Page 76 of Daughters of Paris

‘Merde!’ The other man slammed his own cards down with a laugh. The two men clinked glasses and knocked back the opaque white liquid.

‘Mademoiselle, yes?’ asked the man who had won. He turned to look up at Fleur. He had a grizzled face and one eye partially closed. His grin might have been intended to look welcoming, but it made him look grotesque, like one of the gargoyles on the buttresses at Notre Dame.

‘I am having trouble with my bicycle,’ Fleur said.

‘This is an automobile garage,’ commented the man who had not spoken yet. He was even older than his companion but with a friendlier demeanour. ‘You have come to the wrong place.’

‘My friend told me that you also mended bicycles,’ Fleur said. Sébastien had told her most firmly to avoid mentioning his name to anyone but Laurent if possible. She still didn’t know which man it was.

‘Does it have an engine? A carburettor? No? Then I am not interested,’ said the second man. He scooped the cards towards him and began to shuffle them.

Fleur bit the inside of her lip. She had not expected it to be too easy. If this was a cover it would naturally be hard to penetrate it. ‘Perhaps one of you might take a look,’ she asked hopefully. ‘I’ve come a long way on foot.’

She fanned herself. Her back was clammy with perspiration, and she was thirsty. ‘If you can’t help me, may I at least beg a glass of water before I have to walk all the way home?’

The first man stood and looked at Fleur’s bicycle. ‘I believe this must have served in the trenches in theGrand Guerre, from the age,’ he commented.

‘It may well have done,’ Fleur admitted. She shifted her bag on her shoulder. ‘Are you Laurent? I’m sorry if I have taken your time.’

The two men exchanged a glance. ‘Laurent is inside,’ the man replied. ‘He may look at your bicycle. It is something of a hobby to him.’ He leaned back on his chair and craned his neck. ‘Laurent, a woman for you,’ he shouted.

‘Women are his other hobby,’ The second man said, then began laughing at his own non-existent witticism.

‘Go inside then,’ said the first man.

He picked up the deck of cards and began to deal them, seemingly having lost interest in Fleur. With a rising sense of anticipation she wheeled her bike inside the garage.

Chapter Twenty-One

It was dark and musty inside the workshop. The sun was behind Fleur, but thanks to the height of the buildings its light barely penetrated more than a metre or two into the gloom. She blinked a couple of times to help her eyes adjust, then looked around her.

Her first impression was that if this was the base of covert activities there could be nowhere better. The floor was littered with cables and parts of machinery. The entire back wall was covered with shelving that was full of assorted boxes, as well as more cables, gears, and other sundry tools. A workbench was laden with half an engine and a box that could even have been an old radio. The Gestapo could easily waste an entire morning looking for evidence of Resistance activity and never find it.

What was abundantly missing however, was Laurent.

‘Hello,’ Fleur called. ‘Is there anyone there?’

A door she had not previously noticed opened a crack and a man stepped through. He was tall and wide, but there was not a scrap of fat to spare on him. Every muscle on his arms and chest was toned and taut and he carried a heavy wrench the length of Fleur’s arm. He resembled a statue of marble or bronze. If Greek gods had worn overalls he would have not disgraced the Louvre. Fleur gulped and a shiver ran down her spine, though she did not believe it had been caused by the contrast of the heat outside and the cooler workshop.

‘Who are you and what do you want?’ he asked.

‘I was sent by a friend. He said you may be able to help me.’

‘Oh yes?’ And how could I do that,chérie?’

He walked forward with a swagger, idly swinging the wrench. Clearly he had the impression of himself as being a cinema idol. Women were a hobby to him, the men outside had said. Well, if he thought that she would be an hour’s pastime then he would be mistaken.

‘You are in silhouette. I can’t see you,’ he said. ‘Come in a little further.’

It was like the wolf beckoningPetit Chaperon Rougeinto Grandmother’s house, Fleur thought. However, mindful that she needed his help, she obeyed.

‘Are you Laurent?’

‘I am.’

He stepped closer to her. Fleur swallowed. Until that point his muscles had been the most striking thing about him, but now they fell into second place behind his eyes. They were so blue that her mind immediately went to the cliché from cheap thrillers of topaz or sapphire. He fixed her with a level stare as she immediately re-evaluated her decision not to let him charm her into bed.

‘My friend sent me. The front tyre is flat.’

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