The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(85)

Sarah took a long pull, then put her feet up on the toolbox. “Your sister has good taste in Cognac.” She offered the flask to Maggie, who shook her head.

“Maybe later.”

“I wish I had a cigarette,” the dancer said, taking another swig.

“You might want to pace yourself.”

“Sod that.” Sarah tipped back the flask, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Sarah—you remember how we were talking about Reiner and the letters? Reiner’s not the only one who has access to the letters.”

“Bollocks.” Sarah unbuckled her safety belt and made her way to the satchel Jacques had left. “Let’s see what we have here.”

“Sarah—”

She opened the bag; it was full of papers and letters. The dancer rifled through the envelopes and pulled one out. “This is my last letter home—I wrote it the day before Hugh and I were captured. Left it at the assigned drop-off.” She examined it in the sickly light of the cabin, then slid next to Maggie. “It’s been opened.”

Maggie didn’t see any rips or tears. “How do you know?”

“Look here—it’s wrinkled, like it’s been held over steam. And there’s too much glue on the envelope flap. Someone opened it, then resealed it.”

Maggie suddenly remembered Jacques’s warning: Trust no one.

“My God.” Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears it almost blotted out the engine’s roar.

Jacques appeared from the cockpit. “We’re good,” he told them. “The weather’s holding and no Messerschmitts in sight.”

“So who’s flying the plane?” Maggie asked, keeping her voice level.

“She’s on gyroscopic autopilot—we should reach Tangmere in no time.” He looked to Sarah. “My condolences about Hugh.”

She said through clenched teeth, “Thank you.” The rage radiating from her was palpable.

“His mother will be proud,” Jacques said gently.

Maggie stiffened. “His mother?”

As Hugh’s friend, Maggie knew the Englishman’s mother was alive and his father was dead. With their intimacy, Sarah must, too. But why would Jacques?

“I—I assumed,” he stammered.

“But why would you ‘assume’ his mother—and not his father? Why not say ‘his parents’?” Maggie pressed. “Unless you’ve read Hugh’s letters home…”

“I spoke with him when you landed,” Jacques replied easily, recovering. “He must have mentioned her.”

“No,” Sarah responded. “He didn’t. I never left Hugh’s side when we landed. He never discussed his family with you. And that was the only time you had together.”

Maggie looked into Jacques’s eyes; they were blue and brown. They were also sad and shrewd.

“You…” She felt the sting of betrayal. “It’s you! Oh my God—it was you all this time…”

His expression shuttered, and he pivoted swiftly to step back to the cockpit.

“Wait!” She jumped up and followed. “What are you doing?”

“Turning this plane around. Taking us all back to France.”

“And giving us up to the Gestapo?” Maggie challenged.

“You’ve burned me. I’m already under suspicion for working with the Germans—that’s why they’ve ordered me back. If I return to England, and they know I’ve been going through the letters, I’ll be shot as a traitor.”

“And if we go back to France, we’ll be taken by the Gestapo again. To be tortured by your friend von Waltz.”

“I’ll do what I can for you. Put in a good word.”

“How dare you!” Sarah was the picture of cold fury.

“I’m not your enemy—”

“You are. You’re worse than the Nazis.”

He shrugged. “I’ll save you the Nazi-versus-Commie lecture for when we return to Paris.”

“I hate you,” Maggie said, a vein throbbing beneath one eye. She put her face up to his. “And I hate that damn French shrug! You are a traitor. People have died because of you! So we will get you back to London—and they’ll deal with you there. Va te faire enculer, fils de pute!”

Jacques gave her a twisted smile. “I see we’ve gone from Qui vivra verra to profanity. Be very careful,” he warned. “You can’t do anything to me. Who’ll get us home?” Maggie and Jacques were so engrossed in their argument, they didn’t notice Sarah rise and move to the toolbox.

“Gus,” Maggie said resolutely. “Gus will get us home.”

“Gus can’t even keep his eyes open. And if I’m not mistaken, he’s wet himself. He’ll get you home all right—in a ball of fire.”

“You never had a friend at a morgue,” Maggie said, thinking it through. “You knew von Waltz killed Calvert. It was the Germans who were using her radio. That’s why her messages never had their proper security checks…”

“Erica Calvert committed suicide,” he said. “I had nothing to do with having her killed. She died rather than collaborate with the Gestapo.”

“So, the letters home—did you have them transcribed for your Nazi friends? Or photographed?”