Page 89 of Daughters of Paris

Fleur did as he told her and put the bag over her shoulder. Laurent curled the ropes and put them in his.

‘Help me with this. It’s very heavy.’

He was right, and lifting the box was definitely a job for two of them. Stumbling and slipping in the mud, they made it back across the field and into the shelter of the hedge. It took them almost half an hour to reach the bicycles and Fleur was so hot and sweaty, she almost longed for the time when she was cold. They loaded the box into the trailer and covered it with a tarpaulin.

Side by side they cycled along the road. Fleur assumed they would be returning to the same village but they carried on towards Paris, Fleur following Laurent’s lead without comment. She already sensed that her questions had put strain on him.

They turned into a larger collection of buildings. What would once have been a village had, like so many others, been amalgamated into the suburbs. Laurent stopped outside a bar on the corner of the main road and a quiet side street.

‘Time for a drink,’ he announced.

‘Really?’ Fleur frowned. She had lost track of time, but her body told her she should have been in bed by now.

‘Definitely. I need a beer. First, let’s rid ourselves of our cargo. We’ll take it around to the cellar.’

‘Ah.’ She should have trusted Laurent that it was not just a random impulse to get a drink. Together they dragged the crate down a ramp into the cellar beneath the bar. Laurent shut the door behind them and turned on the lightbulb. There was a tyre iron leaning against a barrel. They had been expected. Laurent heaved the lid off and turned on a torch, which Fleur had not noticed him carrying before. He shot the beam onto the contents. Fleur inhaled sharply, drawing her hands back from the box.

‘Are those guns?’

Of course they were. Small ones that could be carried in a bag or deep pocket, rather than the heavy, arm length ones the German patrols carried. They were the ideal-sized weapon for people who were not supposed to have weapons at all.

Laurent looked amused. ‘What did you think we would be collecting? Bars of chocolate? There are bullets too, and putty explosive, fuses, wires.’

‘Chocolate. That would be delectable. Can you ask the British to send us some next time?’

‘As much as I would love to grant your wish, they are even shorter of food than we are here,’ Laurent said.

They worked quickly to package up the weapons and ammunition. Seven packages. All but two containing at least two revolvers. Laurent pocketed a few items including a box of small glass bulbs that looked like the sort of thing he had lying around in his workshop, and a small box that looked like something from a pharmacy.

‘What do we do now?’ Fleur asked.

‘These will be collected.’ Laurent indicated the three largest packages. He put them under a tarpaulin in the corner of the cellar. He gave a fourth to Fleur – one that did not contain a weapon.

‘You need to take this one to the art gallery on Carré Rive Gauche tomorrow afternoon. Tell them it is for Pablo.’

‘Picasso?’ Fleur blinked in surprise. ‘He is involved in this?’

Laurent laughed. ‘No, it is a codename, but rather an apt one I think.’

‘Come on, let’s go get a drink.’ Laurent stood and slung his knapsack containing the remaining packages over his shoulder. He held out his hand to Fleur. She took it, expecting him to let go when she was on her feet but he held on. Hand in hand, they walked up and into the bar via a staircase in the corner.

Chapter Twenty-Five

There were very few customers in the bar. As it was after curfew there should not have been any, but establishments did stay open for selected customers. It was widely believed that the German authorities turned a blind eye if there was no trouble, and this far out of the centre of Paris it was unlikely they would be checked. A young couple sat entwined in one corner, pausing between kisses to drink. Two old men played a game of backgammon in another. A third man lay with his head in his arms on the bar, snoring loudly. The bartender was a middle-aged woman who brought over two glasses of red wine without taking an order.

‘It’s what they have,’ Laurent said as he passed a glass to Fleur. ‘I am not sure it has ever seen a grape so be careful. It’s very strong.’

‘MyTanteAgnes used to make wine from elderberries,’ Fleur told him.

‘I can beat that. My grandmother used to make it from nettles,’ Laurent said, pulling a face that suggested it wasn’t a pleasant memory.

They clinked glasses and drank. It was strong but welcome after the long hours spent crouching in the bushes. Fleur was glad of something to warm her limbs again.

‘I will be good for nothing tomorrow,’ she said. A fresh worry occurred to her. ‘We’ve broken curfew now. What if we get stopped on the way?’

‘The plane was later than I expected. I don’t think we should risk it. The owner here rents rooms above the bar. Usually by the hour.’ Laurent paused and indicated the couple who now appeared to be trying to eat each other.

‘She’s a prostitute?’ Fleur stared at the woman, open-mouthed. ‘How do you know? Have you ever…?’

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