The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(75)

Von Waltz nodded his head.

“I was talking with the Führer before I left, at Wolfsschanze,” Ribbentrop said, never inclined to let anyone forget his close connection to Hitler. “About the expected Allied invasion. The discovery of the precise date and location of the Allied landings has become the overriding objective of the German Secret Services working in the West. I brought up your name, of course.”

“Ah,” said von Waltz. “Thank you, Obergruppenführer.”

“The Führer is convinced the invasion will be on the coast of Normandy. The rest of them—Himmler, Eichmann, and von Rundstedt—believe it will be Pas de Calais. We’ve received some aerial photographs of Dover, across the channel from Calais. They’ve begun to widen the roads there, bringing in building materials. It certainly looks as if they’re creating a massive base from which to launch a future attack.”

Von Waltz raised an eyebrow.

“Our reconnaissance aircraft will, of course, continue to sweep up and down the British coast, to monitor what preparations are being made and where.” Ribbentrop looked to von Waltz. “What do you think?”

“I think, Obergruppenführer, that if we continue to play the radio games I’ve begun, we shall get a clear answer about Calais versus Normandy—with plenty of time to assure victory.”

“How are these ‘radio games’ progressing?”

Von Waltz heard the tinge of doubt in the other man’s question. “We have two agents’ radios under our control. We will soon commandeer others. We’re in contact with SOE in London—they suspect nothing.”

“And your man in Paris, this Gibbon—he can be trusted?”

“As much as anyone. But, yes, I’ve known him for years. He hates the Communists enough he’s willing to help us.” Von Waltz couldn’t resist adding one more tidbit. “There is also a package that one of the agents was supposed to deliver. One London is most keen on retrieving.”

“Where is this package?”

“We’re following up a few leads,” von Waltz evaded.

Ribbentrop drained his glass. The waiter rushed to pour him another. “Would you like to have dinner with me tonight? I have a reservation at Prunier. That’s near your Avenue Foch, isn’t it?”

“It is, and one of my favorite restaurants,” confided von Waltz. “They have a wonderful Breton lobster there, flambéed in Cognac—absolutely delicious.”

“And you’re still enjoying my gift? What did you name him—Ludwig?” Ribbentrop asked. “He must liven up the office considerably.”

“Honestly, Obergruppenführer,” von Waltz answered with a stiff smile, “I can’t tell you how much I adore that bird.”

—

In the attic of 84 Avenue Foch, Maggie pondered her options. She didn’t have the screwdriver yet, but if she did—when she did, she corrected herself—she’d need the bed underneath the skylight—it was too high for her to reach without assistance. If she moved the bed directly to the center of the room, the guard would be suspicious. And so she began by moving it to the other wall.

A guard heard the noise and rapped at the door. “What’s going on?” he demanded through the grille.

“I’m moving the bed,” she replied, in an isn’t-it-obvious? tone.

“Why?”

She shrugged, in the way she’d seen French women do: part charm, part fatalism. “Because I want to change the view.”

“Hmph,” the guard replied. And although he wasn’t pleased with the explanation, he slammed the grille shut and didn’t pursue the matter further.

—

While von Waltz and Ribbentrop had been playing tennis, Hugh was being tortured. The Gestapo’s brutal methods were authorized by German law, the fundamental principle of which had been laid down by Wilhelm Frick, who served as Reich Minister of the Interior in the Hitler Cabinet: “The law, as the state does, serves only the Volk.” And, in case there was any doubt, Heinrich Himmler had just officially authorized the “third degree,” a euphemism for torture, to obtain information.

The stocky man had moved on from cutting to burning to what was called la baignoire—the bath—forcing water into Hugh’s mouth and lungs until he was nearly drowned, then reviving him at the last moment.

Von Waltz strode into the dim basement chamber holding a decrypt he’d received from England, acknowledging Hugh’s message but asking for his checks in the next transmission. “You fool!” the German raged. “How dare you lie to me? You left off your damn checks!”

Hugh’s bloody and bruised head, still dripping from the baignoire, rolled back.

“I’m talking to you!” Von Waltz gave Hugh a kick in one shin with an alligator loafer. “But they don’t even care, your stupid SOE handlers! They merely told you to ‘remember your security checks’ next time!”

Hugh groaned and opened his eyes. “That’s what they said? I should remember my checks?” He looked as though he’d been hurt more by SOE’s overlooking his missing security check than the torture.

“You were at Maxim’s the night we arrested a man with a pink carnation in his lapel,” von Waltz insisted. “What did he give you?”