‘Madame Laforge?’ Pale eyes darted between my face and the photograph.
‘Lafontaine.’
‘Yes. Of course. And where are you going so early this morning?’
He stood so that I was half-blinded by the sun. I shielded my eyes with my hand and allowed the all-too-real wobble to enter my voice.
‘My aunt is ill and has been asking for her son. She’s sent me to collect him.’
‘From where?’
‘Halfway to Caen.’
‘You couldn’t use a telephone? Send a telegraph?’
‘Not if I expect him to answer. Or to come and see her.’
A reluctant smile teased his lips. ‘Like that, is it?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘And you’re going to get there on the bicycle?’
I held up my raw palms. ‘If it weren’t important, do you really think I’d voluntarily travel on this godforsaken thing? My cousin has a permit for a car. He can drive us back.’
The corners of his mouth twitched as he returned my papers.
‘Have you never heard of a train?’
‘Of course I have.’ I shrugged and lied. By the time he checked, I’d be long gone. ‘I’ve also heard the British bombed the line.’
His smile froze. ‘Again? Damned Tommies,’ he muttered and waved me through.
Chapter Two
My death grip on the handlebars eased as the miles passed, but I was wary of stopping. Partially because I was eager to get to Rouen, but more out of the fear that if I stopped too long, the muscles in my shoulders and legs, already burning, might cease working.
I stopped late that night at a half-burnt barn, slept for a few hours and left before daybreak against the protests of my sore body. Fuelled by desperation, I cycled through the pain and the sun had already set by the time I rode past the stone cottage from Madame’s photograph. It was a mile or so outside the nearest village, and set far enough back from the road to be almost hidden from view.
Circling the cottage would bring unnecessary attention. I did what I could to make sure there was no tail before coasting to a stop in front of Laronde’s house. My knees buckled as I slid from the bicycle and dug my fists into the aching muscles to coax them into action. Slipped Madame Renard’s Luger into the waistband of my skirt, and adjusted my cardigan over it. Combed my hair and applied lipstick to make myself look respectable. My gloves hid the blisters, but there wasn’t much to be done about the scraped knees, other than hope no one would notice.
The couriers claimed nine out of ten homes would open the door to a resistance member, but that one in a hundred would summon the police. Laronde might open the door, but would he betray me?
I leant the bicycle against a tree and took out Madame’s chocolates, just in case I had been seen. With the reassuring weight of the Luger at my back, I knocked on Laronde’s door. Instead of the silence I’d expected, the door opened and I was pulled inside. A bright light shone into my eyes, almost blinding me. I stepped backwards until I pressed against the door.
‘Who are you?’ a voice demanded in French, the accent low and guttural. German. His dark hair was slicked back from a wide forehead, accenting small porcine eyes set too close to each other. He wore a well-tailored suit rather than uniform.
Hello, Gestapo!
Sod the subtle approach; I would have to brazen it out.
‘Just what’s this all about?’ I demanded, throwing off his arm and stepping to the side. A second man, taller and slimmer with a scar that bisected his cheek, pointed a Walther PPK at me. I jabbed my finger at him. ‘And you put that away. You’re liable to hurt someone with that!’
‘Where is he?’ Pig-eyes asked.
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think?’ he snapped.
‘Franc Laronde? If I thought he wasn’t in, do you really think I’d be here?’ Sweat trailed down my back, but my voice remained even.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Madame Laronde kept an eye on my mother while I was away.’ I held up the box of chocolates. ‘I brought her a thank-you gift.’
‘At this time of night?’
‘It’s still before curfew. Besides, I’ve only just returned!’
‘Where were you?’
‘Your papers!’ the other man barked.
‘Yes, of course.’
I put the chocolates down on a side table and, keeping my back to the wall to avoid them seeing my hidden gun, rummaged in my bag. I should have left the Luger in there; with both men watching my every move, it would have been easier to grab.
‘Black market chocolates?’ Scar sneered.
‘No. Just old. And probably stale. You can have them.’
Maybe Madame Renard had poisoned them.
‘Papers, Madame!’
‘Yes. They’re at the bottom of my bag. As usual,’ I grumbled.
He grabbed it from me and began to root around for them.
Despite my compliance, Pig-eyes raised his left hand to strike me. Instinct, months of training, and a deep-seated anger at the situation dictated what happened next. I deflected his blow and drove my right fist into his nose. He rocked back and before he could recover, I gripped his shoulder and slammed my knee into his groin. He doubled over, resting his pistol on his thigh and gasping for breath. Blood poured from his nose, pooling on the rug.
Despite its small size, Scar’s PPK sounded like a cannon in the small parlour. Dust settled from the ceiling and I locked my eyes with Scar’s.
‘Who are you?’ He pointed the pistol at me.
‘Who are you to bloody attack me?’ I growled, calculating and recalculating my options.
He stepped closer. ‘I will ask you again: who are you and why are you here?’
I’d rehearsed this, was trained for this with sergeants correcting me until I could do it without even thinking. A cold confidence settled over me and I pulled Pig-eyes erect, his back to my breast. Wrapped my hand around his and shot Scar between the eyes. As he crumbled, I buried the pistol’s nose in the fleshy folds of Pig-eyes’ chin and fired again.
His body hit the floor with
