PART TWO
8
It was in Dr. Fog’s office that the young medical officer, Lieutenant Austin, heard Cousin’s
name mentioned for the first time.
He was at the hospital, in the middle of one of his routine visits, when he was handed a message from the military authorities asking him to report that very day to a certain branch of the War Office. Austin was not particularly surprised. After being wounded in France and subsequently posted to London, he had applied for fresh employment in a fighting unit. He assumed this summons was the answer to his request.
He began to feel some surprise only when the colonel who interviewed him asked him point-blank if he was prepared to join an intelligence unit. Austin, who had been bored with administrative duties for some time and longed for something more active, at once greeted this proposal as the fulfillment of his dearest wishes. In all good faith, however, he felt it was his duty to point out that he was merely a doctor and had no particular qualifications for a secret agent’s work.
“That’s no concern of mine,” the colonel replied impatiently. “I don’t have much to do with those gentlemen myself, but they’re the ones who’ve singled you out.”
“Me? They?”
“One of their V.I.P.’s to whom we humble regular soldiers can refuse nothing, even if he asked for our entire personnel. Do you want the job, yes or no?”
Austin felt he had made enough fuss already and accepted the offer, convinced that there must be some mistake.
“That’s settled, then. We can strike you off our roster as from today. Now, off you go and report to this Dr. Fog. Here’s the address. You’ll be under his auspices from now on.”
“Dr. Fog!”
“He’s the one who asked for you; he’ll tell you all about it himself. Cloak-and-dagger stuff, of course. If anyone asks me, I don’t know a thing about you. Off you go now.”
Austin saluted and left the room. Before reporting to the address he had been given, he consulted a medical directory and found what he was looking for at once: Dr. Fog, Specialist in Mental Diseases. The name was followed by an impressive string of initials.
His memory had not played him false. It was definitely the same Dr. Fog, a psychiatrist of considerable repute in medical circles, with whom he had been in correspondence shortly before the war. He had just graduated and was eager to specialize in the same branch. He had written to ask for advice and had applied for an interview. The doctor had answered all his questions and fixed an appointment for a rather long time ahead because of a journey he had to make. After his return, war was declared and Austin was sent to France. Since then he had not ventured to renew his request for an interview.
It was Dr. Fog himself who was now asking to be remembered to him—and in what peculiar circumstances! What on earth could he have in common with special services? And how was he, Austin, meant to fit into the picture? He did not worry unduly about this second question. As for the first, it was made clear at the outset of their conversation, as soon as he had been shown into a sumptuous chamber—a room more like a drawing room than an office, with thick carpets on the floor, some massive pieces of furniture, and a sober color scheme relieved by an occasional touch of fantasy. This room, situated in a quiet backwater of London, was used for work, research, contemplation, and various elaborate speculations. It was Dr. Fog’s private study.
“I suppose you’re wondering what this is all about, Austin. I’ll satisfy your curiosity right away. I'm not one for making a mystery of things with my close colleagues. I can have complete confidence in your discretion, I trust?”
Austin assured him he was capable of keeping a secret. The doctor paused for a moment, then went on:
“I know you’re a sound sort of chap. Anyway, I’ve got quite a lot of information about you. . . . Yes, we’ve been keeping an eye on you, without your knowing it, just for the sake of the old routine. We wanted to make sure that you weren’t drunk before six in the evening and didn’t sleep with a different girl every night. From my point of view, what matters far more is your training, the plans you have in mind, the branch you want to specialize in, and the letters you wrote me. All that’s perfect. So, since you’re prepared to work with me . . . You’re quite sure about that, are you?”
“Quite sure, sir,” Austin replied. He realized he was dealing with a very important person and had never for a moment dreamed of questioning his proposal.
“In that case I want you to have a complete picture of my service. Don’t hesitate to ask if there’s anything you don’t understand. To begin with, as you no doubt realize, I hold a fairly important and very special position in a secret organization.”
At such an ingenuous statement, Austin, who had a feeling that his new chief was not so trusting as he led one to believe, found it difficult to suppress a smile. Dr. Fog, whom nothing escaped, changed his tone.
“Yes, I see ... I was forgetting you were one of us, or almost. You’re thinking, ‘He’s treating me like one of his patients. First rule with mental cases—put them at their ease. All this is part of the bedside manner.’ Isn’t that true?”
Austin blushed and sketched a vague gesture of denial. It was exactly what he had been thinking. The doctor gave a shrug and went on:
“Anyway, this is roughly what you ought to know. It will spare you from racking your brains about it, and I want your brains to be devoted to something more useful. ... As I was saying, I work for a branch of the secret service. . . . Does that surprise you? It
shouldn’t. Personally, I believe the psychiatrist is an indispensable adjunct to national defense in wartime, if only for the purpose of weeding out the dangerous lunatics, both military and civilian, who happen to be in important positions. Don’t you agree?”
At the doctor’s solemn air, Austin again had to suppress a smile and agreed that specialists in mental diseases had a most important role to play in time of war.
“But I was given to understand, sir, that it was not only as a doctor . .
“Don’t be so impatient. That's how I started off, at any rate, though it’s some time ago. I was beginning to have quite a reputation in scientific circles when one of the pundits of the service took it into his head to call me in to examine an important agent who was going to be dispatched overseas. He was not the sort of man to make a hasty decision, you see. Like all pundits, he always took the advice of competent technicians. For once he had given some thought to intellectual qualifications, which was quite bright of him. I accepted the job. Apparently he was satisfied with the way I handled it, since he subsequently kept coming back to me for further advice. In the end I was given an official position. The new candidates were sent along to me before being definitely engaged. Some of the old ones as well, for the mind cracks up fairly easily in this job. I put them through a series of tests. My diagnosis was meant to answer the following questions: Will he made a good agent? If so, in which branch should he be employed—intelligence, action, counterespionage, or what?”
“A sort of professional orientation, based on scientific data, in a very specialized field, sir?”
“That’s about it. I soon developed an intense interest in these duties. There were sometimes some very odd types among those candidates.”
The doctor paused for a moment, lost in thought, as he recalled certain cases to mind. Then he went on:
“Yes, very strange fellows indeed, and engaged in very strange business, too. I had to exercise a great deal of tact and caution. A congenital idiot can sometimes do a very useful job in this profession, whereas an infinitely gifted man may make a deplorably bad agent.”
The doctor fell silent again, then sharply exclaimed:
“If I had vetoed the employment of every idiot, Austin, I should have more or less drained the service, do you realize that?”
“I can well believe it, sir,” Austin replied without batting an eyelid.
“Since the war it has been even more tricky, as there are some mission
s that could hardly be carried out at all except by complete lunatics. On those occasions our job is to find out in what way a given form of mental derangement can be put to the best use. I tell you, Austin, it’s terribly exciting work. I’m sure you’ll be absolutely fascinated by it.”
He rubbed his hands together with obvious satisfaction. His eyes, which had become intensely expressive, sparkled with delight as he described the rewards of his unusual profession. At that moment, in spite of his affable attitude, in spite of the background of this office, which seemed specially designed to create an atmosphere of confidence and well-being, Austin could not help feeling there was something diabolical about him. He suppressed a momentary shudder, without being able to make up his mind whether this feeling was caused by a certain diffidence regarding the moral aspect of this strange orientation, or by the pleasure of discerning a touch of the unusual in his future duties with Dr. Fog. The latter realized the impression he had created and changed his tone.
“Don’t for a moment imagine that our work is necessarily sinister, Austin. There’s a very pleasant side to it sometimes.”
“Oh, I’m sure,” the young man replied politely.
“As, for instance, when the pundit I told you about applied for an interview himself. ... I put him
through all the tests with my usual punctiliousness and with particular care, you may be sure. Would you like to know what the result was?”
“I’d be very interested to hear.”
“Unemployable in any capacity. Distinct mental instability. A tendency to paranoia. Unresponsive reflexes. The last man in the world to engage as an agent. I should have opposed his being employed on any mission whatsoever. He took it badly to begin with, but he had to come around in the end—the results of the tests leave no room for ambiguity.”
“You actually told him that, sir?”
“He ordered me to tell him.”
“What did he do? Resign?”
“Not at all. I pulled certain strings to have him promoted. He’s now a bigger pundit than ever and merely directs operations at a very high level. His deficiencies warranted a position of this sort; they even indicated his peculiar suitability for it. It was the only solution. Since then there has been noticeable progress in every branch of the service. There you have a singularly fascinating example of ‘professional orientation’, as you call it.”
9
Once again Austin had to suppress a smile at Dr. Fog’s serious demeanor. After a moment’s hesitation, he screwed up his courage and said:
“As far as I can see, sir, my work will be mostly theoretical. I was hoping . . .”
“Wait a moment, I haven't finished yet. I, too, have had a ... a sort of promotion. I still interview certain candidates in this office, but only the most important ones. I no longer deal with the small fry now that my field of activity has been enlarged. This is what I’m leading up to. As you can imagine, this job entails a great deal of specialized work and research on the methods, scope, and types of secret-service missions. I had to have free access to all the files. Close contact with the people at the top was also absolutely essential. At first they wouldn’t hear of it. With their mania for mystery and secrecy, they preferred to regard me as one of their numerous specialists who are not allowed to know a thing about general organization—a cipher expert, for instance. They would only give me the information I needed in dribs and drabs. One day I lost my temper and put it to them point-blank: either they let me have what I wanted or else I resigned. It seems they thought
sufficiently highly of me to agree. Since then we’ve worked together far more closely. I’m no longer restricted to laboratory tests. I’ve been able to follow the agents at every stage of their careers and keep a complete file on them—there’s nothing like observing a man in action. I’ve been kept informed of their successes and also of their failures. I’ve sometimes watched them operate at extremely close range. To cut a long story short, I’ve now become . . .
“A sort of head of personnel?”
"Rather more than that, perhaps,” Dr. Fog replied with a smile, which convinced Austin once and for all of his chief’s importance. “I’m sometimes asked for advice outside my own field of specialization. I’ve been also required to make certain decisions.”
Under Austin’s fascinated gaze, he continued briskly: "But when I have to act on my own initiative, Austin, the personnel is invariably my main consideration, and particularly the intellect of the personnel. Brains are an essential factor in this profession.”
“I’m sure of that, sir.”
"So now you realize why I need assistants like you. I’ve got very few of them. I’m a difficult man to please, but I hope you and I will get along together. You already have some experience with the human brain; that’s clear from your letters. You’re young and eager to get on, I believe . .
“So on the whole, sir,” said Austin, who was fascinated at the prospect of the exciting missions for which he might be made responsible, “on the whole, I can look forward to leading a fairly active life.”
“I’m glad that’s the attitude you take,” the doctor replied, rubbing his hands together again. “I can see we understand each other. By the way, I noticed in your file that you speak French fluently?”
“As well as I do English, sir. My mother was French and I was partly brought up abroad.”
Thereupon, after giving him a few more general particulars. Dr. Fog informed Austin that his job would be to deal with French affairs and, for a start, with one particular case in which he was deeply interested.
“Let’s begin with the essentials. First and foremost, the man in question is an agent. Here’s his file. You’ll have to go through it with great care. It’s a rather tricky case, I think, but I’m relying on your judgment. Tell me what you think of it.”
He had lowered his voice and assumed a somewhat solemn tone. Austin sensed there was something mysterious afoot and waited with growing impatience for the rest of the story.
“He’s a Frenchman,” Dr. Fog continued. “I examined him some time ago. Since then I’ve been given a great deal more information about him.”
He started thumbing through the file, picking out a phrase here and there for Austin’s benefit.
“A writer in civilian life, an intellectual . . . On active service always volunteered for the dangerous jobs . . . In principle there’s nothing wrong with that . . . One of those heroes who escaped from their own country . . . Nothing wrong with that, either . . . Sent back to France, carried out various clandestine operations with zeal and intelligence . . . Ah, here’s the hitch
. . . His mission ended in disaster, but it wasn’t his fault . . . Managed to escape . . . Well, you can read it all for yourself. When you’ve finished, we’ll put our heads together and see if this chap is still employable and, if so, in which branch. If he is, mind you, there’s only one possible solution. He’ll have to come directly under me—the others, the professionals in the service, don’t trust an agent who has been captured by the enemy, even if he does escape . . . I may as well tell you now, Austin, I’ve often been known to give people a second chance when they’ve been turned down by the other sections. So far the results haven’t been too bad. . . .
“Well, anyway, this fellow was put out of harm’s way . . . Given some trivial staff job or other—perhaps with good reason, who knows? But we’re terribly short of people with brains, and he’s certainly no fool. That’s how I came across him. His name is Cousin. We'll have to think of a new name for him now. Names can be quite important; I usually try to choose one that suggests a particular characteristic of the man in question, often in a very roundabout way. Think it over, will you.”
“I will, sir.”
“We’ll go into it again when you’ve been through the file.”
He rose to his feet. As he reached the door, Austin asked:
“You’ve already examined him, sir?”
“Very briefly, several months ago.”
“Is he a normal case?”
“ ‘Normal’ is a word that doesn’t mean very much, you know. His brain seems to function correctly. And yet . ..”
Dr. Fog fell silent for a moment, then a strange look came into his eyes, the same glitter that had suggested something satanic to Austin’s mind. He went on with a smile, giving his assistant a friendly tap on the shoulder:
“When you get to know me better, Austin, you’ll realize that normal people—I mean absolutely normal in the ordinary sense of the word—don’t interest me at all. I don’t have any truck with them myself. I send them along to another section.”
10
“Well, what’s your verdict, Austin?”
These were the words with which Dr. Fog greeted him when he came into the office two days later, just as though he had always belonged to the service. To justify this confidence, Austin decided to give his opinion without further delay. He had spent the whole night working on Cousin’s file, which filled him with admiration for the personality that emerged from it with startling clarity, and left him puzzled by the note of reservation he had detected in some of the doctor’s comments.
“A very favorable impression, sir,” he declared staunchly. “Before the incident at the farm his conduct had always been beyond reproach. Even then, it seems, his only fault was to overestimate this fellow Morvan. That led to disaster, alas, but he can’t be blamed entirely—his colleague had proved his worth for several months; anyone would have trusted him completely."
“So that’s what you think, is it?” Dr. Fog observed in a noncommittal tone.
“That’s my considered opinion, sir.”
“So you feel quite confident—as I do, mark you—that he can be entrusted with another mission in enemy-occupied territory?”