She did not answer.
“Who do you pass the agents on to? How do you contact the Resistance? Who is in charge of it?”
Silence.
Dieter stood up. “Come with me, please.”
“Very well,” she said staunchly. “Perhaps you will permit me to put on my hat.”
“Of course.” He nodded to Stephanie. “Go with Mademoiselle, please. Make sure she does not use the telephone or write anything down.” He did not want her to leave any kind of message.
He waited in the hail. When they returned, Mademoiselle Lemas had taken off her apron and wore a light coat and a cloche hat that had gone out of fashion long before the outbreak of war. She carried a sturdy tan leather handbag. As the three of them were heading for the front door, Mademoiselle Lemas said, “Oh! I forgot my key.”
“You don’t need it,” Dieter said.
“The door locks itself,” she said. “I need a key to get back in.”
Dieter looked her in the eye. “Don’t you understand?” he said. “You’ve been sheltering British terrorists in your house, you have been caught, and you are in the hands of the Gestapo.” He shook his head in an expression of sorrow that was not entirely fake. “Whatever happens, Mademoiselle, you’re never coming home again.”
She realized the full horror of what was happening to her. Her face turned white, and she staggered. She steadied herself by grabbing the edge of a kidney-shaped table. A Chinese vase containing a spray of dried grasses wobbled dangerously but did not fall. Then Mademoiselle Lemas recovered her poise. She straightened up and let go of the table. She gave him that defiant look again, then walked out of her house with her head held high.
Dieter asked Stephanie to take the front passenger seat, while he sat in the back of the car with the prisoner. As Hans drove them to Sainte-Cecile, Dieter made polite conversation. “Were you born in Reims, Mademoiselle?”
“Yes. My father was choirmaster at the cathedral.”
A religious background. This was good news for the plan that was forming in Dieter’s mind. “Is he retired?”
“He died five years ago, after a long illness.”
“And your mother?”
“Died when I was quite young.”
“So, I imagine you nursed your father through his illness?”
“For twenty years.”
“Au.” That explained why she was single. She had spent her life caring for an invalid father. “And he left you the house.”
She nodded.
“Small reward, some might think, for a life of dedicated service,” Dieter said sympathetically.
She gave him a haughty look. “One does not do such things for reward.”
“Indeed not.” He did not mind the implied rebuke. It would help his plan if she could convince herself that she was somehow Dieter’s superior, morally and socially. “Do you have brothers and sisters?”
“None.”
Dieter saw the picture vividly. The agents she sheltered, all young men and women, must have been like her children. She had fed them, done their laundry, talked to them, and probably kept an eye on the relationships between the sexes, making sure there was no immorality, at least not under her root
And now she would die for it.
But first, he hoped, she would tell him everything.
The Gestapo Citroen followed Dieter’s car to Sainte-Cecile. When they had parked in the grounds of the chateau, Dieter spoke to Weber. “I’m going to take her upstairs and put her in an office,” he said.
“Why? There are cells in the basement.”
“You’ll see.”
Dieter led the prisoner up the stairs to the Gestapo offices. Dieter looked into all the rooms and picked the busiest, a combination typing pool and post room. It was occupied by young men and women in smart shirts and ties. Leaving Mademoiselle Lemas in the corridor, he closed the door and clapped his hands for attention. In a quiet voice he said, “I’m going to bring a French woman in here. She is a prisoner, but I want you all to be friendly and polite to her, is that understood? Treat her as a guest. It’s important that she feels respected.”
He brought her in, sat her at a table and, with a murmured apology, handcuffed her ankle to the table leg. He left Stephanie with her and took Hesse outside. “Go to the canteen and ask them to prepare lunch on a tray. Soup, a main course, a little wine, a bottle of mineral water, and plenty of coffee. Bring cutlery, glasses, a napkin. Make it look nice.”
The lieutenant grinned admiringly. He had no idea what his boss was up to, but he felt sure it would be something clever.
A few minutes later he returned with a tray. Dieter took it from him and carried it into the office. He set it in front of Mademoiselle Lemas. “Please,” he said. “It’s lunchtime.”
“I couldn’t eat anything, thank you.”
“Perhaps just a little soup.” He poured wine into her glass.
She added water to the wine and sipped it, then tried a mouthful of soup.
“How is it?”
“Very good,” she admitted.
“French food is so refined. We Germans cannot imitate it.” Dieter talked nonsense to her, trying to relax her, and she drank most of the soup. He poured her a glass of water.
Major Weber came in and stared incredulously at the tray in front of the prisoner. Speaking German, he said, “Are we now rewarding people for harboring terrorists?”
Dieter said, “Mademoiselle is a lady. We must treat her correctly.”
“God in heaven,” Weber said, and he turned on his heel.
She refused the main course but drank all the coffee. Dieter was pleased. Everything was going according to plan. When she had finished, he asked her all the questions again. “Where do you meet the Allied agents? How do they recognize you? What is the password?” She looked worried, but she still refused to answer.
He looked sadly at her. “I am very sorry that you refuse to cooperate with me, after I have treated you kindly.”
She looked somewhat bewildered. “I appreciate your kindness, but I cannot tell you anything~”
Stephanie, sitting beside Dieter, also looked puzzled. He guessed that she was thinking: Did you really imagine that a nice meal would be sufficient to make this woman talk?
“Very well,” he said. He stood up as if to go.
“And now, Monsieur,” said Mademoiselle Lemas. She looked embarrassed. “I must ask to… ah… visit the ladies’ powder room.”
In a harsh voice, Dieter said, “You want to go to the toilet?”
She reddened. “In a word, yes.”
“I’m sorry, Mademoiselle,” Dieter said. “That will not be possible.”
CHAPTER 13
THE LAST THING Monty had said to Paul Chancellor, late on Monday night, had been, “If you only do one thing in this war, make sure that telephone exchange is destroyed.”
Paul had woken this morning with those words echoing in his mind. It was a simple instruction. If he could fulfill it, he would have helped win the war. If he failed, men would die-and he might spend the rest of his life reflecting that he had helped lose the war.
He went to Baker Street early, but Percy Thwaite was already there, sitting in his office, puffing his pipe and staring at six boxes of files. He seemed a typical military duffer, with his check jacket and toothbrush mustache. He looked at Paul with mild hostility. “I don’t know why Monty’s put you in charge of this operation,” he said. “I don’t
