The Secret Agent

by Elisabeth Hobbes

  The German’s eyes dropped to her legs. He was young. A year or two older than Sylvie at most.

  ‘I’ll be fine, but thank you.’

  She walked past him, holding her breath until she reached the street. A shadowy figure in the recess of the brothel doorway caught her attention as she stepped out. She craned her head and the shadow receded deeper into the doorway. Despite being told to leave, Felix had lingered to see if she was safe. She nodded and he slipped away silently. Impulsively, Sylvie looked back at her unlikely German knight in armour. He was adjusting the torch and pistol at his belt and looked at her with narrowed eyes.

  ‘Perhaps I will see you at the club another night.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Go safely now. Good night, fräulein.’

  Sylvie walked to the end of the road in what she hoped was a casual manner. She pulled her coat around herself and tightened the belt, although the night was warm. When she had crossed the street and rounded another corner, she began to stride out, determined to lose the German if he happened to be following her.

  Chapter Nine

  Sylvie entered her lodgings quietly and closed the door with barely a click. From Madame Giraud’s room came the sound of a gramophone playing a creaky old waltz. She walked up the stairs on tiptoes. Even though her landlady was half-deaf, Sylvie didn’t want to risk being noticed and invited in for a chat and reminisce.

  Once in her room, Sylvie hung her coat on the back of the door, kicked off her shoes and sat at the table. Only then, when she was as sure as reasonably possible that no one might be watching her, did she reach inside her brassiere and pull out the piece of paper Felix had pushed there when his hand had fumbled against her breast. For a moment she simply held it, reliving the sensation of his fingers brushing against her flesh. She curled her lip and shuddered. He might be an ally, but she had no regrets for punching him hard.

  The paper was folded twice and was torn from a piece of sheet music. Sylvie opened it with growing anticipation. There were very few words on the paper, but it felt like the most significant message she had ever received.

  The name of a café and a time, and finally one word.

  Marcel.

  Felix was not Marcel. He couldn’t possibly be, but in Marcel’s absence he might be the only link she had. Sylvie memorised the name and time of the meeting before carefully rolling the paper into a cylinder lengthways. Her room contained a small gas ring with a single burner. She lit the gas, held the cylinder over the flame and watched the paper burn to ash. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Sylvie, are you there? Can I talk to you, please? Let me in.’

  Céline’s voice. She sounded as if she was holding back tears.

  ‘One moment,’ Sylvie called.

  She looked at the small pile of ash in her hand. She had intended to tip the small pile out of the windows so no one would be any the wiser, but couldn’t do that with Céline waiting. Sylvie tipped the ash into a small pan, added water and some of the coffee grounds from her tin. It was really too late to be drinking coffee, but until there was absolutely no trace of the message she would not be at ease. In any case, after the excitement of the night, she would not sleep easily. She left the pot to boil on the ring and opened the door.

  Céline stood there in her lace and satin nightgown with a slightly more sensible dressing gown over the top.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been listening out for you. I thought you left about the same time I did.’

  Céline sounded almost accusatory as she stared at Sylvie with a plaintive look in her eyes. A flicker of irritation raced through Sylvie as she felt like a fourteen-year-old girl under her stepmother’s gaze. She had every right to be wherever she wanted to be and was about to answer to that effect when she caught herself. It wasn’t Céline’s fault.

  ‘I was fixing my shoe. The buckle came loose. Then I started walking in the wrong direction and didn’t even notice until I’d gone almost a mile. It took me ages to find my way home.’ Catching herself babbling, she paused. Never over explain, she reminded herself, it smacks of having something to hide. She smiled at Céline. ‘I’m making coffee. Would you like a cup while you tell me what’s wrong?’

  Céline nodded and sniffled again. She sidled in, shoulders drooping and a handful of handkerchiefs clutched to her face.

  ‘I fought with Alphonse again. He told me I should have worn my red hat like he wanted me to. I told him I wanted to wear my blue one, but he said it makes me look old.’

  Sylvie listened absent-mindedly, nodding and making sympathetic noises as she poured the coffee. How silly to have quarrelled over a hat and got into such a state. She had no idea who Alphonse was, but he was right; blue really didn’t suit Céline.

  The two women sat at the small table and sipped the sludgy brew. Céline continued to talk, sharing more of her romantic troubles than Sylvie could ever hope to remember. She didn’t appear to notice anything untoward in what she was drinking. If anything, the burnt ash added a depth of flavour that had been missing in the weak chicory-adulterated coffee Sylvie had been used to. It reminded her a little of the first taste of real coffee she had ever tried sitting on her mother’s lap as a child aged eight in the evening sunlight. She had felt so grown-up.

  Instantly, she was transported back across years to a café in a square of a village she had long forgotten the name of. That had been a good day. They had sung songs and Mother had danced in the arms of the man from the theatre who dressed as a woman when he performed slightly racy songs. She smiled to herself, lost in the memories, until Céline tugged at her sleeve.

  ‘What do you think I should do?’

  Sylvie blinked. ‘Wear the hat you want to wear and tell Alphonse to jump in the Loire,’ she said. ‘That’s what I would do if a man told me what to wear.’

  Celine laughed and sniffed again. ‘You’re so daring. I bet you tell men all the time to do exactly what you say, and if they don’t you up and leave. The way you faced off against Felix earlier was wonderful. I wish I was as confident as you.’

  Sylvie smiled, remembering the impact of her palm against the pianist’s cheek, and gathered the cups. She left them on the table by the coffee can and ushered Céline out.

  ‘I learned the hard way that men aren’t worth the tears they make a woman shed. Go to bed, Céline. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  She ushered the singer out and went to bed herself, but as she had anticipated, she couldn’t sleep. Her first night as a performer had been a success, and she had finally made contact with someone who could lead her to Marcel. What a pity he seemed so objectionable. Now her real job was about to begin.

  The café was one of those indistinct little establishments that littered every French city. Tables for two or four spilled out onto the wide pavement with more inside, while a row of six chairs were set at the bar to the rear. Sylvie had dressed for the rendezvous in her red coat and teal blue hat. Perhaps the conversation with Céline had prompted the choice of outfit because unlike Céline’s pale blonde colouring, Sylvie knew the colour set off her chestnut hair. Halfway to the café, it struck her she had dressed to impress the man she was meeting, but there was no time to go back and change.

  The pianist had taken a table right at the back of the café by the door into the kitchen. As Sylvie entered, he rose from his seat and came to greet her. He rested his hands on her shoulders and leaned forward to kiss her on both cheeks as if they were old friends. Sylvie caught his eye as he moved from one cheek to the other and glared. He removed his hands and pulled her chair out for her to sit down.

  Sylvie had worried she would be conspicuous, but if anything she was underdressed. Each table appeared to be occupied by a more flamboyantly dressed woman accompanied by an older man in a suit. There were no German uniforms to be seen. As new dresses were hard to come by, the women of France had decreed that hats would be as vibrant as possible. With the number of feathers and flowers on display, it was like walking into an aviary or tro
pical garden. There would be a lot of pet parakeets missing their tails! The clientele did not look to be suffering under the occupation.

  ‘What sort of place is this?’ Sylvie asked as she sat and drew her chair to the table.

  The pianist gave her a long stare. ‘The sort of place an ambitious woman might come to try to meet a patron or a new friend.’

  ‘You mean prostitutes,’ Sylvie said. She glanced around again. If these women were whores, then they were not like the sad scraps who Sylvie had seen hanging around street corners.

  ‘I’m sure they would not term themselves that,’ Felix replied, wrinkling his brow in disapproval. ‘These aren’t the sort of women who will give you a quick once over in an alley behind the Hôtel de Ville. They have greater ambition than that. More class.’

  ‘So why did you suggest meeting me here?’ Sylvie asked.

  ‘Because it is somewhere two people of the opposite sex may converse without causing comment.’

  ‘Why not talk to me at Mirabelle though?’ Sylvie asked.

  Felix raised his hand and motioned to Sylvie to stop talking, then began waving his fingers lazily about in the air until a waiter appeared.

  ‘Coffee or something stronger?’ he asked Sylvie.

  Sylvie smiled politely. ‘Whatever you choose.’

  He ordered coffee and two glasses of pastis. Spirits? At half past ten on a Saturday morning? Sylvie inwardly rolled her eyes. This was obviously a rite of passage or test of some sort. She waited until the waiter had gone, then folded her arms on the table, leaned forward and fixed the pianist with a firm stare.

  ‘Why didn’t you talk to me at the club rather than insisting I come all the way across the city?’

  He narrowed his eyes and copied her movements so they were face to face across the table. His eyes remained fixed on hers, and, once again, she felt the stirring of attraction beneath the confrontation.

  ‘Why didn’t you give me the response straightaway?’ he asked. ‘That could have solved a lot of problems. You put us both in danger last night.’

  ‘I didn’t know if it was a trap,’ Sylvie answered after a moment. ‘You don’t match the description of the man who is supposed to contact me. Are you Marcel or merely a messenger sent by him? Is your name Felix or is that a codename?’

  ‘I’m not Marcel,’ the pianist admitted. ‘Felix is my real name. I don’t have an alias.’

  Sylvie narrowed her eyes. Was this a trap? She took a slow breath to calm the rising flicker of anxiety. She resisted the urge to look around at the other patrons, knowing that would cause suspicion in itself, conscious that just because there were no German uniforms did not necessarily mean there were no Germans. Anyone in plain clothes would be infinitely more dangerous.

  ‘What is your connection to Marcel?’

  Felix leaned forward. ‘Marcel and I know each other well. We have worked together on numerous occasions. He has provided useful aid and equipment to people I know.’

  ‘You’re in the Resistance?’ Sylvie asked in an undertone.

  He sat back, folding his arms across his chest. Equipment would mean weapons, explosives, ammunition. She couldn’t imagine the man before her risking his life.

  ‘Where is Marcel?’ Sylvie asked.

  A look of worry crossed Felix’s face. ‘I don’t know. I saw him five nights ago. He mentioned a new woman was coming and to look out for you. He told me what the exchange to verify you was and that you would be working at Mirabelle. I have not seen him since.’

  His eyes narrowed. They were very blue, Sylvie noticed, and in contrast with his dark hair. He was a good-looking man. Something that no doubt he knew himself. He leaned forward and stared at her.

  ‘Why did you wait so long before asking me?’ she asked. ‘Marcel was supposed to meet me three nights ago.’

  ‘Much better for you to cool your heels for a day or two than immediately be arrested as a spy, don’t you agree? I wasn’t sure you were the person I needed. Marcel vanished, then you arrived and made rather a flamboyant entrance at Mirabelle in the company of a party of Germans after all. You match the description Marcel gave me, but you might be a German spy trying to infiltrate the Resistance.’

  Felix drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. Sylvie bit her lip. She had been so concerned as to whether she could trust Felix that she hadn’t really considered that it went both ways.

  ‘I am who I say I am, though, of course, a spy would say that as well.’

  His lips twitched into a smile. ‘Mademoiselle, tell me, are you French or English?’

  ‘I’m French,’ she said, then amended. ‘But I’ve travelled here from England.’

  He sat back, seemingly satisfied.

  She sat back and sighed, closing her eyes briefly. Astonishingly, she felt tears beginning to gather behind her closed lids and an ache spreading up the back of her neck. ‘I cannot prove it, and I have no way of contacting home. I’m stranded here.’

  When she opened her eyes, she found Felix staring intently at her with what she suspected passed for a sympathetic look.

  ‘Don’t despair, Mademoiselle Duchene, you are the only dancer who has started recently, so I took the chance that the agent had to be you and that you are what you say you are.’

  She let out a low sigh of relief. ‘What I am unsure about is why you introduced yourself in such a farcical manner. You could have spoken to me like a normal person rather than stalking me through the streets.’

  His expression darkened. Obviously, he did not like being accused of foolishness. ‘I wanted to see how you would react. You must understand, mademoiselle, that England sends us agents and we have no option but to trust that you are on our side and capable of doing what is required. Seeing how agents react to unexpected circumstances gives me an indication of their mettle. I cannot afford to risk that by putting my trust in unsuitable people when I am fighting for my country.’

  He sounded so arrogant. At his suggestion that she might be inadequate, Sylvie bristled.

  ‘France is my country too,’ she snapped, ‘and you do not get to judge if I am worthy enough to fight for her.’

  ‘You really are French?’ She felt his eyes roving up and down her face and nodded.

  He rested his elbows on the table, linking his hands with his first fingers extending towards Sylvie. The waiter arrived with black coffee in two small cups. He placed down two shot glasses and poured pastis into them before leaving.

  ‘Which first,’ Felix asked, ‘coffee or a toast?’

  Sylvie sat back and folded her arms. ‘Why do you assume I want to toast with you?’ she asked.

  Felix looked surprised. ‘We are allies and colleagues. Why would you not?’

  He reached for the nearest glass of pastis. Sylvie pointedly picked up her coffee and sipped it. It was hot and wet, but that was about all that could be said in its favour. She longed for the days when cream, or even milk, had been readily available. ‘We are allies, that is true, but that doesn’t mean I have to like you. I am choosy about the men I drink with.’

  ‘And why do I not measure up to your standards?’ Felix asked.

  ‘Groping me hardly recommends you to me.’

  ‘That was not part of my plan,’ he admitted. ‘If you had given the response when I asked, we would never have drawn attention to ourselves. You will discover when you have been at this game a little longer that plans sometimes have to change with a moment’s notice.’

  He raised one brow and gave her a sardonic look. Sylvie leaned forwards again and placed her hands on the table close to his. To anyone in the café, it would hopefully look as if they were about to hold hands.

  ‘How do you test the mettle of a man?’ Sylvie asked.

  ‘Sometimes I accuse them of spilling my drink,’ Felix said. ‘I see how they handle themselves in a potential fight. Sometimes I challenge them over the supposed flirtation with a lover.’

  ‘I’m disappointed,’ Sylvie said, pouting. ‘I was hoping to
discover you slip your notes somewhere equally personal about their bodies?’

  Felix raised his brow and then burst out laughing. His eyes gleamed. ‘Very good, mademoiselle. You can count that as a win. A point to you. Fortunately, it has not been necessary for me to get within fondling distance of any of Marcel’s male agents.’

  ‘It will not be necessary for you to get that close to me again,’ Sylvie warned. ‘Save your toast for another time. You treat this as a game, but I am not interested in games. I am here to do what needs to be done, and nothing more. Tell me what I need to know and let me be gone.’

  She drained her coffee cup in one, bravado and annoyance overtaking caution, and leaving her with a burnt tongue. She held in the grimace of pain, determined not to reveal any emotion to the cocky bastard sitting opposite her. Felix stared at her and pressed his lips, then he grinned.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘It isn’t a game, but sometimes we have to lie to ourselves to make the truth bearable. I will drink to you, Mademoiselle Duchene, even if you will not join me.’

  He raised his glass to her and drained it.

  ‘I will ask around and find out what I can. I might be able to reach another of Marcel’s contacts who can verify you are who you say you are. If I do, then I will pass word to you at the club tonight or tomorrow.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sylvie said.

  ‘If you don’t want that, I’ll drink it,’ he said, gesturing to the shot glass. ‘I don’t want it to go to waste.’

  ‘Feel free.’ Sylvie shrugged.

  She stood and gathered her bag and gloves. Felix rose and lean forward to kiss her cheeks in the traditional manner of parting. As he kissed her second cheek, he leaned a moment longer than necessary and whispered in her ear.

  ‘You acquitted yourself excellently last night, in case you are interested. You throw a good punch. My jaw hasn’t ached like that for a long time.’

  She pulled away. He sounded amused, and when she looked into his eyes, they were dancing. Her lips turned traitor and curved into a smile. She forced it away.