TWELVE

The Métro train rattled at speed through the tunnel, the frosted bulbs that lined the carriage flickering as the train glanced across the powerlines suspended above. The train was crowded, and Duchene had stood so a young woman could take his seat.

She’d thanked him with a noticeable German accent. A faux pas.

Now, even though there was little room on the train, a small circle had formed around him. Parisians turning their backs, their sides to him. Making a note of even this minor indiscretion.

Perhaps he’d spent so much time with Germans, he was forgetting the basic rule of an occupied city: give no support to the enemy. This seemed to include acts of kindness on the Métro.

How could he have known the girl was German? Had anyone known until the moment she thanked him?

She smiled at him from the seat beneath a Noilly Prat advertisement, which only made things worse. An audible hiss came from somewhere in the carriage.

He had first seen her, two suitcases at her feet, standing at the entrance to the Porte Dauphine Métro. A man in civilian clothes was taking a photo of her positioned directly below the ornate art nouveau archway, its stylised lettering made famous all around the world.

That should have been Duchene’s clue. But in the rush to get away from the Gestapo, he’d let his attention slide. The suitcases, the photo, this should have suggested a tourist. And other than the occasional Italian, who were mostly absent from the city now, there were no tourists – only the occupiers.

In his defence, she was a woman. As far as he knew, all female German workers – secretaries and nurses – had been recalled, withdrawn from being so close to the front.

She had a nice smile, her blonde hair was recently curled, and her large eyes stayed fixed on him. He hadn’t noticed himself growing older; from time to time, he even forgot. The gaze of an attractive woman remained the same reward it had been when he was twenty.

All too easy to fall for the enemy.

He pulled out the Baedeker guide and started to thumb the pages. Consulting the map at the back, he worked through the guide systematically, looking at each circle on the grid and tracking it to the entry in the book. Each was marked with a dog-eared page, each a notable destination. All but one.

On a map of the Right Bank, a circle had been drawn a block from Square Léon Serpollet, but it didn’t highlight any monument or destination.

Turning to the back of the book, being careful not to spill its contents in the rattle of the train, Duchene leafed through the ticket stubs and clippings. Kloke had visited the Eiffel Tower three times, or perhaps the other two tickets had been purchased for his friends. Many of the cabarets in Montmartre were here: Lapin Agile, Moulin Rouge, The Elysee. The Louvre, of course, and the Musée d’Orsay. Napoleon’s Tomb, and five stubs from the music hall Café de l’Olympia.

On the back of one of these was written: 5 Rue des Cloys.

***

The narrow, cobbled street was unremarkable, which imme­diately caught his attention. Rue des Cloys was lined with storehouses and the occasional shopfront. Most of these were closed up, and there was little foot traffic.

He stopped outside number five. It was a grey building two storeys high, its render falling free in places, exposing the brick beneath. Molyneux Textiles was written in fading paint over the door. Duchene peered through its window. He could see very little, as rolls of fabric had been stacked up against the glass. Dust and cobwebs covered the cloth, and some of the lighter rolls were marked with mildew.

Pushing open the letter hatch, Duchene could see a pile of curling envelopes beneath it. These had fallen into the only clear space on the other side of the door. Heavy rolls of bunting had been pushed up against the door, barring access and confirming that Molyneux Textiles was long since closed to business.

He walked around the corner of Impasse des Cloys. The storehouse ran most of the length of the short alleyway that it shared with the backs of other stores. Old wooden winches hung above him, outlined against the grey sky. There was no other entrance.

He moved along the alleyway, scanning the ground and looking for signs of activity. About halfway down, he stopped.

An empty beer bottle had been placed against the wall. He hunched down beside it. Its label was damp, the letters and brand mark puckered from the damp: Kronenbourg. Not normally uncommon, but with the recent bombings and ensuing food shortages, a scarce commodity. Something was in the bottom of the bottle.

Duchene upended it and let the dripping contents slide onto the cobblestones. Two cigarettes, both with lipstick, and a tiny, balled piece of paper. He plucked this up and slowly unravelled it. It had refused the water, being waxed on one side, and soon he had spread it out into a small brown rectangle. From his pocket he drew out the methamphetamines he’d taken from Kloke’s room. Careful not to lose any of the powder to the wind, he spread out the paper. He didn’t risk placing them side by side for comparison; it was enough to eyeball them. They were cut from the same paper. Across the wax, fine lines like a spider’s web had appeared when the slip had been crumpled. But beneath these, thicker score lines marked out the original folds.

These matched the paper in Duchene’s hand. He refolded his piece and slipped it back into his pocket.