last April. So were several of my friends who are in government service themselves. Granted that our national pride was badly hurt by the army revolt, granted that some officials at theElysée Palace were only too willing to hope for a scapegoat, there still remained the question: did those minor officials who gossiped really believe what they were hinting? Or were they only repeating what had been dropped very skilfully into their ears? If so, by whom? It took time and patience and tact to find out. The so-called information of the officials concerned could always be traced back, eventually, deviously, to one source. To one man and his own small group of intimates. He is in a position of trust. Not important, not policy-making level. But he is a man, in government, with a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, and many contacts. I have his name. Here.” Vaugiroud’s fingers tapped the memorandum on his lap. “It has a special significance for me. Because I knew him once. Under another name, of course.” He paused. “I have been searching for him for sixteen years.”
Sixteen years. Since the end of the war, Fenner thought.
“Today,” Vaugiroud went on, “his politics seem nicely left of centre, liberal without being rabid; always admirable, always acceptable. But I knew him when I was in command of a special unit of the Resistance working here in Paris. He was known only as Jacques. He was a Communist, very able; he fought bravely, risked much. A capable and intelligent young man, interested in psychological warfare. I made him my second-in-command. I trusted him. And so, on August 11, 1944, eight days before the liberation of Paris, I found myself in Gestapo hands.” Vaugiroud looked down at his crippled leg.
“Jacques denounced you to the Nazis?”
“He informed secretly.”
“Why?”
“The end of the Nazi war was in sight. That was the timeto eliminate any Resistance leaders who would oppose any Communist attempt to seize power. He was acting under orders, of course. It was part of the pattern, at that time—like the arms and the money they were beginning to steal and hide.”
“How do you know it was Jacques who informed?”
“If there were only five people called to a most secret meeting, and four appeared, and the fifth man did not, but the Gestapo did; and if in subsequent examination of these four, the Gestapo’s questions all centred around the special business of that meeting; if only two people knew about the exact business, myself and Jacques; if the Gestapo showed no interest in the fifth member of that small group; if Jacques made no immediate move to alert other Resistance units about our arrest so that they could have us traced or make an attempt to help us; if Jacques abandoned us completely, assumed leadership of my section, replaced the four of us with men of his own choosing—” Vaugiroud’s quiet voice didn’t finish his long but damningly clear sentence.
“If you only knew him as Jacques, how did you find out who he really was?”
“Life plays its jokes. I searched through Paris for sixteen years, and never could trace
Fenner nodded. Gossip about an international crisis was only speculation if it came from a grocer or bank clerk. But from anyone connected with a Foreign Office or State Department, gossip might seem inside information.
“For that reason, I was alarmed by that crop of rumours last April. So were several of my friends who are in government service themselves. Granted that our national pride was badly hurt by the army revolt, granted that some officials at theElysée Palace were only too willing to hope for a scapegoat, there still remained the question: did those minor officials who gossiped really believe what they were hinting? Or were they only repeating what had been dropped very skilfully into their ears? If so, by whom? It took time and patience and tact to find out. The so-called information of the officials concerned could always be traced back, eventually, deviously, to one source. To one man and his own small group of intimates. He is in a position of trust. Not important, not policy-making level. But he is a man, in government, with a wide circle of friends and acquaintances, and many contacts. I have his name. Here.” Vaugiroud’s fingers tapped the memorandum on his lap. “It has a special significance for me. Because I knew him once. Under another name, of course.” He paused. “I have been searching for him for sixteen years.”
Sixteen years. Since the end of the war, Fenner thought.
“Today,” Vaugiroud went on, “his politics seem nicely left of centre, liberal without being rabid; always admirable, always acceptable. But I knew him when I was in command of a special unit of the Resistance working here in Paris. He was known only as Jacques. He was a Communist, very able; he fought bravely, risked much. A capable and intelligent young man, interested in psychological warfare. I made him my second-in-command. I trusted him. And so, on August 11, 1944, eight days before the liberation of Paris, I found myself in Gestapo hands.” Vaugiroud looked down at his crippled leg.
“Jacques denounced you to the Nazis?”
“He informed secretly.”
“Why?”
“The end of the Nazi war was in sight. That was the timeto eliminate any Resistance leaders who would oppose any Communist attempt to seize power. He was acting under orders, of course. It was part of the pattern, at that time—like the arms and the money they were beginning to steal and hide.”
“How do you know it was Jacques who informed?”
“If there were only five people called to a most secret meeting, and four appeared, and the fifth man did not, but the Gestapo did; and if in subsequent examination of these four, the Gestapo’s questions all centred around the special business of that meeting; if only two people knew about the exact business, myself and Jacques; if the Gestapo showed no interest in the fifth member of that small group; if Jacques made no immediate move to alert other Resistance units about our arrest so that they could have us traced or make an attempt to help us; if Jacques abandoned us completely, assumed leadership of my section, replaced the four of us with men of his own choosing—” Vaugiroud’s quiet voice didn’t finish his long but damningly clear sentence.
“If you only knew him as Jacques, how did you find out who he really was?”
“Life plays its jokes. I searched through Paris for sixteen years, and never could trace
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