An Officer and a Spy

of it means anything to you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Then what do you make of this, which was allowed to be delivered to you after you left Paris but before you went to Tunisia?’
Most honourable sir,
I would never have believed it had I not seen it with my own eyes. As of today, the masterpiece is finished: we are to call it Cagliostro Robert Houdin. The comtesse speaks of you all the time and tells me every day that the Demigod asks when it will be possible to see the Good God.
Her devoted servant who kisses your hand.
J
    The copy has been written out by Lauth and is stamped ‘Secret’, with a serial number appended by Gribelin. I remember reading the original when I was stuck in some godforsaken garrison town last winter: in my drab quarters it was like opening a bouquet from the boulevard Saint-Germain. I say, ‘It’s from an agent of mine, Germain Ducasse. He’s reporting on the closing-down of an operation I was running against the German Embassy. When he writes “the masterpiece is finished” he means that the apartment we were renting has been cleared out successfully. “Robert Houdin” is the cover name of a police agent, Jean-Alfred Desvernine, who was working for me on the investigation of Esterhazy.’
    ‘Ah,’ says Pellieux, as if he has caught me out. ‘So “J” is a man?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And yet he “kisses your hand”?’
    I think how amused Ducasse would be if he could see the general’s expression of disgusted disbelief.
    Pellieux says, ‘Don’t smirk, Colonel!’
    ‘I’m sorry, General. He is an affected young fellow, I admit, and quite silly in some respects. But he did his work well, and is perfectly trustworthy. It’s merely a joke.’
    ‘And “Cagliostro”?’
    ‘Another joke.’
    ‘Pardon me: I’m a simple family man, Colonel. I don’t understand these “jokes”.’
    ‘Cagliostro was an Italian occultist – Strauss wrote an operetta about him, Cagliostro in Vienna – and a man less likely to be susceptible to the occult than Desvernine you could not hope to find. Therein lies the irony. It’s all very harmless, General, I assure you. But obviously suspicious minds in the Statistical Section have used it to build a case against me. I do hope that at some point your inquiry will investigate these other forgeries which are obviously designed to blacken my name.’
    ‘On the contrary, I think you have blackened your own name, Colonel, by associating in the first place with this circle of neurotic homosexuals and table-turners! So I take it the “comtesse” referred to must be Mademoiselle Blanche de Comminges?’
    ‘Yes. She is not actually a comtesse but she can sometimes behave like one.’
    ‘And the “Demigod” and the “Good God”?’
    ‘They are nicknames invented by Mademoiselle de Comminges. A mutual friend of ours, Captain Lallemand, is the Demigod; I’m afraid to say that I am the Good God.’
    Pellieux regards me contemptuously: to my other sins can now be added blasphemy. ‘And why is Captain Lallemand the Demigod?’
    ‘Because of his fondness for Wagner.’
    ‘And is he also part of a Jewish circle?’
    ‘Wagner? I very much doubt it.’
    It is a mistake, of course. One should never attempt wit in these circumstances. I know it the moment the words leave my lips. The major and the captain and even the secretary smile. But Pellieux’s face sets rigid. ‘There is nothing in the least amusing about the situation you are in, Colonel. These letters and telegrams are highly incriminating.’ He flicks back to the beginning of his file. ‘Now, let us go over the discrepancies in your testimony once again. Why did you falsely claim to have taken possession of the petit bleu at the end of April last year when in fact it was pieced together at the beginning of March . . .?’
    The interrogation continues throughout the day – the same questions, again and again, designed to catch me in a lie. I am familiar with the technique; Pellieux is remorseless in deploying it. At the end of the afternoon session he consults an antique silver pocket watch and says, ‘We will resume tomorrow morning. In the meantime, Colonel, you are not to communicate with anyone, or to leave, for so much as a minute, the supervision of the officers appointed by this inquiry.’
    I stand and salute.
    Outside it is dusk. In the waiting room Mercier-Milon pulls back the edge of the curtain and peers down at the crowd of reporters in the place Vendôme. He says, ‘We