The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(7)
The three agents had flown to Paris together on a small RAF plane, Maggie joining at literally the last moment. They had worked out all of their misunderstandings during the long flight. They were friends. They would all always be friends. And Maggie, despite her own past with Hugh, respected his and Sarah’s burgeoning romance.
The rest of the newspaper was filled with countless photos of a detached-looking Marshal Pétain, as well as chirpy reports about the horse races at Longchamp, the new film Mam’zelle Bonaparte, and the upcoming Parisian premiere of Richard Strauss’s Capriccio.
These were interspersed with articles on the so-called Fatherland, patriotism, and warnings against the dangers of Bolshevism. Travail, famille, patrie—Work, family, patriotism—had replaced the Republican motto of Liberté, égalité, fraternité.
The tone of the newspapers published under the Occupation wasn’t stoic or resigned but downright cheery; apparently, at least according to the articles, a new Europe was being built, helped by France’s finest. While some political power had been “temporarily ceded,” this transfer of power was lauded in the censored papers as a worthwhile maneuver.
But Maggie’s head snapped up when she heard the wireless’s disembodied voice intone: Field Marshal Pétain, Head of State, will address you now from the H?tel du Parc in Vichy.
There was a knock at the double door, causing her heart to plunge in fear. “Come in,” she called, finally finding her voice. Her hosts entered the library. Agathe carried a tray with Maggie’s lunch, a bowl of steaming broth and a thin slice of what passed for bread. Maurice walked to the wireless to turn up the volume.
He was a dignified man, with a crisply trimmed white beard and mustache, wearing gray flannel trousers and a well-pressed shirt, a silk scarf tied around his neck. As he fiddled with the wireless’s dial, he gnawed at the stem of an empty pipe that still gave off the smell of fruity tobacco. Agathe put down the tray on Maggie’s makeshift desk.
“Merci,” Maggie said to her with a smile.
The older woman gave an unmistakably Gallic shrug in reply. Agathe was a small, birdlike woman, with blotchy skin drawn over high cheekbones and iron-colored hair pulled tightly back in a bun. She wore a faded dress, lisle stockings, and scuffed leather shoes. A blue Bakelite swallow, wings extended, was pinned to her collar.
As Maggie spooned her lukewarm, watery soup, Agathe sat on the worn sofa, where she blinked nervously and crossed her thin arms across her chest for warmth. Her brother sat beside her, fidgeting at one of the loosening buttons on his cuff, as they waited to hear Pétain.
Maggie had the feeling that Maurice was the twin truly moved to offer up his house to the Resistance, while his sister was far less committed. Fair enough, Maggie thought. She was constantly aware that, by hiding her, the pair risked their lives.
Pétain began to speak in his high-pitched, nasal tones: French people, don’t make our situation worse by resorting to acts that give rise to tragic reprisals. It will be innocents who will suffer the consequences. Don’t listen to those who try to exploit our distress. They will lead our country to disaster. France will save herself by observing the highest standards of discipline. Therefore, the orders of the government…
After Pétain’s address, La Marseillaise came on. As the national anthem—a call for freedom and the fight against tyranny—played, Maggie watched Maurice’s faded blue eyes cloud with disappointment. As a soldier during the Great War, he had no doubt seen Pétain as his savior. Now the general was his Judas.
Agathe cleared her throat, refusing to look at Maggie. Was the Frenchwoman thinking that, by harboring an agent, they were making things worse, as Pétain had said? Or was it that the woman just didn’t like her? Or, perhaps, my stay here is making me paranoid instead of grateful, Maggie amended, remembering the warnings about how the mind could play tricks on missions.
The broadcast resumed: The streets ring with the clatter of taxi-bikes in the championship race—a new Parisian sport and a product of the times. And one last surge takes the Dubois team to victory!
Maggie broke off a piece of the bread. An exhibition at the Berlitz takes a hard look at the Jewish problem. Since 1936, France has been paying for her kindness to the Jews. “Learn How to Tell a Jew from a Frenchman” is a chilling display of Semitic traits both physical and psychological and serves as a vivid warning against the Jewish peril. More Frenchmen must learn to identify the Jew and guard against his encroachments.
The wireless’s introduction to a ditty by Charles Trenet didn’t hide the thud of footsteps coming up the staircase. The trio froze. There was a loud bang as the door flew open.
There stood Jacques Lebeau, Air Movements Officer for SOE’s F-Section, dripping with rain. “So sorry,” he began in accentless French as he took off his wet hat and shook it. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”
He was a tall, lean man in his early thirties, with sharp features, eyes that missed nothing, and a twitchy, sardonic smile. His straight brown hair was pushed back from his brow. His cheeks and chin, even though freshly shaved, were already shadowed with stubble. What was most striking about his face was his thick black eyelashes.
Jacques, you have sad, sad eyes, Maggie decided, her heart turning over. Even when he did smile, it was tinged with sadness, as if he knew even momentary happiness was a deception. Then she shook the sentiment off. For heaven’s sake, everyone in Paris who’s not a Nazi or a collaborator has sad eyes these days.