The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(78)

“Done!” She smiled broadly and closed the box. “Here you go!” she said, giving the sweeper back to the wiry woman. “Good as new.” Hiding her elation and fear, she latched the toolbox and handed that back as well.

When both had gone, she tapped on the pipe to Sarah: Have plan.

Again, there was no response. Maggie’s stomach churned with fear and worry. And grief. She didn’t know what had happened to Sarah, but given her friend’s sobs, it must have been something terrible. What if Sarah had been tortured? And what of Hugh? Had something happened to him? She lay on the bed and, through the barred window, looked up at the stars. She felt as if her heart had cracked.

As she did in times of strife, she took refuge in math, almost as a form of prayer or meditation. In her mind, she turned numbers over, upside down, and inside out, observing. Why is it that when you pick a number, any number, then double it, add 6, halve it, and take away the number you started with, your answer is always 3?

If God is both all-powerful and all-good, why does he allow such evil?

Why are there never any real answers?

—

Gibbon spotted von Waltz, his elegant legs crossed, on a verdigris metal slat bench in the Bois de Boulogne, not far from Porte Dauphine, and sat down next to him. The park was nearly empty in the slanting sun, only a few mothers pushing prams and older men in caps playing a game of petanque in the distance.

Von Waltz looked to the sky. “No hot-air balloons today.”

“And no Proustian strolls.” But Gibbon was not in the mood for small talk. “I assume you asked to see me because you overheard the message from London. They want me back. It could be a trap.”

Von Waltz nodded. “I want you to know if you don’t feel it’s safe to go, we will keep you here, take care of you. You’ve served the Reich well. We’ll honor that.”

Gibbon shook his head. “I must go. If I don’t, they will know I’ve betrayed them. And I’ll be no further use to you. But if I go…First of all, they might, as they say, merely want help with the network’s reorganization. Even if they don’t, I can always talk my way out of it. No,” he disagreed, meeting the German’s eyes. “I’ll take the risk.”

“You’re a brave man.” Von Waltz inclined his head. “Come back to us safely.”

Gibbon squinted at the sky. “Maybe I can find out something useful while I’m there,” he offered as he rose to leave.

“We have a redhead in custody now, a woman—young, very pretty. Insists she’s Irish. She’s one of yours, I assume.”

Gibbon stilled, then shook his head. “No, not that I’m aware.”

“Well, of course you’d know! You know all of them coming in and out of France!”

“Well, I don’t know this one—if she’s as pretty as you say, I’d remember, I’m sure!” He gave a brusque laugh. “I’m afraid you’re on your own.”

He left, not noticing that Reiner, cap pulled low over his eyes, emptying trash cans, had observed the entire meeting.

—

In the dark, relieved only by the fast-rising waxing moon, Maggie set the chair on the bed, which was now in the middle of the floor, then climbed on top of it, using the skylight’s bars to steady herself as she worked. She had the bedsheet draped around her shoulders. The screws that attached the bars to the wooden frame were tight and rusted, and she was working at an awkward angle; with a sinking heart, she realized it was going to take much longer than she had expected.

Maggie heard the scrape of the key in the lock and the bolt sliding back. She slipped the screwdriver up her sleeve as the door opened. “Get down, Fr?ulein! What the devil are you doing?” Sergeant Schneider exclaimed.

Maggie gestured with the sheet. “What do you think I’m doing?” she sobbed.

“You’re trying to kill yourself?” The guard ripped the sheet from her hand. “Nein! You will not die—not on my watch!” He sounded surprisingly disturbed. “The other one—the one who jumped—she should not have died. I was on duty that night.”

So he’d known Erica Calvert. Maggie placed the chair on the floor, then collapsed on the bed in elaborate sobs. “Fine, fine,” she managed. “I will live. I will live for you, Sergeant Schneider…” she whispered through crocodile tears. “…for you.”

As he left, the German called back, not unkindly, “I will pray for you, Fr?ulein.”

When she was sure he was gone, Maggie took a breath, smoothed her hair, put the chair once more up on the bed, and went back to work.

—

As the sun rose, Maggie left the screwdriver in the cabinet in the lavatory for Sarah, to pass it between them until they had managed to loosen the bars on their windows.

Although she didn’t hear anything through the pipes from Sarah, she was relieved to see the screwdriver had disappeared from the cabinet the next time she used the lavatory.

The screwdriver reappeared the following morning.

Finally, Maggie was able to loosen the last bar. It was June 25. They had only three days before the scheduled pickup. She passed back the screwdriver. Sarah signaled that her bars were off as well. Tonight is the night, Maggie tapped back. Take sheet. Wait for signal. Tell Hugh.

After lights out, Maggie waited, heart pounding, watching the moon as it rose through the clouds, once again listening to the music of the building. When she was convinced Sergeant Schneider and Madame Bonhomme were deep in conversation, she tapped on the pipe. Now.