The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(8)
Another man, short and lean with wet, sandy hair, stepped out from behind Jacques, causing one of the floorboards to squeak. He had a satchel slung over his right shoulder.
“This is Reiner Dupont—” Jacques began by way of introduction.
Agathe held up a frail hand. “Never mind that. We don’t need to know names or details.”
“You’re the agent code-named Joan?” Reiner asked Maggie. She nodded. He patted the satchel. “I’m afraid I don’t have any letters for you.”
“I wasn’t expecting any.”
“Come with me,” Agathe ordered the exhausted-looking Reiner. “I’ll show you where you can wash up, then get you something to eat.”
As they ascended the stairs, Maurice looked to Jacques and Maggie. “I’ll give you two some privacy,” he said as he left, closing the doors with a loud click. The two agents were alone.
Maggie had first met Jacques when the plane carrying her, Sarah, and Hugh landed on a moonlit night in a field outside Paris. As he greeted them and led them to the safe house, Maggie noticed his hat, a gray fedora, was set at a jaunty angle. She’d found it both charming and irksome, that angle—as if he were acting the role of secret agent in a play or a film. And yet he was an important cog in the SOE machine, in charge of organizing secret RAF aircraft takeoffs and landings for agents. He was also responsible for the transport of the agents from the airfields to the various safe houses and back again when their missions were complete.
It had been Jacques who had hand-delivered the telegram that related her father was dead. And it was Jacques who had procured a bottle of brandy and drunk it with her as she absorbed the news in shock, then held her as she sobbed in an ugly way. When she finished, he’d given her his handkerchief and smoothed back her hair.
The voice from the wireless now disintegrated into static; Maggie rose to turn it off. “The weather’s changing,” she said, self-conscious now that they were alone. “The interference is getting worse.”
Jacques stuck his hands in his pockets and began to pace. “First it’s sunny, then it’s raining. Damn weather can’t make up its mind. Er, sorry.”
Maggie repressed a smile. She had heard—and said—much worse. “You missed Pétain’s speech.”
“Same old story.” Jacques shrugged. “If the Germans don’t want to die, they should have stayed at home. Still, everything is gray now, shades of gray—to us in the shadows at least.” His voice turned hard, bitter. “And sometimes it’s hard to tell one shade from another.” There was a protracted silence, and Maggie wondered if perhaps he’d served too long, if he needed time off. Burnout was a real danger for agents.
“I hope the wait has given you time to grieve for your father,” Jacques finally remarked, in softer tones. “I didn’t know him, of course, but it must be hard—to deal with his death in a foreign land, to be unable to return for his funeral.”
“The truth is, I didn’t know him that well. I was—am—mourning the idea of never having had a real father.” There was more to the story of her relationship with her father, of course, but this wasn’t the time or place.
Jacques sat on the sofa and leaned back, stretching his long legs; the hems of his trousers were mud-splattered. “SOE is quite cross with you, young lady. Everyone’s still talking about it.” He let out a whistle. “How you got yourself on that flight here by order of the Queen herself! Miss Lynd is still annoyed, in case you’re wondering.”
Maggie permitted herself a small smile. “Well, if the spy HQ is talking about it, they’re not all that good at keeping secrets, are they? By the way, any news on Madeleine?” Madeleine was Erica Calvert’s code name.
A shadow crossed the Frenchman’s face. “No, nothing. As far as we know, though, she’s still on the run. There haven’t been any transmittals in the last few weeks. With or without security checks.”
Maggie fought to stay expressionless. “She could be dead.”
“Don’t give up hope,” he urged gently. Then, more briskly, “Speaking of which, I do have good news—a special delivery for you.” He reached into his jacket’s breast pocket and pulled out an envelope. “You’re all set—passport, ration book, everything you’ll need to pass in your new identity. And—” He rose and went to the double doors, opened them, and dragged in a large Louis Vuitton steamer trunk. “Voilà!” he said with a flourish. “There’s a small suitcase, a toiletries case, and a few hatboxes downstairs for you as well.”
Maggie clapped her hands. “Thank you,” she said, her face beaming with relief. Her time in limbo was over. “I can finally get to work!” She ran to the trunk, opened it, and rummaged through the tissue-lined haute couture clothing until she found what she was looking for. She took everything behind the trifold screen in a corner of the room.
“You know,” Jacques opined as Maggie began to undress, “there are some Frenchmen with our cause who wonder if what we’re doing is having any real impact. But for me, and I’d say for most of us, the point is moot—there’s a moral and psychological factor.”
Maggie was naked for a moment. Between her old clothes and her new, suspended between identities. As she put on the clothes she personally would never wear, but those favored by the person she was to be, her heartbeat quickened.