The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(74)
“Paige Claire Kelly,” Maggie interrupted, deciding to go for broke.
Von Waltz held up a hand in annoyance. “Born in Belfast, Ireland, on the fifth of June, 1915.” He replaced the receiver. “And now we’ll see if you are who you say you are, Mademoiselle Kelly.” He leaned back in his chair. “And you’d better hope to God they confirm your story.”
—
The heavy blond guard led Maggie back up the steep stairs. On the landing of the fifth floor a cleaning woman, spewing foul language, was bent over a dented metal carpet sweeper.
“Madame Bonhomme!” the guard admonished.
The petite woman merely shrugged bony shoulders. Maggie could see she’d once been handsome, but was now pinched from too much work and not enough food. “Yes, Sergeant Schneider,” she said to the pale man. “The damn thing’s broken—again.” She gestured to the carpet sweeper.
“I can fix it,” Maggie offered impulsively.
“You?” scoffed the guard.
“I can. When I was a little girl I liked to see how things worked, even carpet sweepers. I’ll need some tools, though.”
The guard returned with a metal box, watched suspiciously as she handled the tools. She fixed the sweeper and handed it back to Madame Bonhomme, who thanked her profusely. Even the guard looked at her with admiration. Maggie put the screwdriver back in the toolbox reluctantly, feeling her heart sink as Madame Bonhomme latched the box and took it away.
Her only hope had been to mend the carpet sweeper ineptly. But how soon would it break down again?
—
Martens had been copied on the same decrypts as Gaskell. As he finished reading the file in his underground office, he reached for the telephone receiver, to call the colonel.
But then, remembering the F-Section head’s lack of distress—as well as MI-6’s concerns with the professionalism of SOE—he pulled his hand back. What if SOE itself was compromised? What if the head of the snake were Gaskell himself? It was too horrible to contemplate, yet he had to. He had to consider every possibility. And he didn’t want to tip his hand.
He was, after all, Winston Churchill’s Master of Deception. Something was going on, something was very wrong, and something needed to be done—and fast. It was time to go on a spy mission of his own. “Miss Pinkerton,” he called to his secretary, an ancient gargoyle of a woman. “I’d like the letters and other paperwork sent back from France with the SOE agents. The real documents, not just copies.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I’ll be working out of the office today. Please call Colonel Mason, at Station 53a. Let him know I’ll be dropping by in a few hours for a little visit.”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. “Very good, sir.”
“No—wait. On second thought, don’t telephone,” he said, putting on his cap. “Let’s make this visit a surprise.”
—
The Racing Club de France was located in the heart of Bois de Boulogne, on the Route of the Lakes, not far from Longchamp racecourse. All sports could be played—fencing, badminton, rugby—but SS Obergruppenführer Ulrich Friedrich Wilhelm Joachim von Ribbentrop, just arrived by train from Berlin, was meeting von Waltz to play tennis.
The two officers, dressed in their whites, met in the lobby of the clubhouse. When the inevitable Heil Hitlers had been exchanged, Ribbentrop asked, “Would you like to play indoors or out?” The Racing Club had both indoor terre battue courts with skylights and outdoor courts surrounded by perfectly pruned shrubs and tall trees.
“The weather could go either way.” Von Waltz glanced out the windows at the gathering clouds. “You choose, Obergruppenführer,” he said deferentially.
Ribbentrop was trim and muscular, with retreating blond hair, a cleft chin, and thin lips. “Outdoors then,” he decided. “We are Aryans, and must get out from behind our desks and into the fresh air as often as possible, regardless of weather.”
They passed a red clay court where the great champion Bernard Destremau was volleying. Since tennis balls were scarce due to the German ban on rubber for anything but war production, Ribbentrop had brought a new Slazenger. When he pulled it out of his pocket, von Waltz grinned. “Excellent, Obergruppenführer.”
They took their positions on opposite sides of the net; Ribbentrop served, and the men volleyed. Both were decent players, scrambling with speed and agility over the traditional en tous cas—the packed brick-dust surface—and well matched. But when the first drops of rain spattered, von Waltz lowered his game and let Ribbentrop win. “Back to the clubhouse for a drink?” he suggested as they shook hands over the net.
“Of course!”
In the clubhouse, they waited for their Champagne to be poured. Von Waltz nodded to René Lacoste as he passed. “If you could devote all your time to practice, you’d be ready for Roland Garros in no time at all!”
Ribbentrop nodded. “Perhaps after the war.”
The two Germans clinked their heavy crystal flutes. After they’d drunk, von Waltz asked, “And how long will you be in Paris, Obergruppenführer?”
“Alas, only a few days, then down to Vichy, to meet with Pétain and Laval about the upcoming roundup. And arranging for French troops in North Africa to be placed formally under German command.”