With a sigh, he jiggled the rest and placed a call to the chateau at Sainte-Cecile.
He reached Willi Weber. “I’m going to raid a Resistance house,” he said. “I may need some of your heavyweights. Will you send four men and a car to the Hotel Frankfort? Or do I need to speak to Rommel again?”
The threat was unnecessary. Weber was keen to have his men along on the operation. That way, the Gestapo could claim the credit for any success. He promised a car in half an hour.
Dieter was worried about working with the Gestapo. He could not control them. But he had no choice.
While shaving, he turned on the radio, which was tuned to a German station. He learned that the first-ever tank battle in the Pacific theater had developed yesterday on the island of Biak. The occupying Japanese had driven the invading American 162d Infantry back to their beachhead. Push them into the sea, Dieter thought.
He dressed in a dark gray worsted suit, a fine cotton shirt with pale gray stripes, and a black tie with small white dots. The dots were woven into the fabric rather than printed on it, a detail that gave him pleasure. He thought for a moment, then removed the jacket and strapped on a shoulder holster. He took his Walther P38 automatic pistol from the bureau and slid it into the holster, then put his jacket back on.
He sat down with a cup of coffee and watched Stephanie dressing. The French made the most beautiful underwear in the world, he thought as she stepped into silk cami-knickers the color of clotted cream. He loved to see her pull on her stockings, smoothing the silk over her thighs. “Why did the old masters not paint this moment?” he said.
“Because Renaissance women didn’t have sheer silk stockings,” said Stephanie.
When she was ready, they left.
Hans Hesse was waiting outside with Dieter’s Hispano-Suiza. The young man gazed at Stephanie with awestruck admiration. To him, she was infinitely desirable and at the same time untouchable. He made Dieter think of a poor woman staring into Cartier’s shop window.
Behind Dieter’s car was a black Citroen Traction Avant containing four Gestapo men in plain clothes. Major Weber had decided to come himself, Dieter saw: he sat in the front passenger seat of the Citroen, wearing a green tweed suit that made him look like a farmer on his way to church. “Follow me,” Dieter told him. “When we get there, please stay in your car until I call you.”
Weber said, “Where the hell did you get a car like that?”
“It was a bribe from a Jew,” Dieter said. “I helped him escape to America.”
Weber grunted in disbelief, but in fact the story was true.
Bravado was the best attitude to take with men such as Weber. If Dieter had tried to keep Stephanie hidden away, Weber would immediately have suspected that she was Jewish and might have started an investigation. But because Dieter flaunted her, the thought never crossed Weber’s mind.
Hans took the wheel, and they headed for the rue du Bois.
Reims was a substantial country town with a population of more than 100,000, but there were few motor vehicles on the streets. Cars were used only by those on official business: the police, doctors, firemen, and, of course, the Germans. The citizens went about by bicycle or on foot. Petrol was available for deliveries of food and other essential supplies, but many goods were transported by horse-drawn cart. Champagne was the main industry here. Dieter loved champagne in all its forms: the nutty older vintages, the fresh, light, nonvintage cuvees, the refined blanc de blancs, the demi-sec dessert varieties, even the playful pink beloved of Paris courtesans.
The rue du Bois was a pleasant tree-lined street on the outskirts of town. Hans pulled up outside a tall house at the end of a row, with a little courtyard to one side. This was the home of Mademoiselle Lemas. Would Dieter be able to break her spirit? Women were more difficult than men. They cried and screamed, but held out longer. He had sometimes failed with a woman, though never with a man. If this one defeated him, his investigation was dead.
“Come if I wave to you,” he said to Stephanie as he got out of the car. Weber’s Citroen drew up behind, but the Gestapo men stayed in the car, as instructed.
Dieter glanced into the courtyard beside the house. There was a garage. Beyond that, he saw a small garden with clipped hedges, rectangular flower beds, and a raked gravel path. The owner had a tidy mind.
Beside the front door was an old-fashioned red-and-yellow rope. He pulled it and heard from inside the metallic ring of a mechanical bell.
The woman who opened the door was about sixty. She had white hair tied up at the back with a tortoiseshell clasp. She wore a blue dress with a pattern of small white flowers. Over it she had a crisp white apron. “Good morning, monsieur,” she said politely.
Dieter smiled. She was an irreproachably genteel provincial lady. Already he had thought of a way to torture her. His spirits lifted with hope.
He said, “Good morning… Mademoiselle Lemas?”
She took in his suit, noticed the car at the curb, and perhaps heard the trace of a German accent, and fear came into her eyes. There was a tremor in her voice as she said, “How may I help you?”
“Are you alone, Mademoiselle?” He watched her face carefully.
“Yes,” she said. “Quite alone.”
She was telling the truth. He was sure. A woman such as this could not lie without betraying herself with her eyes.
He turned and beckoned Stephanie. “My colleague will join us.” He was not going to need Weber’s men. “I have some questions to ask you.”
“Questions? About what?”
“May I come in?”
“Very well.”
The front parlor was furnished with dark wood, highly polished. There was a piano under a dust cover and an engraving of Reims cathedral on the wall. The mantelpiece bore a selection of ornaments: a spun-glass swan, a china flower girl, a transparent globe containing a model of the palace at Versailles, and three wooden camels.
Dieter sat on a plush upholstered couch. Stephanie sat beside him, and Mademoiselle Lemas took an upright chair opposite. She was plump, Dieter observed. Not many French people were plump after four years of occupation. Food was her vice.
On a low table was a cigarette box and a heavy lighter. Dieter flipped the lid and saw that the box was full. “Please feel free to smoke,” he said.
She looked mildly offended: women of her generation did not use tobacco. “I don’t smoke.”
“Then who are these for?”
She touched her chin, a sign of dishonesty. “Visitors.”
“And what kind of visitors do you get?”
“Friends… neighbors…” She looked uncomfortable.
“And British spies.”
“That is absurd.”
Dieter gave her his most charming smile. “You are obviously a respectable lady who has become mixed up in criminal activities from misguided motives,” he said in a tone of friendly candor. “I’m not going to toy with you, and I hope you will not be so foolish as to lie to me.”
“I shall tell you nothing,” she said.
Dieter feigned disappointment, but he was pleased to be making such rapid progress. She had already abandoned the pretense that she did not know what he was talking about. That was as good as a confession. “I’m going to ask you some questions,” he said. “If you don’t answer them, I shall ask you again at Gestapo headquarters.”
She gave him a defiant look.
He said. “Where do you meet the British agents?”
She said nothing.
“How do they recognize you?”
Her eyes met his in a steady gaze. She was no longer flustered, but resigned. A brave woman, he thought. She would be a challenge.
“What is the password?”
