The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(83)

Maggie stopped and looked up. “For goodness’ sake, keep quiet!” she whispered. “There’s a checkpoint ahead!” A uniformed German soldier was approaching. “Keep working,” she muttered.

“I’ll throw the jack at him if he gets any closer—”

“Keep your voice down, Sister.” Maggie realized after the words were spoken that Elise might think she was trying to force their relationship rather than stay in character as a novice nun. Well, there was nothing to do about it now.

The officer stopped a few feet away from the women. “My goodness! Nuns! What on earth are you doing here this time of night?”

“Flat tire,” Maggie explained easily. “We’re from the convent of the Filles de la Charité, which houses an infirmary for the mentally ill.”

The soldier crossed himself. “I can help you if you’d like.”

“Thank you, sir.” Maggie knew refusal of his offer would only mean more suspicion.

“It’s my pleasure, Sisters,” the German assured them as he rolled the damaged tire off the road and bent to attach the new one. “You know, most of you French women snub us. Won’t let us help with anything.”

“Well, we’re certainly grateful,” Maggie gushed, desperate to mask the fear in her voice. If he finds Sarah and Gus…

“It’s shortsighted of the French not to be kinder to us—not speak to us, not invite us to visit their families. I should very much like to get to know Paris from the inside. Yet these cold Frenchmen hold us at arm’s length—and women, well, they’re even worse!” he complained, tightening the lug nuts on the wheel. “It’s so sad to see Paris under these circumstances. The so-called City of Light is famous for its good living and beautiful women. Wine, women, and song, right? Not for me. At least you have been polite to me, Sisters.” He spun down the jack, and the car settled on its tires.

“Of course,” Elise responded with forced cheer.

“Thank you,” he said, handing the tools back to her. “Oh!” he said, peering in. “Are those…coffins?”

“They are, sir,” Maggie said, heart in her throat. Would he want to search them?

“Alas,” Elise explained, “two of our charges have died, and we’re transporting them back to their home parish.”

He shuddered. “God bless you both.” He came around to the front of the hearse. “I’m a bit lonely here,” he admitted, before saluting smartly.

“Sometimes loneliness can be a good thing,” Maggie said as they climbed back into the hearse.

—

Jacques was waiting for them. In the moonlight and the glow from the hearse’s slatted headlights, Maggie saw his silhouette as he stood in front of a corrugated-metal shed at the end of a makeshift airfield. An RAF Lockheed Hudson was parked in the rough grass.

The air was damp and cool. Maggie’s shoes sank into the spongy earth as she stepped out of the vehicle. Somewhere, an owl called mournfully.

Jacques ran to embrace Maggie. “You made it!”

“It was close,” she admitted. “A little side trip to Avenue Foch.”

He kissed her forehead. “But you made it.” Then he turned to scowl at the hearse. “What’s in there?”

Maggie walked back and swung open the doors. “More passengers.”

The coffins were heavy. Gus was wild-eyed and breathing heavily when he was finally released.

“It’s all right,” Elise comforted him as he flailed and tried to stand.

“You did it!” Maggie said as she handed Sarah the precious bag.

“I thought we were done for at the checkpoint,” Sarah said softly.

Elise nodded. “So did I.”

“Jacques,” said Maggie, “this is my half sister—”

“Sister,” Elise corrected.

“Sister,” Maggie agreed, smiling broadly.

“Ah.” He was wearing a fleece-lined leather jacket and scarf. A messenger tote was slung over his shoulder; Maggie noted it was the same one Reiner had carried when he’d arrived at the Charcots’ house, six days ago. “One more passenger than expected—shouldn’t affect the fuel we’ll need.”

“You’re the pilot?” Maggie asked, surprised. She remembered he’d told her that he could fly. Still, she wasn’t expecting to see him personally taking the plane to England.

“I am.” He winked. “I’m needed back in London, so—two birds, one stone, et cetera.”

As Gus took a step forward to offer his hand, he buckled and collapsed; Jacques caught the Englishman in his arms as he fell.

“What’s the matter with him?” Jacques asked Maggie.

“Injury and infection.”

Elise was bent over his leg. “So much blood….His wound must have reopened during the drive—all those bumps in the road.” In the moonlight, the bandages looked black and wet.

“Is he strong enough to travel?” Jacques asked.

“He must get back to London. He has blood poisoning. He needs to be in a hospital.” Elise looked to Maggie, then rose. “I want to thank you,” she said slowly, “for coming to France for me.”

And all at once, Maggie knew what was coming. The tone in Elise’s voice was a regretful prelude to goodbye.