The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(51)

A family, Maggie thought, feeling a sudden stab of longing and despair. And where do I fit in? Not here, that’s for certain.

She carefully examined everything in the library before going to the private rooms. In one of the bathrooms she found a short golden hair in the sink basin—Elise’s! she thought triumphantly. She’s been here. Maggie’s arms prickled with goosebumps. It was evidence, confirmation that Elise had been to the apartment since she’d escaped from SOE in January.

Everything in what must have been Elise’s room was covered in sheets and dust, but in a grouping on the bureau, Maggie found a small silver-framed picture of her half sister, dressed for a party or dance. She slipped it into her pocketbook.

But though Maggie combed meticulously through the rest of the apartment, that was all she could find—no further signs of Elise, no clue to where she might have gone.

Then, in the study, she realized the plush carpeting had recently been walked over by someone wearing muddy shoes. Someone had come in and gone to the bookcase on the right side of the fireplace.

A secret room? Excitement jolted through her. She pressed on various panels. Nothing.

She pushed and then pulled on each volume in the bookcase. Nothing.

In frustration, she thumped her fists on the wooden shelves themselves. Nothing happened, except her hands became sore.

Muttering a few choice curses, Maggie flung herself into one of the chairs.

A dead end, she realized, kicking her feet like a disappointed child. Elise might have come back here to the flat, but now she could be anywhere—Switzerland, Spain, Portugal…Even back to Berlin—who knows?

Maggie stilled, her face hot with shame, feeling every inch the fool. Her impulsive journey to France, her quest to find Elise, was stupid, pathetic—a pipe dream. Her sister obviously didn’t want to be found, didn’t want anything to do with Maggie.

In this empty flat in a hollowed-out city, Maggie had never felt so terribly alone in her life.

Come on, Hope, she scolded herself firmly, finally rising. You’ve tied up enough SOE resources. It’s over. Erica Calvert is dead and Elise doesn’t want to be found. You’re done. It’s time to go home.

The chimes of church bells striking the hour could be heard through the closed windows. Bells! Elise had once wanted to be a nun. Even in Paris, even on the run, Maggie felt certain that Elise would have gone to Mass, and most likely gone to the neighborhood church.

Maybe someone there, at the church, has seen her?

She opened the shutters, then peered out the window, catching a glimpse of the pointed spire of a Gothic church tower, guarded by medieval gargoyles.

Well, as long as I’m here, she decided, giving her nose a good blow and squaring her shoulders, what can it hurt to try?

—

Not far away, at 84 Avenue Foch, Professor Franz Fischer sat in front of the English agent’s receiving station, headphones on, head rolled back, snoring loudly. He wore civilian clothes and not a uniform, despite the fact that he carried a concealed gun.

Ever since sending the message as Erica Calvert, he’d been on twenty-four-hour listening duty, her former radio tuned to the correct frequency. If SOE took the bait they’d set, he would, at some point, receive a reply.

The professor jerked upright when he heard the beeps of the first letters of the transmission. Righting his headphones, he began transcribing the dots and dashes. Joy pervaded him as he worked. Von Waltz’s trap was a success! London believed they were radioing their agent, on the run in Paris!

He decrypted the Morse into text. He checked it twice, then walked, as fast as his bowed legs and arthritic knees would allow him, to von Waltz’s office.

He banged at von Waltz’s doors, causing Hertha to call, “Professor, wait—”

But the bearded man burst in, his collar unbuttoned, his tie askew. “Obersturmbannführer! You must see this!”

Von Waltz was finishing a telephone call. He hung up the receiver, then looked up. “Next time you arrive unannounced, Professor, I’ll have you shot.” It was clear, despite his mild tone, that he wasn’t joking.

“Have you shot!” echoed Ludwig the parrot. “Snowpisser! Beer idiot! Bed wetter!”

The older man, still struggling to catch his breath, set the decrypt in front of his superior.

“Shut! Up!” von Waltz barked to the bird.

Ludwig replied, “Parrot stew! Parrot stew!” then gleefully made a loud farting sound.

The professor waited as the Obersturmbannführer read the decrypt:

YOUR MESSAGE ACKNOWLEDGED STOP RENDEZVOUS WITH RAOUL STOP YOU WILL RETURN TO LONDON STOP BRING BAG STOP OF UTMOST IMPORTANCE STOP DO NOT FORGET SECURITY CHECK AGAIN OVER



As he read, an enormous smile spread across von Waltz’s face. “They took the bait!” he crowed. “And swallowed it whole!” He rubbed at the nearly imperceptible stubble on his chin. “Now, what was Calvert carrying that is so important?”

Fischer coughed delicately. “They realize we don’t have the security check, sir.”

“And the stupid fools don’t seem to particularly care. We don’t need to radio back quite yet—but we do need to find out about this bag she’s supposed to have had.”

“How do we do that?” Ludwig began to sing the Austrian folk song “Lieserl Walzer,” fluttering from perch to perch in his cage.