March 1917, Paris, France
“I want to do something more,” Claire said.
Evette looked up from the pot of soup she stirred. The Donovans were between cooks again, so she was filling in. “Like what?”
“When Captain Flynn came to visit, we spoke a little of our mothers. We both lost them when we were about the same age. And it got me wondering what she would think of me.”
“You’re well educated, you’ve become an accomplished pianist, and you manage to maintain a social grace without hiding your opinion. She’d be pleased, I’m sure.”
“Those are things I can do, but what about who I am? I’m spoiled. I can have new clothes whenever I like, I live in a home far bigger than I need, and Papa always manages to find enough coal to heat the home, even if I have to wear an extra layer. Millions of soldiers are eating cold, pitiful meals and sleeping outside all winter, and I complain about the inferior bread and the need to put on a sweater. I want to do something worthwhile, something that will make a difference.”
“You think you’d be a better person if you suffered like the soldiers?” Claire had been given more than most people, but that didn’t mean she was a bad person. If she was spoiled, it was her father’s fault.
“Not necessarily.” Claire delicately sat on a high stool. “But I want to do more than knit socks. Can I help you?”
Evette added herbs to the soup and stirred them in, trying to hide her surprise. “Maybe.”
Claire leaned on the countertop. “That sounded very much like a no.”
“I’m grateful for your offer . . . I’m just not sure it would work. Monsieur McDougall hired me in part because I blend in. I’m ordinary, whereas you’re elegant and obviously of good social standing. If I can think of a situation where something like that wouldn’t be a liability, I’ll gladly accept your help.”
Claire seemed mollified, if not exactly happy. “Did Monsieur McDougall say you were ordinary?”
“Yes.”
“Hmm.” Claire’s eyebrows scrunched together. “I’ve seen him with you a few times since I learned he was your employer. I’ve noticed how he looks at you. I don’t think he considers you ordinary, not in the least.” Claire forsook the kitchen for the library and its piano, leaving Evette to ponder two strange ideas. Was there a way to let Claire help with counterintelligence work? And if Claire was right and McDougall was fond of her, how did Evette feel about him?
* * *
Evette peered around the corner of a dark alley at the suspected member of the Lothair League. He was alone but seemed to be waiting for something. His stride was lopsided, indirect, as if he wanted to linger without appearing to loiter. When she was alone like this at night, following someone significantly larger than she, Evette was tempted to ask McDougall for a weapon.
Claire’s words about McDougall one week ago in the kitchen had left Evette perplexed. She rarely saw him interact with women other than his middle-aged housekeeper, so she had nothing to compare her treatment to. Two years ago, knowledge that a gentle, well-educated man was interested in her would have brought contentment. But Claire’s ideas from Christmastime on love and romance lingered, as did Evette’s memories of the poilu who had given her money for a train ticket. When it came to men and romance, uncertainty reigned.
Evette shook her head to clear it. Claire might be mistaken about McDougall’s feelings, and the poilu could be married, could be dead. In any case, she was unlikely to ever see him again, and she needed to concentrate on the man walking toward her. She was concealed behind a large barrel but could follow his movements by looking through the space between the barrel and the wall. Midway down the alley, he stopped and bent to the ground. His hand momentarily rested on a stone, then he straightened, and his stride became purposeful as he stalked past the barrel and turned left onto the main street.
Evette bit her lip in indecision. She didn’t want to lose the man, but he would notice if she followed him too closely in the nearly deserted streets. And there was something odd about his gesture with the stone. She waited until the man was out of earshot, then rushed down the alley to where he’d bent over. When she moved the stone, she uncovered a folded envelope. She slipped it into her coat pocket and hurried to catch up to her quarry.
She arrived on the main road in time to see him turn into a side street a block away. She sighed with relief. She hadn’t lost him. During her pursuit, she stayed a half block behind. When he went into a narrow row house, she found a convenient recessed doorway to slink into and watched. An hour later, she concluded the row home was his residence.
She went back to the street corner where she had left her bike and pedaled to McDougall’s residence rather than his office. The woman who managed the boardinghouse, Madame Morel, answered Evette’s knock. She wore a dressing gown, and her hair was in a long braid. Normally she wore her hair up, so Evette had probably roused her from bed.
“May I see Monsieur McDougall, please?”
Madame Morel’s gray eyebrows drew together in disapproval, undoubtedly because of the late hour, but she nodded and climbed the stairs. That meant McDougall wasn’t in his ground-floor study. Perhaps he had also gone to bed, but that couldn’t be helped. As Evette waited, she pulled the envelope from her pocket and broke the seal. Taking advantage of the indoor light, she read the message. The words inside made all traces of reluctance for disturbing both Madame Morel’s and Monsieur McDougall’s sleep vanish.
“Mademoiselle Touny, what a pleasant surprise. Shall I have Madame Morel make some tea?”
Evette glanced up to see McDougall descend the last few stairs. Madame Morel was behind him and didn’t look at all as if she wished to make tea. “No, thank you. That won’t be necessary.”
McDougall motioned toward the study and followed Evette inside. “That will be all, Madame Morel,” he said as he shut the door securely. “Well, did you find out where he lives?”
“Yes.” Evette handed over the paper. “He left this under a rock in an alley.”
McDougall read the sheet of paper to himself. Evette remembered it word for word: Munitions train will stop at Gare Montparnasse, 11pm Thursday. Guards bribed to leave cars for ten minutes. Plant device by 11:10.
McDougall reached for his phone and was soon speaking with someone but in English, so Evette understood only snippets. When he hung up, he put the message in a fresh envelope and sealed it. “That was my superior. He will contact his French counterpart and send a pair of gendarmes here to escort us back to the alley. You will replace this note. They will stay and arrest anyone who tries to collect it. Then you can show me where this man lives, and I shall have him apprehended too. Tomorrow someone will arrest the bribed guards. Well done, mademoiselle.”
“Thank you, sir.”
As they waited for the French police, McDougall paced. Evette concluded Claire must be making things up. McDougall’s focus was completely on his work. He wasn’t the type to let a woman distract him.