The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(2)

As von Waltz heard the heavy iron gate clang shut, he closed the file in front of him, then opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a pocket mirror to check his teeth and straighten his tie.

“You’re stupid,” intoned Ludwig from his swing. “When you drink schnapps, you can’t smoke—otherwise you’ll explode.”

Von Waltz went to the cage and pulled a heavy velvet cover over it, silencing the bird. He heard footsteps on the staircase, then a rap at his door. He smiled, eyes glinting. “Come in!” he called in lilting, Austrian-inflected French.

The two SS officers who opened the door looked grotesquely large, towering over their captive—a petite young woman, trembling violently.

Von Waltz clicked his heels, then bowed. “Please sit down, mademoiselle,” he invited, indicating a fragile gilt chair. “Would you like a drink? Coffee is on the way, but I can get you something stronger if you’d like. You look as if you could use it.”

“Take those off,” he ordered the two officers in German, indicating the heavy cuffs shackling the woman’s delicate wrists. Once they did as they were told, he dismissed them.

“That’s better now, isn’t it?” Von Waltz took the seat across from the woman instead of returning to his desk chair. She knew her face was swollen beyond recognition, eyes slits in the battered flesh. Her hair was matted and dirty, the bruises on her neck purple, and she reeked of sweat and urine. She moved gingerly to test the use of her hands.

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “I see you’ve shown the poor judgment to resist in Rouen. I do trust you will do better here. Ah, coffee!” he cried as Fr?ulein Schmidt entered bearing a silver tray with a silver sugar bowl, creamer, and plate piled high with pastries. “I do love the ones with the hazelnut crème filling,” he confided as the secretary set the tray down. “Of course, German pastry is the best, but there is something special about Parisian pastry that makes it a very close second.”

“Would you like me to pour, sir?” asked Fr?ulein Schmidt.

“I’m sure we can manage,” he said, with a wink to the prisoner. As he reached for the coffeepot, he watched her take in his office. There were red Nazi flags on both sides of the hearth. On a rosewood table, a marble chessboard was set up with a game in progress.

“Would you prefer I call you by your code name?” he asked as he poured the fragrant coffee with graceful movements. “Or”—he said, abruptly changing from French to clipped English—“by your real name, Erica Calvert? And do you take sugar or cream? Or both?”

Erica shook her head; von Waltz dropped two sugar cubes and a generous pour of cream into a cup for himself. “Well then, I shall call you Mademoiselle Calvert.” He blew on his coffee before taking a sip. “You are Erica Grace Calvert, one of Winston Churchill’s secret army of undercover agents, known as the SOE or Special Operations Executive, recruited to ‘set Europe ablaze.’?”

Erica avoided his direct gaze.

“You were captured in Rouen and held for questioning.”

The agent remained silent.

“And you’re so tiny!” he exclaimed, studying her as he set his cup and saucer down. “I had no idea when I read your file that you’d be such a petite thing—and so young, as well.” From his jacket pocket, he took out a silver case. “Cigarette?”

Erica made a sound halfway between a snort and a mew.

“My colleagues, unfortunately, were not able to obtain any satisfactory answers from you. And so you have been sent to Paris, to me.” He left the case open, placing it on the table between them. “I will ask the questions now, and, as you can see, we can make this a civilized exchange. It is up to you, of course. What were you doing in Rouen, Mademoiselle Calvert?”

“I can’t say,” she managed through swollen lips.

“Oh, come now. Sabotage?” von Waltz suggested.

Erica shook her head.

“To whom were you reporting?”

“I can’t say.”

“With whom were you working?”

“I can’t say.”

There was a silence. “Where are the secret stashes of arms and explosives you and your colleagues are bringing over here?”

“I—”

“—can’t say, yes.” Von Waltz smiled as he leaned back in his chair and crossed one slim leg over the other. “And how did you enjoy your stay at Arisaig House? I hear the west coast of Scotland is quite beautiful, especially in autumn.”

Erica’s breathing stilled. There was no way he could know that location—the location of SOE’s paramilitary preparation—or that she had trained there in September and October.

“You did quite well with your parachute school at Ringway. And how did you enjoy your time at Beaulieu?” The Obersturmbannführer pronounced it in the English way, bew-lee. Beaulieu was the SOE’s so-called finishing school, where chosen agents were sent for their final round of training. “I hear even in winter, the weather in the south of England is surprisingly mild.”

“How—how—” Erica stammered.

“We know a lot about you, my darling girl. For instance, how you’ve been leaving off your security checks from prison in Rouen, hoping your London office will notice and realize you’ve been captured.” He smiled. “Meanwhile, the Baker Street agents have noted your lack of security checks—and sent messages back scolding you that in the future you must be more careful with your coding.”