Flashman And The Tiger

"You conceive my amazement, not only to discover that my little gamine had become a lovely young woman, but that she should seek an occupation so unsuitable, mais inconcevable, for one so chaste et modeste. `Why, dear child?' I asked. `I cannot be a soldier like my father and brothers. I shall fight for France in my own way.' That was her reply. As gently as might be, I suggested that there were other ways to serve, that the world of the département secret was a hard and dangerous one, and … highly unpleasant in ways which she, a convent-reared girl of eighteen, could not conceive. Do you know what she said, colonel? `Uncle Delzons, I have studied the world from the tableaux vivants of the Folies Gaités, and moved among its clientele, who are also hard, dangerous, and unpleasant.' Before I could even express my scan-dal, for I had known nothing of this, she added—oh, so quiet and demure with that laughter in her innocent eyes—`Also I am fluent in languages, and fence and shoot even better these days.' "

Delzons took the pipe from his mouth, looked at it, and stuck it back. "What could I say? I was shocked, yes—but I saw, too, that beneath the fresh, lovely surface there was a metal that I had never suspected. It is rare, such metal, and essential to the département secret. And if I had refused her, I knew there were other sections of the département which would not." He laughed ruefully. "The truth was, she was a gift to any chef d’intelligence. And so she proved, in small things at first, as translator, courier, embassy bricoleur—what you call jack-of-all-trades—and later as secret agent in the field … and you know what that means. Yes … she was the best."

I said he must have been sorry to lose her, and he grimaced. "She told you? Yes, sorry … but I rejoiced also. For six years I had lost sleep, whenever she went into danger. Oh, seldom enough—our work, as you are aware, brings a moment’s peril in a year of routine—but when that peril comes … No, I am glad she has gone. When I think of the risks she ran—of her facing a man like Starnberg to the death, my heart ceases to beat. If we had lost her … my friend, I should have died. It is true, my heart would have ceased forever then."

The usual exaggerated Froggy vapouring, but Delzons wasn’t the usual Frog, and I guessed he believed it. I took the opportunity to canvass his opinion.

"Well, you needn’t ha' fretted. He was a capital hand with a sabre, but not in her parish." I paused deliberately. "Can’t think I’ve ever seen a neater … execution."

His head came round sharply. "Ah! You confirm M. ’Utton’s opinion—which I happen to share. The evidence of Starnberg’s wounds was conclusive. As you say … an execution." His eyes were steady on mine. "But in my report, self-defence. As it must always be when an agent kills … in the line of duty."

That reminded me of something Hutton had said. "He told me Starnberg wasn’t the first she’d sent down. Were the others self-defence, too?"

He frowned and muttered a nasty word. "I have a great respect for our colleague ’Utton, but he talks too much." He sucked at his dead pipe, and continued rapid-fire. "Yes. She has killed before. Twice. In Egypt, in Turkey. One was a minor diplomat who had found out she was a French agent. The other an informer whose silence was essential. She was not under my control on either occasion. My responsibility is for Europe. She was on detachment to another section. I did not seek details." Abruptly he got to his feet, his mouth set like a trap. "Nor have she and I ever mentioned the incidents. Shall we walk on, colonel?"

And this was the girl who had giggled with me over Punch. I fell into step beside him as we walked down to the bridges, his stick fairly cracking at each stride, but there was a grim grin under his heavy moustache.

"Oh, M. ’Utton!" cries he. "So talkative, so shrewd! No doubt he offered you his theory that she slew Starnberg in cold blood because of a tendre for you? Bon sang de merde!" He gave a barking laugh. "Enraged because he had wounded, perhaps slain, her lover! Perhaps you believe that yourself, because you were lovers in Berlin—oh, I know all about her `holiday task' for Blowitz! What, you do not believe ’Utton’s theory? I congratulate you!" He calmed after a few steps. "Your affaire in Berlin was an amour passant, then. Not of the heart."

Gad, they’re a tactful, tasteful lot, the French. "Not on my side," I told him.

"Nor on hers, whatever the so-shrewd ’Utton may think. Shall I tell you why she killed Starnberg as she did?"