“Keep walking,” Amelie commanded.
“I’m done in.” Marie Claire started walking again.
Amelie knew what Marie Claire was feeling; she was exhausted as well. It was coming up on 7:00 a.m., and she had now been up for thirty-six hours straight. The early September heat had made them both sweat through their clothes.
“Just follow me. I’ll get you something to eat, and then you can go to bed.” Amelie ached for coffee, even if it was made from just acorns and barley. She needed something hot to warm the ache in her bones.
They walked half an hour more until they came upon rue Frédéric Sauton, a small side street two blocks from the Seine on the Left Bank. Amelie stopped in front of a building with a blue door. She looked to the right and then to the left before taking out a key and opening it. She walked up three flights with Marie Claire trailing behind her, lugging the wireless set. Amelie knocked once, and Françoise, clad only in a silk kimono, opened the door.
“Mon dieu! What time is it?” Françoise said, yawning, then kissed Amelie on both cheeks.
“Almost eight,” Amelie replied as she made her way past the small living room into the tiny kitchen, outfitted with a table and two chairs. Marie Claire slumped in one and put her head on the table.
“I’ll make some coffee, or what passes for coffee nowadays. First, let’s get you to bed,” Françoise said as she patted Marie Claire’s curly blonde hair.
“She needs to transmit tonight.”
“I will make sure she transmits, but first she needs to sleep. Come.” Françoise led Marie Claire into the next room, and Amelie started to make coffee, using a candle in a steel votive to heat the pot. A couple of minutes later, Françoise came back and sat down.
“So, this girl, she is your last hope for Invictus?” she asked, sipping from the bowl Amelie placed in front of her.
Amelie nodded. “Bronwyn trained her.”
“Bronwyn is the best. Maybe the girl can do it,” Françoise said. Six months ago, Bronwyn had stayed with her for a couple of days before being ushered back to London.
“I hope so, or we’re all finished.”
Françoise took Amelie’s hand. “I will make sure that she transmits tonight.” She kissed her and then sent her on her way.
Paris, 1949
“So, Marie Claire transmitted for six months until she was caught,” Bronwyn said, stubbing out her cigarette.
“When was that?” Slim asked.
“She was picked up October 21st right after she transmitted her last message.”
“Are you sure?” Slim pressed.
“I am positive.”
“Then who gave her the last message?” Slim asked.
“I did,” Michel said.
“Why not you, Amelie?”
Amelie responded with a shrug. Slim could tell from the way she’d told her side of the story that she hadn’t cared for Marie Claire.
Claude Terrail came over to the table and said with regret in his voice, “Ladies, gentlemen, forgive me, but I must now get ready for the dinner service.”
Slim reached for her purse to pay for everyone’s meal, but Terrail put his hand on her shoulder. “Non, Miss Moran. One day a year, I open my restaurant to honor those who helped to liberate France.”
“Thank you, Monsieur Terrail,” Slim said. She got up and started following the others, but he stopped her.
“You know, your father spoke of you often. He was proud of you, his only child.” This information startled Slim because for most of her life, her father had barely acknowledged her existence.
Terrail touched her cheek and smiled. “Don’t be a stranger. You are always welcome here.”
Outside the restaurant, Slim turned to Michel and said, “I don’t know your story, and it seems like yours is the most important to tell, as you were the last one to see her alive. Here is my card. Perhaps we can meet tomorrow.”
Michel promised to call in the morning, and then Slim waved goodbye and made her way back to the Marais.
Paris, 1949
Later that night, Slim felt uneasy as she sat in her office, writing out Marie Claire’s timeline in a notebook. Marie Claire had been recruited in July 1942, trained for six weeks and then sent over to France in early September. She was picked up by the Gestapo in late February of 1943. That much was clear, but why hadn’t Bronwyn revealed to Marie Claire that there was a mole in the network and that she would likely be caught? Dennis could have let the network collapse and reconstituted a new one. And it was odd that Michel instead of Amelie had given Marie Claire the last message to transmit. Yet her biggest question was, could Miss Chapman really have betrayed the agents she’d trained? Even thinking that sent chills up Slim’s spine; it was like a mother murdering her young. It made no sense. The way in which Miss Chapman had spoken to Slim about Marie Claire was maternal, so why would the other four suspect her of being the mole? Did she betray the last of her female agents so the Germans could begin transmitting false information and instructions as Marie Claire?
The phone on Slim’s desk rang. With a waiting list of two years for a phone, she’d had to pay off several government officials to get one and still was always surprised when it actually rang.
“Slim? Is that you?” Daniel’s voice crackled on the line.
“Daniel, where are you?” Just hearing his voice set her on edge.
“Germany.”
“Germany? Are you out of your mind?” Slim’s initial excitement instantly turned to fear.
“Can you transfer five thousand dollars into my account?”
“Why?”
“Another transport to Israel.”
She could hear the sounds of music and laughter in the background. Daniel may have been in Germany, but he was also having a good time.
“When do you need the money?”
“As soon possible.” The line crackled.
Slim had set up an account for Daniel when she’d found out he was penniless. It was supposed to be for his personal expenses, but he was using it more and more to carry out his “missions.”
“Slim, talk to me. Tell me how you are.”
“I have a new case.”
“That’s good. It will keep you busy.” Slim could hear him whispering to someone harshly.
“Who are you talking to?”
“No one. So, tell me more about the case.”
Whoever it was left, because the background noise settled down.
“I miss you,” Slim said, willing him to say it back. Willing him to say something back, anything. Maybe Françoise was right; maybe Daniel was too damaged to love.
“I have to go. When will you put money in the account?”
“It will be there tomorrow.”
He hung up first, and Slim let the receiver down softly. She would wire the money tomorrow, but at some point, she would have to stop this madness and cut him off, but not tonight. It was after eleven, and she shut the notebook, turned out the light, climbed down the steps, and opened the door to la Silhouette.
What had been depressing in the morning was vibrant and alive in the evening. Women were dancing together, some dressed as men with short haircuts while others were draped over one another, necking furiously. An all-female jazz trio played with abandon. In the corner, a morose Marlene Dietrich sat licking her wounds after having been unceremoniously dumped by the French actor, Jean Gabin. Slim took it all in as she made her way to the bar. This was not her world. In a way, she wished it was, but she just could not imagine going to bed with a woman. Several women tried to catch her eye, but she smiled and looked away.
“Can you go and keep Marlene company? She’s crying into her whiskey again,” Françoise begged as she poured out another stiff drink. “Take this to her.”
“But I need to talk to you,” Slim protested.
“Later, please. Marlene is driving me crazy.”
Slim took the drink and made her way toward Marlene, who nodded as she sat down.
“I
miss the war,” Marlene said, taking the drink from Slim and promptly downing it.
“How could you miss something so awful?”
“I had a purpose, a uniform, a gun. I had a reason to get up in the morning—well, not exactly the morning, but you know what I’m talking about.” She shrugged. “The morning to me is a figure of speech.”
“Tell me something, Marlene.”
“Anything, darling, as long as it doesn’t involve any great thought. I’m not a deep thinker. I live for the moment, and because of that, my heart has been trampled upon.” Slim had stopped her before she started weeping again about Gabin.
“Marlene, have you gotten over the shame of being German?”
“I have washed my face of tears over Germany,” she said without expression.
“But isn’t your family still there?” Slim asked. She had never heard Marlene speak of her sister, but she knew she had one because Françoise had mentioned her in passing.
“I found out after the war that my sister and her husband were operating a movie theater for the SS officers of the Belsen concentration camp,” Marlene whispered as she muttered the name of the infamous death camp. “As soon as I found that out, I cut them off. They asked me for food and American money. I gave them some and then told them never to contact me again. Next question.”
“I need to find a woman who disappeared in the war.”
“Many women disappeared in the war.”
“She was a secret agent for Great Britain.”
“You mean a spy?” Marlene’s ears pricked up. “I always wanted to play Mata Hari, but that Swedish bitch Garbo beat me to it.”
“The agent was a spy for Britain. Everyone who worked with her in Paris says she’s dead.”
“So, case closed.”
“Except that her supervisor says she’s been sending messages to her in Morse code over the phone.”
“That is strange, really mysterious. Do you think the supervisor is lying?” Marlene asked.
“Why would she lie? What’s the point in hiring me?”
“Someone is lying. Your spy cannot be dead and alive, no?”
“Do you know anyone who could help me?”
“Not on the British end. If your spy was an American, I could call Bill Donovan for you.”
“How do you know Wild Bill Donovan?”
“I hope that is a rhetorical question.” Marlene took a long drag of her cigarette. “When he ran the OSS, the American counterpart of the SOE, he recruited me.”
“I thought you just entertained the troops.”
“Darling, I am a movie star, and I speak German. I not only sang on the radio, but I also did my best to demoralize German soldiers by broadcasting propaganda. That’s why I was awarded the Medal of Freedom.”
Marlene took the drink from Slim’s hand and began sipping it. “You know, Slim, I miss your father. He was a man, not like that stinker Gabin.” Before Marlene could start ranting about Gabin again, Slim motioned for a young woman who’d been looking adoringly at Marlene to come over.
“Would you like to meet the great Marlene Dietrich?” Slim asked the wide-eyed brunette in the pencil skirt and twinset.
“Gee, that would be swell. I mean an honor!” the young woman said in a broad American Midwestern accent. Slim introduced them (the adoring fan was doing her junior year abroad from Smith), and Slim extricated herself from the great Dietrich, repaired to a corner, and watched as the bar wound down for the night.
After closing, Slim helped Françoise count up the receipts and then split the night’s profits with her.
“You’re going to be richer than I am,” Slim said as Françoise zipped a pile of bills into a small leather case.
“One day I will live on the French Riviera with a young lover who adores me. I will do nothing all day but make love and be cherished.”
Slim smiled at the image Françoise put forth before them.
“And what will happen to me?”
“Daniel will be gone, and you will find someone else to obsess over.”
“I spoke to him last night.”
“Oh? How much money did he want?” Françoise asked cynically.
“Five thousand dollars,” Slim answered morosely.
“And you’re wondering if he loves you or your money.”
“Yes.”
“It’s probably a bit of both. Daniel loves your money, and he loves fucking you.” Françoise went behind the bar and pulled out a bottle of brandy and poured them each a draught. “Now I guess you want to know about my affair with Marie Claire.”
“Yes.”
“It’s far more complicated than you think.”
Chapter Three
Paris, 1942
Marie Claire woke up after eight hours of much-needed sleep to find Françoise in the kitchen, smoking a cigarette and poring over ration cards. The pounding sound of the early fall rain made Marie Claire’s headache intensify.
“Good, you’re finally up.” Françoise looked over at the rumpled mess before her. She’d have to steam the wrinkles out of Marie Claire’s skirt and blouse if she was going to try and pass her off as a proper Parisian instead of an Eastern European refugee.
“I’m terribly thirsty. May I have some water?” Marie Claire asked hoarsely. She rubbed her right temple. She was dehydrated.
Françoise turned on the tap behind her and filled a glass. “So, you need to be on your way within the half hour. I have the address you’re to transmit from.”
“Why can’t I transmit here? I’m exhausted.”
“Because if you’re caught here, I will be caught. Your safe house will change weekly. Amelie left the address for today, with the location of next week’s letter box.”
She handed Marie Claire a piece of paper with a scribbled address. “It is within walking distance. You must be home before dark. Do you know where rue Pernelle is?”
“I know where it is. I lived in Paris with my mother until I was fifteen,” Marie Claire snapped.
“You will soon find out that the Paris you knew is gone. Are you hungry?”
“Famished,” Marie Claire said, and then added, “I’m sorry to be so testy. I have a brutal headache.”
“Let me make you something to eat.”
Françoise fixed her a plate of bread, cheese, and sausage, which Marie Claire polished off in minutes.
“You weren’t kidding; you were hungry.”
“Yes. Sorry, I get a bit testy when I don’t eat.”
Françoise smiled. The young woman seemed more attractive now that she was less hostile.
“Take off your blouse and skirt so I can steam them.” Françoise saw the woman hesitate. “You can go into the bedroom if you would feel more comfortable.”
“No, no, I’m fine here.” She stripped down to her slip and then sat down with her arms folded, hiding her small breasts.
Françoise lit a burner and then placed a small black iron over it to heat. She laid the blouse on the table, sprinkling water on the silk.
“Careful, you’ll stain it. It’s silk,” Marie Claire said.
Françoise ignored her and let the steam from the iron smooth out the wrinkles from the delicate fabric. When she was done, she ironed the mid-calf skirt cut in the latest Parisian style and then handed Marie Claire back her clothes approvingly. The SOE employed an army of refugee tailors to copy the most recent continental fashions so the agents would blend into the still-fashionable streets of Paris. She was just about to send Marie Claire on her way when she looked down at Marie Claire’s shoes.
“Those will never do,” she said disapprovingly of the sensible, dark, leather-soled pumps.
“Why not? They’re nondescript.”
“There’s no rubber to be found in Paris anymore. All the women are wearing shoes with clunky wooden soles. And forget leather. Shoes are made of fabric now. What size are you?”
“I’m a thirty-seven. Are you sure I can’t wear these?”
“You’ll stand o
ut if you wear them. I’ll get you a different pair of shoes.”
“But what about my transmission? Should I wait until tomorrow?” she asked, concerned that her shoes would be a dead giveaway.
“It’s raining. I’ll get you an overcoat and an umbrella.”
“What about my shoes?”
Françoise looked again at Marie Claire’s shoes, and then an idea came to her.
“Wait, I have an old pair of galoshes you can put on. They’re a thirty-eight, but they might work.”
“But they’re rubber, aren’t they?”
“They’re old. No one will notice.” Françoise opened the front closet and took out a pair of well-worn galoshes. Marie Claire tried them on, but even with the elastic toggle tightened, her feet still slipped out. Françoise frowned for a second and then snapped her fingers. She found some twine and tied it around each of Marie Claire’s ankles, securing the galoshes.
“You should get going now, or you’ll miss curfew,” Françoise said, hurrying the young woman out the door.
“Will you be here when I come back?” Marie Claire asked, suddenly shy as she picked up her heavy suitcase.
“Yes. When you come back, knock twice and then three quick times.”
Five hours later, Marie Claire knocked as she had been told to do. Françoise opened the door, and Marie Claire ran in, out of breath. The rain had stopped, but she was covered in sweat.
“Were you followed?” Françoise asked, alarmed at Marie Claire’s sweaty and disheveled state.
“No, I am sure I wasn’t. I’m just so relieved it’s over.”
“You have to transmit three times a week, so your job is just beginning, yes?” Françoise noted.
“Look at what I was able to get you.” She pointed to a pair of shoes on the table with beige-linen uppers and hollowed-out wooden soles.
“They don’t look too comfortable or stylish,” Marie Claire said, picking up the shoes.
“Comfortable I can’t fix, but smart I can.” Françoise took out two small blue-and-white polka-dotted bows and placed them on the front of each shoe. Marie Claire smiled. “I’ll sew them on after dinner.”
The Lost Spy (Slim Moran Mysteries) Page 5
