“All my sins have been forgiven several times over, I’ve spent so much time in church today,” Paul said.
“You can pray for a place to spend the night,” Flick told him, and she hurried away.
She returned to the street where Michel lived. A hundred meters from his house was the bar Chez Regis. Flick went in. The proprietor, Alexandre Regis, sat behind the counter smoking. He gave her a nod of recognition but said nothing.
She went through the door marked Toilettes. She walked along a short passage, then opened what looked like a cupboard door. It led to a steep staircase going up. At the top of the stairs was a heavy door with a peephole. Flick banged on it and stood where her face could be seen through the judas. A moment later the door was opened by M‚m‚ Regis, the mother of the proprietor.
Flick entered a large room whose windows were blacked out. It was crudely decorated with matting on the floor, brown-painted walls, and several naked bulbs hanging from the ceiling. At one end of the room was a roulette wheel. Around a large circular table a group of men were playing cards. There was a bar in one corner. This was an illegal gambling club.
Michel liked to play poker for high stakes, and he enjoyed louche company, so he occasionally came here for an evening. Flick never played, but she sometimes sat and watched the game for an hour. Michel said she brought him luck. It was a good place to hide from the Gestapo, and Flick had been hoping she might find him here, but as she looked from face to face around the room she was disappointed.
“Thank you, M‚m‚,” she said to Alexandre’s mother.
“It’s good to see you. How are you?”
“Fine, have you seen my husband?”
“Ah, the charming Michel. Not tonight, I regret.” The people here did not know Michel was in the Resistance.
Flick went to the bar and sat on a stool, smiling at the barmaid, a middle-aged woman with bright red lipstick. She was Yvette Regis, the wife of Alexandre. “Have you any scotch?”
“Of course,” said Yvette. “For those who can afford it.” She produced a bottle of Dewar’s White Label and poured a measure.
Flick said, “I’m looking for Michel.”
“I haven’t seen him for a week or so,” Yvette said.
“Damn.” Flick sipped her drink. “I’ll wait awhile, in case he shows up.”
CHAPTER 44
DIETER WAS DESPERATE. Flick had proved too clever. She had evaded his trap. She was somewhere in the city of Reims, but he had no way of finding her.
He could no longer have members of the Reims Resistance followed, in the hope that she would contact one of them, for they were all now in custody. Dieter had Michel’s house and Gilberte’s flat under surveillance, but he felt sure that Flick was too wily to let herself be seen by the average Gestapo flatfoot. There were posters of her all over town, but she must have changed her appearance by now, dyed her hair or something, for no one had reported seeing her. She had outwitted him at every stop.
He needed a stroke of genius.
And he had come up with one-he thought.
He sat on the seat of a bicycle at the roadside. He was in the center of town, just outside the theater. He wore a beret, goggles, and a rough cotton sweater, and his trousers were tucked into his socks. He was unrecognizable. No one would suspect him. The Gestapo never went by bicycle.
He stared west along the street, narrowing his eyes to look into the setting sun. He was waiting for a black Citroen. He checked his watch: any minute now.
On the other side of the road, Hans was at the wheel of a wheezy old Peugeot, which had almost come to the end of its useful life. The engine was running: Dieter did not want to take the risk that it might not start when it was needed. Hans was also disguised, in sunglasses and a cap, and wore a shabby suit and down-at-the-heel shoes, like a French citizen. He had never done anything like this before, but he had accepted his orders with unflappable stoicism.