An Officer and a Spy

can’t possibly withdraw. Besides, I don’t want to.’
    ‘What weapons will you choose?’
    ‘Swords.’
    ‘Come on, Georges – you haven’t fenced for years!’
    ‘Neither has he, by the look of him. In any case, I have a cool head and a little physical agility.’
    ‘But surely you’re a better shot than you are a swordsman? And with pistols there’s a healthy convention of deliberately missing.’
    ‘Yes, except that if we use pistols and he wins the draw and chooses to go first, he may not try to miss. It would certainly solve all their problems if he put a bullet through my heart. No, that’s too much of a risk.’
    ‘And who will be your other witness?’
    ‘I wondered if you’d ask your friend Senator Ranc.’
    ‘Why Ranc?’
    I puff on my cigar before I reply. ‘When I was in Tunisia, I made a study of the marquis de Morès. He killed a Jewish officer in a duel by using a heavier sword than was allowed by regulations – pierced him through his armpit and severed his spinal cord. I think it would be good life insurance for me to have a senator on hand. It might deter Henry from trying any similar tricks.’
    Edmond looks at me in alarm. ‘Georges, I’m sorry, but really this is madness. Never mind yourself – you owe it to the cause of freeing Dreyfus not to put yourself in harm’s way.’
    ‘He called me a liar in open court. My honour demands a duel.’
    ‘Is it your honour you’re trying to avenge, or Pauline’s?’
    I do not reply.
    The following evening, on my behalf, Edmond and Ranc call at Henry’s apartment in the avenue Duquesne, directly opposite the École Militaire, to issue the formal challenge. Afterwards Edmond says, ‘He was plainly at home – we could see his boots in the passage, and I could hear his little boy crying “Papa”, and then a man’s voice trying to hush the lad. But he sent his wife out to talk to us. She took the letter and said he would respond to it tomorrow. I get the feeling he’s anxious to avoid a fight.’
    Wednesday passes without any reply from Henry. At about eight o’clock in the evening there is a knock at the door and I get up to answer it, assuming it will be his witnesses bringing me his answer, but instead standing on the landing is Desvernine. He comes in briefly without taking off his hat or coat.
    ‘Everything is fixed,’ he says. ‘Our man is staying at a lodging house, the hôtel de la Manche, in the rue de Sèvres. He’s using one of his aliases – Koberty Dutrieux. Do you have a weapon, Colonel?’
    I open my jacket to show him my shoulder holster. Since my service revolver was taken from me, I have bought myself a British gun, a Webley.
    ‘Good,’ he says. ‘Then we should go.’
    ‘Now?’
    ‘He doesn’t stay long in one place.’
    ‘And we won’t be followed?’
    ‘No, I swapped shifts and made sure I’m in charge of your surveillance this evening. As far as the Sûreté are concerned, Colonel, you will be tucked up in your apartment all night.’
    We take a taxi across the river and I pay off the driver just south of the École Militaire. The remainder of the journey we complete on foot. The section of the rue de Sèvres in which the hotel stands is narrow and poorly lit; the Manche is easy to miss. It occupies a narrow, tumbledown house, hemmed in between a butcher’s shop and a bar: the sort of place where commercial travellers might lay their heads for a night and assignations can no doubt be paid for by the hour. Desvernine goes in first; I follow. The concierge is not at his desk. Through a curtain of beads I can see people eating supper in the little dining room. There is no elevator. The narrow stairs creak with every tread. We come out on to the third floor and Desvernine knocks at a bedroom door. No answer. He tries the handle: locked. He puts his finger to his lips and we stand listening. A muffled conversation comes from the room next door.
    Desvernine fishes in his pocket and produces a set of lock-picking tools, identical to the one he lent me. He kneels and goes to work. I unbutton my coat and jacket and feel the reassuring pressure of the Webley against my breast. After a minute the lock clicks. Desvernine stands, calmly folds away his tools and returns them to his pocket. He looks at me as he quietly opens the door. The room is dark. He feels for the light switch and turns it on.
    My first instinct is that it is a large ebony doll – a tailor’s mannequin perhaps, made of black