‘Madame, I don’t know what to say!’
‘A simple thank you will do. Now, fetch me the Michelin map from the parlour, and I’ll show you how to get there.’
As the birds fly, it didn’t look far. If the trains were running, I would be able to get there within a few hours. Only the railway stations would be the first place they’d look for me.
‘Perhaps a boat up the Seine,’ I mused out loud.
‘Still too obvious. Try a bicycle.’
‘I don’t have one.’
‘Take your friend Juliette’s. She left it here, and I don’t think she’ll be back in Paris anytime soon to protest.’
‘No, I don’t suppose she will.’
Juliette, or rather my fellow agent Dominique, had boarded with Madame Renard. In the aftermath of the ambush, Dom had been arrested and taken to the Gestapo’s HQ on Avenue Foch. She’d escaped, and as far as I knew, had successfully disappeared.
Madame Renard’s eyes narrowed. ‘You do know how to ride a bicycle, don’t you?’
I’d ridden on the handlebars a few times. What was there to it? You sat, you pedalled, and you got where you needed to go. Anyone could do it.
‘Of course I can.’
Madame Renard’s lips pursed. I met her gaze with all the innocence I could muster until she sighed.
‘Sleep for a couple of hours. You’ll go just before it gets light.’
*
The alleyway was deserted, but it was foolish to think no one watched from behind the shutters and blackout curtains. Madame herself watched from the doorway as I wheeled the bicycle on to the street and straddled it.
‘Perhaps you’re waiting for the Second Coming?’ she asked, her voice low.
‘Ha, bloody ha.’
I tossed the strap of my handbag over my head and straddled the frame. She held up a finger for me to wait and disappeared into her house for a moment before returning with the Luger, a book with a postcard tucked a third of the way in, and a box of chocolates.
‘Never go to anyone empty-handed,’ she advised.
Did she realise that where I was going, the Luger was a more effective asset than the sweets?
‘Cécile, for once, try and be subtle. Use the chocolates first.’ She tucked the chocolates and the pistol into my handbag, but held back on the paperback. Curious, I reached for it.
‘The Count of Monte Cristo?’ I blustered. ‘Have some faith, Madame!’
Wearing a familiar expression of pained patience, she waited until I removed the postcard. On the front was the striped cathedral at Marseilles. On the back was a brief note, pleasantly bland as all postcards were these days. The message wasn’t on the card – it was the card. Two friends I had long thought captured or dead had written that card. For me.
‘They’re alive?’
My voice was thick and I fought to hold back tears. I couldn’t cry. Not in public, not even in front of Madame Renard.
‘So it would seem,’ she said. ‘And if they can beat the Boche, so can you. Keep the card if you want, but also keep the book. A woman alone looks suspicious, but one with a book, oddly less so.’
The smile didn’t reach her eyes, and she looked down as her gnarled fingers buckled my bag closed. Madame was a tough old girl, and although she tried to hide it, she cared. So did I.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the right people know about you. And your neighbour. Now, get out of here.’
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I grasped the handlebars. If it were anyone other than Madame Renard, I might have paused for a hug, a last kiss on the cheek, a murmur of thanks. But even if I knew how to extend the sentiment, Madame was too crusty to accept it. I took a deep breath, steadying myself. Looked up to clear my own eyes. The last rays of the moon provided just enough light. As long as no one stopped me, I’d be in Rouen tomorrow or, worst case, the day after. I glared at the red metal frame, willing it into submission. Refusing to comply, it wobbled a few times and pitched me into the gutter. I cringed at the noise and looked around, but there was nothing, not even the twitch of a curtain.
Madame Renard muffled a snort. ‘Shall I fetch someone to hold the saddle for you?’
‘You shall not.’ I dusted off my stinging palms and rose to my feet. ‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Yes. You said. Would you like a plaster for your knee?’
I glared at the thin red trail snaking its way down my leg.
‘I’ve had worse.’
‘I remember.’
She flicked her fingers at me, urging me back on the bicycle.
It took three more tries before I was able to leave the street. My hands ached from the death grip they had on the handlebars, and sweat made my dress stick to my back. At this rate, it wouldn’t be a day or two before I got to Rouen. It would be a week or two.
And I’d arrive in an ambulance.
*
It was barely dawn but vehicles were already queuing up to have their papers and vehicles inspected at the checkpoint leaving the city. So far I’d been lucky. No one stopped me as I weaved my way through the streets. There were plenty of posters fluttering in the breeze, but none with my face on them. How long my luck would last was a different question.
‘You!’ The German-accented voice boomed out.
The young soldier held his assault rifle in the crook of his arm as he pointed in my direction. I looked over my shoulder, but there was no one behind me. I pointed at my own chest.
‘Me, sir?’
‘Ja. Come here.’
I raised my chin and cycled around a horse-drawn cart and the two Germans peering underneath it. The man holding the reins looked away as I passed.
‘Your papers?’
The soldier cradled a rifle in one arm. He thrust the other out for my identity card. I handed it
