By my landlady.
That bastard had led the Germans to my home.
The officer banged on the door with the butt of his gun.
My landlady was a good woman, but she wouldn’t risk her life for me. How long before my image was nailed to buildings and signposts?
I shoved my hair out of my eyes and forced my breathing to slow. My backup flat was on the other side of Paris, and the house where I stored my set and transmitted from was in the suburbs. Too far to go without getting caught for breaking curfew. Assuming that the Gestapo weren’t already waiting at those locations.
That left only one option.
Madame Renard had proven her loyalty to the Resistance and to me – standing fast in the aftermath of a Gestapo ambush, in which I’d been shot twice. Despite being under suspicion herself, she hid me, wounded and feverish, in her cellar. It wasn’t fair to put her in danger again, but there was no other choice. If Demarque knew where I lived, he knew the name I was using. A quick flare from my lighter took care of that problem. Pulling the loose thread in the lining of my bag, I retrieved the spare set.
Voices echoed in the night as a gendarme questioned someone. I eased around the corner to see him shaking his head at a young couple. Shivers racked my body, and sweat trickled down my spine. Madame Renard’s home was less than a quarter of a mile away but seemed farther away than London.
I doubled back to make sure I wasn’t followed. Spent the better part of an hour ducking in and out of the winding streets until I was convinced it was safe to turn into the small alleyway leading to Madame Renard’s house. Torn between regret for involving her and my own need to survive, I paused before raising my hand to rap once on her door, almost too soft for an old woman to hear. The bolt scraped open and one gnarled hand pulled me into the house. She closed the door firmly behind her and leant back against it.
‘What happened?’
‘I need a place to hide for the night. My cover was blown.’ Her face paled and I added, ‘No one followed me here.’
‘Of course they didn’t.’
She folded her arms over her bony chest, the Luger a lethal black mass, incongruous against her yellow dressing gown.
How on earth had she acquired a German pistol? And a Luger at that? Then again, if anyone could, it would be Madame Renard. She had enough food stashed in her cellar to single-handedly stock the black market, so why not a Luger? She set the gun down on a side table, and led the way into the kitchen.
‘I’m sorry to ask this of you, madame.’
‘Faugh!’ She waved her hand dismissively and uncorked a bottle of wine. ‘What happened?’
‘Someone sold me out.’
‘A friend?’
‘A neighbour. Jean-Roger bloody Demarque. I’m not sure why, but I don’t suppose it matters, damn him.’
As I removed the last cigarette from the silver case, the memory of an awkward dinner invitation, followed by a polite but firm refusal surfaced. At the time, he seemed to take the rejection well, but that was months ago. Had he been planning his revenge all this time, or had he found some shred of evidence? It took three tries with the lighter before the blasted cigarette ignited. I sucked in the smoke, savouring the familiar rush before exhaling a cloud of smoke and nerves. ‘I don’t suppose it matters,’ I repeated.
‘I don’t suppose it does.’ Madame Renard placed two glasses on the table and shooed her cat off a chair. ‘Where will you go?’
‘Out of Paris, obviously.’
‘That’s not much of an answer, Cécile.’ She pushed a glass across to me. ‘Is there somewhere you can go?’
‘The couriers escort downed airmen to the Normandy coast. They use trawlers to take them back across the Channel.’
‘You’re going home?’ Her voice was flat, making her opinion clear.
‘Don’t be absurd.’ I toyed with the glass, wishing my hands would stop shaking. ‘I’m sure they’ll need another wireless operator up north. Maybe someone to co-ordinate the pickups.’
The old lady stood up and rummaged in the pantry. She put the battered tin of biscuits in the centre of the table and sat down. On the lid, one of Alphonse Mucha’s redheads pouted, a heavy-handed reminder of happier times. I pushed it away.
‘Thank you, but I’m not hungry.’
Madame Renard treated me to another condescending look and opened the tin to reveal a stack of photographs. Arthritic fingers flicked through them, pausing now and again, until they lingered on an image. She put it on the table and turned it around so I could see.
Two men flanked a young woman in a floral dress, standing in front of a stone cottage. A breeze had caught her hair, and her hand was raised, holding her locks in place. The man on the right was a bit older, perhaps thirty, and bore a family resemblance to the woman. The man on the left was shorter, but had a strong bone structure and a determined chin.
‘A good-looking set,’ I said.
She harrumphed and jabbed a finger at the man on the left.
‘My nephew, Franc Laronde, outside his house with his wife Christiane and her brother.’
I forced back a bad feeling and waited for her to continue. She took her time, picking up her glass and taking a delicate sip.
‘They live near Rouen.’
‘Madame, with all due respect, this isn’t the best time to matchmake.’
She wheezed, spraying the burgundy over her hand. Then the laughter erupted.
‘Cécile, you fool, Franc is part of the Resistance. If you can get to him he’ll help you, or at least introduce you to someone who can.’
I opened and
