“Perfect,” he said.
“I noted the Sade. Nothing else seemed necessary to our study. I am sure copies of it in not so rare an edition are commonly available if one knows where to look.”
“I could recommend a bookseller,” said le directeur. “He specializes in, er, the kind of thing you’re looking for.”
“Not necessary now, but possible in the future.” “I had my secretary prepare a document, in both German and French.”
Basil looked at it, saw that it was exactly as he had ordered, and signed his false name with a flourish.
“You see how easy it is if you cooperate, monsieur? I wish I could teach all your countrymen the same.”
By the time Macht returned at four, having had to walk the last three blocks because of the traffic snarl, things were more or less functioning correctly at his banquet hall headquarters.
“We now believe him to be in a pinstripe suit. I have put all our watchers back in place in a state of high alert. I have placed cars outside this tangled-up area so that we can, if need be, get to the site of an incident quickly,” Abel briefed him.
“Excellent, excellent,” he replied. “What’s happening with the idiot?”
That meant Boch, of course.
“He wanted to take hostages and shoot one every hour until the man is found. I told him that was probably not a wise move, since this fellow is clearly operating entirely on his own and is thus immune to social pressures such as that. He’s now in private communication with SS headquarters in Paris, no doubt telling them what a wonderful job he has been doing. His men are all right, he’s just a buffoon. But a dangerous one. He could have us all sent to Russia. Well, not me, ha-ha, but the rest of you.”
“I’m sure your honor would compel you to accompany us, Walter.”
“Don’t bet on it, Didi.”
“I agree with you that this is a diversion, that our quarry is completing his mission somewhere very near. I agree also that it is not a murder, a sabotage, a theft, or anything spectacular. In fact, I have no idea what it could be. I would advise that all train stations be double-covered and that the next few hours are our best for catching him.”
“I will see to it.”
In time Boch appeared. He beckoned to Macht, and the two stepped into the hallway for privacy.
“Herr Hauptmann, I want this considered as fair warning. This agent must be captured, no matter what. It is on record that you chose to disregard my advice and instead go about your duties at a more sedate pace. SS is not satisfied and has filed a formal protest with Abwehr and others in the government. SS Reichsführer Himmler himself is paying close attention. If this does not come to the appropriate conclusion, all counterintelligence activities in Paris may well come under SS auspices, and you yourself may find your next duty station rather more frosty and rather more hectic than this one. I tell you this to clarify your thinking. It’s not a threat, Herr Hauptmann, it’s simply a clarification of the situation.”
“Thank you for the update, Herr Hauptsturmführer. I will take it under advisement and—”
But at that moment Abel appeared, concern on his usually slack, doughy face. “Hate to interrupt, Herr Hauptmann, but something interesting.”
“Yes?”
“One of Unterscharführer Ganz’s sources is a French policeman on duty at the Bibliothèque Mazarine, on Quai de Conti, not far from here. An easy walk, in fact.”
“Yes, the large complex overlooking the river. The cupola — no, that is the main building, the Institut de France, I believe.”
“Yes, sir. At any rate, the report is that at about three p.m., less than twenty minutes after the bomb blast—”
“Flare is more like it, I hear,” said Macht.
“Yes, Captain. In any event, a German official strode into the library and demanded to see the director. He demanded access to the rare book vault and was in there alone for an hour. Everybody over there is buzzing because he was such a commanding gentleman, so sure and smooth and charismatic.”
“Did he steal anything?”
“No, but he was alone in the vault. In the end, it makes very little sense. It’s just that the timing works out correctly, the description is accurate, and the personality seems to match. What British intelligence could—”
“Let’s get over there, fast,” said Macht.
This was far more than monsieur le directeur had ever encountered. He now found himself alone in his office with three German policemen, and none were in a good mood.
“So, if you will, please explain to me the nature of this man’s request.”
“It’s highly confidential, Captain Macht. I had the impression that discretion was one of the aspects of the visit. I feel I betray a trust if I—”
“Monsieur le directeur,” said Macht evenly, “I assure you that while I appreciate your intentions, I nevertheless must insist on an answer. There is some evidence that this man may not be who you think he was.”
“His credentials were perfect,” said the director. “I examined them very carefully. They were entirely authentic. I am not easy to fool.”
“I accuse you of nothing,” said Macht. “I merely want the story.”
And le directeur laid it out, rather embarrassed.
“Dirty pictures,” said Macht at the conclusion. “You say a German officer came in and demanded to check your vault for dirty pictures, dirty stories, dirty jokes, dirty limericks, and so forth in books of antiquarian value?”
“I told you the reason he gave me.”
The two dumpy policemen exchanged glances; the third, clearly from another department, fixed him with beady, furious eyes behind pince-nez glasses and somehow seemed to project both aggression and fury at him without saying a word.
“Why would I make up such a story?” inquired le directeur. “It’s too absurd.”
“I’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the third officer, a plumper man with pomaded if thinning hair showing much pate between its few strands and a little blot of moustache clearly modeled on either Himmler’s or Hitler’s. “We’ll take ten of your employees to the street. If we are not satisfied with your answers, we’ll shoot one of them. Then we’ll ask again and see if—”
“Please,” the Frenchman implored, “I tell the truth. I am unaccustomed to such treatment. My heart is about to explode. I tell the truth, it is not in me to lie, it is not my character.”
“Description, please,” said Macht. “Try hard. Try very hard.”
“Mid-forties, well-built, though in a terriblefitting suit. I must say I thought the suit far beneath him, for his carriage and confidence were of a higher order. Reddish-blond hair, blue eyes, rather a beautiful chin — rather a beautiful man, completely at home with himself and—”
“Look, please,” said the assistant to the less ominous of the policemen. He handed over a photograph.
“Ahhhh — well, no, this is not him. Still, a close likeness. Same square shape. His eyes are not as strong as my visitor’s, and his posture is something rather less. I must say, the suit fits much better.”
Macht sat back. Yes, a British agent had been here. What on Earth could it have been for? What in the Mazarine Library was of such interest to the British that they had sent a man on such a dangerous mission, so fragile, so easily discovered? They must have been quite desperate.
“And what name did he give you?” Abel asked.
“He said his name was… Here, look, here’s the document he signed. It was exactly the name on his papers, I checked very closely so there would be no mistake. I was trying my hardest to cooperate. I know there is no future in rebellion.”