Jackdaws

"He's become scared since he got married," Michel replied. "But he'll come for me."

Flick nodded. Lots of people would make exceptions for Michel. "Gilberte, go and fetch Dr. Bouler."

"I'd rather stay with Michel."

Flick groaned inwardly. Someone like Gilberte was no good for anything but carrying messages, yet she could make difficulties about that. "Please do as I ask," Flick said firmly. "I need time alone with Michel before I return to London."

"What about the curfew?"

"If you're stopped, say you're fetching a doctor. It's an accepted excuse. They may accompany you to Claude's house to make sure you're telling the truth. But they won't come here."

Gilberte looked troubled, but she pulled on a cardigan and went out.

Flick sat on the arm of Michel's chair and kissed him. "That was a catastrophe," she said.

"I know." He grunted with disgust. "So much for MI6. There must have been double the number of men they told us."

"I'll never trust those clowns again."

"We lost Albert. I'll have to tell his wife."

"I'm going back tonight. I'll get London to send you another radio operator."

"Thanks."

"You'll have to find out who else is dead, and who's alive."

"If I can." He sighed.

She held his hand. "How are you feeling?"

"Foolish. It's an undignified place for a bullet wound."

"But physically?"

"A little giddy."

"You need something to drink. I wonder what she has."

"Scotch would be nice." Flick's friends in London had taught Michel to like whisky, before the war.

"That's a little strong." The kitchen was in a corner of the living room. Flick opened a cupboard. To her surprise, she saw a bottle of Dewar's White Label. Agents from Britain often brought whisky with them, for their own use or for their comrades-in-arms, but it seemed an unlikely drink for a French girl. There was also an opened bottle of red wine, much more suitable for a wounded man. She poured half a glass and topped it up with water from the tap. Michel drank greedily: loss of blood had made him thirsty. He emptied the glass, then leaned back and closed his eyes.

Flick would have liked some of the scotch, but it seemed unkind to deny it to Michel, then drink it herself. Besides, she still needed her wits about her. She would have a drink when she was back on British soil.

She looked around the room. There were a couple of sentimental pictures on the wall, a stack of old fashion magazines, no books. She poked her nose into the bedroom. Michel said sharply, "Where are you going?"

"Just looking around."

"Don't you think it's a little rude, when she's not here?"

Flick shrugged. "Not really. Anyway, I need the bathroom."

"It's outside. Down the stairs and along the corridor to the end. If I remember rightly."

She followed his instructions. While she was in the bathroom she realized that something was bothering her, something about Gilberte's apartment. She thought hard. She never ignored her instincts: they had saved her life more than once. When she returned, she said to Michel, "Something's wrong here. What is it?"

He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I don't know."

"You seem edgy."

"Perhaps it's because I've just been wounded in a gunfight."

"No, it's not that. It's the apartment." It had something to do with Gilberte's unease, something to do with Michel's knowing where the bathroom was, something to do with the whisky. She went into the bedroom, exploring. This time Michel did not reprove her. She looked around. On the bedside table stood a photograph of a man with Gilberte's big eyes and black eyebrows, perhaps her father. There was a doll on the counterpane. In the corner was a washbasin with a mirrored cabinet over. Flick opened the cabinet door. Inside was a man's razor, bowl, and shaving brush. Gilberte was not so innocent: some man stayed overnight often enough to leave his shaving tackle here.

Flick looked more closely. The razor and brush were a set, with polished bone handles. She recognized them. She had given the set to Michel for his thirty-second birthday.

So that was it.

She was so shocked that for a moment she could not move.

She had suspected him of being interested in someone else, but she had not imagined it had gone this far. Yet here was the proof, in front of her eyes.

Shock turned to hurt. How could he cuddle up to another woman when Flick was lying in bed alone in London? She turned and looked at the bed. They had done it right here, in this room. It was unbearable.

Then she became angry. She had been loyal and faithful, she had borne the loneliness-but he had not. He had cheated. She was so furious she felt she would explode.

She strode into the other room and stood in front of him. "You bastard," she said in English. "You lousy rotten bastard."

Michel replied in the same language. "Don't angry yourself at me."

He knew that she found his fractured English endearing, but it was not going to work this time. She switched to French. "How could you betray me for a nineteen-year-old nitwit?"

"It doesn't mean anything, she's just a pretty girl."