‘Of course. I should return too.’
The German reached for her hand and kissed it. ‘I have enjoyed myself walking with you. Perhaps we might do it again when I am off duty? There is a botanischer garten which is becoming beautiful now. You understand me? With many flowers.’
Against all odds, Sylvie had enjoyed the morning. She’d been instructed to find out any useful information, and if she could do that while spending time in the German’s company, then that would kill two birds with one stone.
‘The Jardin des Plantes. I’ve heard of it. That would be pleasant,’ she agreed.
‘I will come to Mirabelle again. I enjoyed watching you dance. Auf wiedersehen.’
Sylvie walked home feeling the shape of Felix’s parcel against her ribs, picturing the look on his face when she presented it to him. No doubt he would be as arrogant as ever. It struck her as odd and slightly traitorous that she felt more in common with the shy German clerk than the résistant.
The sentries at the checkpoint were carrying out spot checks for contraband, but Sylvie’s luck was in. She passed her identity papers over, keeping her face carefully neutral. Nervousness might attract attention, but equally, being overly friendly or eager to help would seem odd. Before the sentry had time to ask to see what she was carrying, an old man wheeling a bicycle slipped and his basket of fruit went everywhere. The sentry rolled his eyes and held out his hand to Sylvie. He thrust her papers back at her impatiently and immediately turned on the old man who was scrabbling about the road for his fruit. The sentry loomed over him, shouting orders to hurry. He aimed a kick at the old man’s back.
‘Leave him alone’! Sylvie cried. The sentry stopped, more in surprise than any inclination to obey. Not turning her back, Sylvie picked up a couple of apples and handed them back, then righted the bicycle. The old man caught her eye gratefully. She was the only one who had bothered to help him. Everyone else in the line had their heads down, trying to avoid notice. Sylvie hurried on, ignoring the man’s thanks. To intervene had been foolish; she could have drawn more attention to herself, and with the package for Felix in the bag, that would have meant ruin for more than herself.
Chapter Twelve
Sylvie returned home and lay on her bed, arms outstretched and feet dangling over the end. Now that she was off her feet, she discovered how tired she was. She had walked a long way when she included the spontaneous trip around the streets with the German. Her blouse clung to her body where she was damp with perspiration, and her hair was coming loose.
The room was too warm and stifling after the fresh air. A beam of sunlight was making its way across the floor through the slanted skylight. She dragged the wooden chair beneath the skylight and tried to open it. The catch was stiff and hadn’t been opened for a long time, but it eventually gave under her efforts, sending a fine powder of rust drifting down over Sylvie’s hair.
The window opened just enough for Sylvie to peer through when she stood on tiptoes. She took a deep breath and released it with a long sigh of pleasure. The air smelt warm and fresh, far enough above the streets that the fumes had dispersed. Her room was at the back of the building and the window faced away from the city, over a cobbled yard. Although the roof was slanted inside, the pitch outside was much narrower and there was a gutter not too far below the windowsill.
Inspiration struck. She shut the window and fastened the catch. It did not look as if she had tampered with it. The ledge would be an ideal place to secrete things she didn’t want anyone to find. A nail and a length of string would mean she could hang things out of the window to rest unseen on the gutter. If she could get a waterproof container, such as the biscuit tin she had delivered for Marianne, anything she put in there would stay dry and hopefully escape discovery.
She replaced the chair, then took out the small package that she had collected from the bakery. She weighed it in her hands. It was lightweight, not much larger than a packet of cigarettes, and wrapped in plain brown paper. Despite what she had told Felix, she was curious to see what she was carrying, though decided it was better not to know.
That evening, Sylvie arrived at the club early. She could have sworn she had heard the strains of Felix’s accordion as she had crossed the street, but Felix was not in the club, nor upstairs in the first-floor room where the staff ate. She encountered Monsieur Julien as she went back into the stairwell to go downstairs. He was coming from the floor above, the entire space of which was his private accommodation. She froze, aware how suspicious it looked for her to be sneaking around, but Monsieur Julien seemed as surprised as she was.
‘Mademoiselle Duchene, can I help you?’
The sound of a gramophone followed him down the stairs. Sylvie recognised the song as ‘Summertime’, sung in the rich, languid tones of Billie Holiday. The song was perfect for the warm afternoon, conjuring up both smoky clubs and warm beaches at the same time. Jazz was banned, however, and Monsieur Julien was right to be wary. A word in the wrong ear could see him fined, or worse.
‘I was hoping to speak with Felix. I have a song to suggest to him.’ She raised her eyes upwards. ‘I wish I could suggest that song – it’s beautiful.’
Monsieur Julien relaxed.
‘He’s in the attic.’
Monsieur Julien pointed to the staircase he’d just come down, very much like the one that led to Sylvie’s room at Madame Giraud’s, then went downstairs. She hadn’t realised the building continued further upwards than Monsieur Julien’s apartment.
Monsieur Julien had not asked questions, though her excuse had been flimsy. He knew she was connected to SOE. Did he also know Felix’s role or play a bigger part than she assumed? It was tricky knowing who could be trusted.
The stairs led to an open attic space. A skylight in the roof, similar to the one in Sylvie’s room back at Madame Giraud’s, allowed her to see it was cluttered with boxes, crates, piles of curtains and a clothes rail with old dance costumes. The gowns were beautiful; a collection of taffeta and feathers, silks and sequins. Sylvie forgot her errand and spent a few minutes raking through them. It was a crime that they were hidden up here, going to waste. She made a mental note to ask Monsieur Julien if she could use them. Reluctantly, she turned her attention to her true purpose and looked for Felix.
Half the attic – the space that would be over the family room two floors below – had been partitioned off with a door set into it. The door was ajar, so Sylvie picked her way past the detritus and knocked.
Felix’s voice rang out. Wary and sharp. ‘Who is there?’
‘Mademoiselle Duchene. Sylvie.’
There was silence.
‘I can go,’ she said.
‘No. Come in.’
Sylvie had expected another room full of litter from the club, but she walked into a bedroom apartment. Felix was lying on the bed underneath a small window set into the end wall. He lay propped on a pile of pillows and his accordion was at his side. A small table stood beside the bed with a jug of water and an open bottle of red wine on top. She had clearly caught him at a moment of leisure. His feet were bare, and this caught Sylvie’s attention more than anything else.
He was dressed in casual trousers with the braces down and the legs rolled up to the knee. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone and the sleeves were also rolled up. His legs and arms had a downy sprinkling of light-brown hair except for a puckered, circular scar on the flesh of his right calf. He oozed sex appeal, and it didn’t take much imagination to imagine him in the bed rather than on top. He made no move to get up off the bed. It was a double, which somehow didn’t surprise her.
‘Is this where you live?’ she asked.
He narrowed his eyes.
‘It is as good as anywhere. The rent is cheap, it’s quiet, and I don’t have far to go home at the end of the night. Do you have something to say about it?’
‘The night you attacked me in the alley, you said you were going home. If you live here, that was a lie.’
Felix sw
ung his legs over the side of the bed.
‘First, I didn’t attack you – I was the one who ended up with a bruised jaw, if you recall. Second, I was going home – which I did after I left you – I just didn’t tell you where that was.’ Felix gave her a wolfish smile, though his eyes remained hard. ‘Did you think this is just where I bring my women to make love to them?’
Her belly gave a little somersault. She stared around the room.
‘Make yourself at home,’ Felix said sarcastically, following her gaze.
It was clearly meant to deter her from being nosy, but she took it as an invitation and, ignoring his scowls, she continued to look around. It was her first insight into his life. The bed had rumpled sheets but with a homemade blue-and-red-patchwork counterpane folded neatly at the end. Against the far wall, beneath the sloping roof, were two chairs and a table that held a paperback book, a pack of cards and a second, unopened bottle of wine. Black socks and a white vest hung over a clothes horse to dry. The wooden floorboards in the centre of the room had been covered with a frayed, but obviously good-quality, oriental rug. The walls were decorated with French and American film posters. La Regle Du Jour and Guele D’Amour hung alongside Gone with the Wind and King Kong. It was more homely than Sylvie’s room, and unquestionably the room of a man. She pointed at The 39 Steps and smiled at him.
‘That’s one of my favourites.’
‘Spies and romance. A good choice,’ Felix replied. ‘Have you seen everything you want? When do I get to see your bedroom in return?’ His eyebrow rose and he gave her another of the smiles he obviously thought made him irresistible.
‘You don’t,’ Sylvie said. ‘I have not really made it my home yet. I haven’t had the chance.’
She needed to remedy that. Some flowers in a vase, a picture to liven the walls. Anything that would impress her personality on the room. Permanence. Something she’d never really had wherever she lived.
Felix nodded. ‘You should. Any visitors would expect it to look more than temporary. And I don’t mean any men you invite back.’
His voice carried an edge of warning. Unwelcome visitors, he meant. The Gestapo or the almost as hated French milice, who worked alongside the Germans to foil the Resistance. She was doubly glad she had already found a hiding place out of the window.
‘I live in an attic room too, so I’d have warning, I hope, before anyone climbed the stairs. I’ve taken how to keep things safe into consideration, but you’re right, I haven’t made it a home. Talking of which…’
She brought the package out of her bag and held it towards him. He took it from her and weighed it in his hands.
‘Well done. Any trouble?’
‘None at all.’ He didn’t need to know about her morning walk in the German’s company. She wanted to keep that secret to herself.
‘What happens to the package now?’ Sylvie asked. She was desperate to find any more people who might be able to help her. With Felix as her only point of contact, the world felt too precarious.
‘Now this happens,’ he replied. He put it on the table and opened it painstakingly slowly. Sylvie drew closer and peered over his shoulder. Inside the brown paper was a cigarette carton. Felix glanced round, and upon seeing that Sylvie was looking over his shoulder, he smiled.
‘I can tell you’re desperate to know what is inside. That could get you killed, you realise. You’re a courier, so all you need to do is pass the messages and take the items. If you can convincingly deny you know what you carry, you will be safer.’
‘Do you think that excuse would save me if I was caught?’ she asked drily.
Felix was silent for a moment, then shook his head brusquely. ‘No. The crucial thing is, would it save other people?’
‘When we were being trained, they taught us to try to hold out against questioning.’ She bit her lip and took a deep breath. Questioning. Torture.
She shuddered, remembering how long she had endured the simulated interrogation back in England, and closed her eyes. The ordeal had lasted a morning at most, and no lasting harm had been done. Would she be strong enough to bear true pain? When she opened her eyes, Felix was watching her closely, his brow wrinkled with concern. It was odd to see that the man who was either surly or seductive had access to other emotions, especially such sympathetic ones.
‘You do a brave thing by coming here, Mademoiselle Duchene,’ he said.
‘Are you laughing at me?’ she asked.
‘No. I mean it.’ He stepped a little closer to her and reached for her hand. Sylvie’s pulse sped as she allowed him to take it.
‘You come to my country to fight beside us when you could stay in England and wage your war from overseas. It takes courage to give up your old life and begin anew like you have.’
‘France is my country too,’ Sylvie murmured. Her voice sounded distant and dreamlike in her ears, drowned out by the pulsating rhythm that had sprung to life. ‘Or it was once, long ago, when I was younger. This is not the first time I have given up an old life. When my maman died, I said goodbye, I thought forever. Now I am not sure where I belong.’
‘How many lives have you lived?’ Felix asked in a low voice. ‘Where would you like to belong?’
His fingers moved in a circle in her palm; a gentle pressure that, nevertheless, sent a tremor along her arm, where it amplified and spread inside her ribcage, halting the breath in her lungs. Was he going to kiss her? The pull towards him was undeniable and from the way his eyes widened, she sensed he was equally attracted to her as she was to him. She was conscious of tilting her head, waiting for his lips to find hers. She ached to be kissed. By Felix.
By anyone.
Felix put a hand to her cheek and gently pulled her towards him while the other slipped around her waist. She inhaled deeply and the scent of his cologne caught her attention. That wonderfully rich vanilla and lavender woodiness that was so intriguing. A memory stirred. The last time she had smelt it had been when he had kissed her in the alleyway on the night he had first made contact. The recollection of that unasked-for kiss and the fumbling at her blouse quenched the burgeoning desire.
She slipped from his gentle hold and stepped back out of temptation’s way. Not that she was tempted any longer. He was a man who thought nothing of teasing and flirting and using kisses to achieve what he wanted. How stupid she would be to succumb to that temptation!
Felix wrinkled his brow, looking confused at her sudden coldness.
‘Not a good idea,’ Sylvie said.
‘You have had a change of heart?’
‘A change of head,’ she corrected him. She tapped her temple with a fingertip. ‘I don’t think it would be wise to kiss you.’
‘Why not? Are you afraid you might not want to stop?’
Oh yes, she was, very much so. The thought of them touching each other any more intimately made her hot.
‘I don’t have time to think about romance,’ she said.
Felix raised an eyebrow. ‘Who mentioned romance? I just want to take you to bed.’
Sylvie gaped at him. Such bluntness was unnerving. And a little exciting. It made a change to have a man openly admit that was what he wanted rather than try to win her round with charm until she fell for it. It was too tempting.
‘I’ll leave you alone to open your package,’ she said, raising her chin and giving him a cold stare.
Felix shrugged and straightened his collar. He appeared to take the rejection on the chin. Why wouldn’t he, of course, when it was just another kiss to him?
‘In this case there is no need to leave me alone. You can see what you carried.’ Felix picked up the cigarette box and opened it to reveal cigarettes.
Sylvie furrowed her brow. ‘Where is the message? What was I carrying?’
Felix waved his hand in the manner of a stage magician revealing a hidden rabbit.
‘This is what you were carrying. My cigarettes.’ He put one between his lips and let it dangle while he struck a match and lit it.
Rage boiled inside Sylvie. She had been so nervous carrying the package around all day. She had believed she was doing something worthwhile to help the cause she believed in.
‘Is this some kind of joke to you?’ she asked incredulously.
Felix took a drag on the cigarette, inhaling through pursed lips and blew out a long stream of smoke. ‘It’s not a joke at all. I was running short. Getting hold of these on the black market isn’t easy.’
‘Is that what I am?’ Sylvie spat. ‘A messenger to get your contraband from the black market? This is not a game to me!’
She gave an exclamation of annoyance and turned on her heel to leave. Felix stepped smoothly round her, blocking the path between her and the door.
‘No, it isn’t. Nor is it a game for us. It was a test.’
He pinched the end of the cigarette between finger and thumb, then stuck it behind his ear. ‘You appeared from nowhere knowing the codes and names of contacts. You entered the club in the company of four Germans. You are a pretty woman who seemed eager to please and anxious to be of use, but that doesn’t mean a thing. The Germans use female agents, too, on occasion.’
Sylvie folded her arms and glared at him. He held her gaze levelly.
‘So you concocted this charade?’
He nodded. ‘I wanted to be sure you were who you said you were before I trusted you to with a real task. The men and women I work with are risking their lives, and I won’t jeopardise that. For all I knew, you might have gone straight to the German authorities and that would’ve been the end of us.’
He gave her a penetrating look. ‘I thought at one point that is exactly what you were doing. I assume you did not tell your German friend this morning what was happening, otherwise we would have been raided by now.’
‘How do you know about that?’ Sylvie’s cheeks grew hot. ‘Did you have me followed?’
‘Better than that,’ Felix admitted. He folded his arms, mirroring Sylvie’s stance, and his lip curled into a sneer. ‘I followed you myself.’
Sylvie’s mouth fell open. She closed it quickly. He couldn’t have. She would have noticed, wouldn’t she? Stupid, stupid! She should have spotted that she was being tailed. Her cheeks flamed. She took a deep breath, hoping they were not as red as they felt. She couldn’t stand the thought of Felix seeing her so discomforted.
The Secret Agent Page 11
