Page 75 of Daughters of Paris

‘No, I think it would be safer for us both if you knew nothing.’

She took it back to her room. It bore only a handwritten name.

Laurent Renou.

It meant nothing to Fleur. She put it on the dressing table and took out the envelope Sébastien had sent her the day before and opened it. It contained a business card for a mechanics workshop, along with a small, sealed envelope bearing the message:

Take this to him. Think of a hiding place to get it there. The more ingenious the better.

Until this morning she hadn’t known the identity of ‘him’, but now she had a name. Her body felt electrified with excitement and trepidation.

If she went to the address her life would change in ways she could not even contemplate.

Of course there was no question in her mind that she was going to go. The war seemed no closer to ending. Any part she had played so far had been paltry. She drew her knees up and hugged them as she gazed contemplatively at the information she had. A name and a place of work. They should be easy enough to find. How to safely take the sealed message was something that absorbed her.

She could use Colette’s method of putting it in her underwear, but an image of a grease-covered fat old man in overalls flashed up in her mind. The thought of having to rummage and produce the note in front of a strange man didn’t appeal. Inside her shoe would be better, though not very ingenious.

A mechanic…

What reason could she have to visit such a person? She would give it some thought. There was no hurry.

It was only when she was cycling home from the bookshop a week later that an idea occurred to her. She almost squealed aloud before she caught herself.

‘Have you gone yet?’ Colette asked as they sat in the garden on deckchairs drinking iced water that evening. ‘Sébastien was asking if I knew.’

Fleur could almost hear Sébastien’s name from Colette’s lips without a pang of jealousy. Compared to the endeavour she was about to undertake it seemed such a little thing to be concerned about.

‘I need to go almost to Versailles to meet him. I’m going tomorrow once I close the shop.’ She drained her glass. ‘So, you have seen Sébastien again.’

Colette wriggled her bare toes. ‘Yes. I’m sorry.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ Fleur snapped.

‘But I didn’t realise quite how much you like him.’ Colette looked genuinely tense.

It was one thing knowing they were meeting without having to field Colette’s conscience. Fleur flicked her hand as if brushing away a fly and affected a smile.

‘I was never as serious as you think I was. I just haven’t met many men to compare him to. I dare say I will survive the heartbreak, but I don’t want your guilt on my back. Enjoy yourself and just make sure you don’t hurt him.’

Colette looked relieved. Fleur took the glasses back to the house, thinking how odd it was that her happiness was such a concern to Colette. She was definitely becoming more considerate as she grew up.

The following day, Fleur cycled west towards Versailles. She had consulted a map of the city and was reasonably confident that, even though the outlying buildings of the palace were occupied by the German War Ministry, the address she was looking for was far enough away that she would not encounter too much opposition.

The journey took an hour, which felt double in the last burst of September heat. She was hot and perspiring when she dismounted at the end of the Avenue de Saint-Cloud and dropped her bicycle beside her under a tree. Her luck had held because the checkpoint was a hundred metres or so down the avenue, closer to the palace itself and she would not have to cross it.

She flapped her blouse to cool herself then set to work. She released the air from the valve and deflated the front tyre of her bicycle, then prised the tyre off the rim of the wheel using a couple of dessert spoons that she had brought. Once done she folded the note from Sébastien and inserted it between the inner and the rim and put the tyre back in place using the spoons.

It was fiddly work and she was hot and irritated by the end of it. She would not have to act to appear frustrated. She pushed the bicycle down the avenue, took a right turn into a smaller street and at the crossroads stopped on the other side of the road to observe her destination

The Citroën garage, like many similar businesses, made use of the lower floor of an apartment block. This one had the extra advantage of being on a corner of a quiet side street. Cars were not used by the general population of the city, either because they had been commandeered by the occupying Germans, or the price of what fuel was available was prohibitively high. A Rosalie van with one wheel missing was on a jack down the side street, partially blocking the road for anyone else who may wish to drive out. Fleur wondered if that was intentional. If Laurent was involved in Resistance activities, it might suit him to make access to the premises difficult.

Two men in oil-smeared overalls sat outside the front of the open garage door on small stools. They were playing a card game and drinking from shot glasses. Between them on the floor was a bag of tools and sundry bits of debris. Which one of these men was Laurent? she wondered. Both looked to be in their late fifies, both looked wiry and tough. She could imagine either of them staring down an officer of the Abwehr fearlessly.

She wiped her palm across her brow and smoothed her hair back. It came away gritty and moist. This weather was appallingly stifling, and the buildings kept the heat from leaving. This was her last opportunity to back out. She gripped the handlebars tightly, took a deep breath and crossed over the road.

‘Excuse me,messieurs,’ she said hesitantly.

‘Wait,’ said one man, lifting his hand to her without looking. He drew his cards close to his face and peered at them, muttering under his breath, then smiled, selected one and placed it on top of the pile.

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