Of course, there was one major snag with this plan. All the cleaners were women. The Resistance team that went in disguised as cleaners would have to be all-female.
But then, Flick thought, why not?
They were entering the suburbs of Reims. It was dark when Gilberte pulled up near a low industrial building surrounded by a high wire fence. She killed the engine. Flick spoke sharply to Michel. "Wake up! We have to get you indoors." He groaned. "We must be quick," she added. "We're breaking the curfew."
The two women got him out of the car. Gilberte pointed to the narrow alley that led along the back of the factory. Michel put his arms over their shoulders, and they helped him along the alley. Gilberte opened a door in a wall that led to the backyard of a small apartment building. They crossed the yard and went in through a back door.
It was a block of cheap flats with five floors and no lift. Unfortunately, Gilberte's rooms were on the attic floor. Flick showed her how to make a carrying chair. Crossing their arms, they linked hands under Michel's thighs and took his weight. He put an arm around the shoulders of each woman to steady himself. That way they carried him up four flights. Luckily, they met no one on the stairs.
They were blowing hard by the time they reached Gilberte's door. They stood Michel on his feet and he managed to limp inside, where he collapsed into an armchair.
Flick looked around. It was a girl's place, pretty and neat "and clean. More importantly, it was not overlooked. That was the advantage of the top floor: no one could see in. Michel should be safe.
Gilberte fussed about Michel, trying to make him comfortable with cushions, wiping his face gently with a towel, offering him aspirins. She was tender but impractical, as Antoinette had been. Michel had that effect on women, though not on Flick-which was partly why he had fallen for her: he could not resist a challenge. "You need a doctor," Flick said brusquely. "What about Claude Bouler? He used to help us, but last time I spoke to him, he didn't want to know me. I thought he was going to run away, he was so nervous."
"He's become scared since he got married," Michel replied. "But he'll come for me."
Flick nodded. Lots of people would make exceptions for Michel. "Gilberte, go and fetch Dr. Bouler."
"I'd rather stay with Michel."
Flick groaned inwardly. Someone like Gilberte was no good for anything but carrying messages, yet she could make difficulties about that. "Please do as I ask," Flick said firmly. "I need time alone with Michel before I return to London."
"What about the curfew?"
"If you're stopped, say you're fetching a doctor. It's an accepted excuse. They may accompany you to Claude's house to make sure you're telling the truth. But they won't come here."
Gilberte looked troubled, but she pulled on a cardigan and went out.
Flick sat on the arm of Michel's chair and kissed him. "That was a catastrophe," she said.
"I know." He grunted with disgust. "So much for MI6. There must have been double the number of men they told us."
"I'll never trust those clowns again."
"We lost Albert. I'll have to tell his wife."
"I'm going back tonight. I'll get London to send you another radio operator."
"Thanks."
"You'll have to find out who else is dead, and who's alive."
"If I can." He sighed.
She held his hand. "How are you feeling?"
"Foolish. It's an undignified place for a bullet wound."
"But physically?"
"A little giddy."
"You need something to drink. I wonder what she has."
"Scotch would be nice." Flick's friends in London had taught Michel to like whisky, before the war.
"That's a little strong." The kitchen was in a corner of the living room. Flick opened a cupboard. To her surprise, she saw a bottle of Dewar's White Label. Agents from Britain often brought whisky with them, for their own use or for their comrades-in-arms, but it seemed an unlikely drink for a French girl. There was also an opened bottle of red wine, much more suitable for a wounded man. She poured half a glass and topped it up with water from the tap. Michel drank greedily: loss of blood had made him thirsty. He emptied the glass, then leaned back and closed his eyes.
Flick would have liked some of the scotch, but it seemed unkind to deny it to Michel, then drink it herself. Besides, she still needed her wits about her. She would have a drink when she was back on British soil.
She looked around the room. There were a couple of sentimental pictures on the wall, a stack of old fashion magazines, no books. She poked her nose into the bedroom. Michel said sharply, "Where are you going?"
"Just looking around."
"Don't you think it's a little rude, when she's not here?"
Flick shrugged. "Not really. Anyway, I need the bathroom."
"It's outside. Down the stairs and along the corridor to the end. If I remember rightly."
She followed his instructions. While she was in the bathroom she realized that something was bothering her, something about Gilberte's apartment. She thought hard. She never ignored her instincts: they had saved her life more than once. When she returned, she said to Michel, "Something's wrong here. What is it?"
He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I don't know."
"You seem edgy."
"Perhaps it's because I've just been wounded in a gunfight."
"No, it's not that. It's the apartment." It had something to do with Gilberte's unease, something to do with Michel's knowing where the bathroom was, something to do with the whisky. She went into the bedroom, exploring. This time Michel did not reprove her. She looked around. On the bedside table stood a photograph of a man with Gilberte's big eyes and black eyebrows, perhaps her father. There was a doll on the counterpane. In the corner was a washbasin with a mirrored cabinet over. Flick opened the cabinet door. Inside was a man's razor, bowl, and shaving brush. Gilberte was not so innocent: some man stayed overnight often enough to leave his shaving tackle here.
Flick looked more closely. The razor and brush were a set, with polished bone handles. She recognized them. She had given the set to Michel for his thirty-second birthday.
So that was it.
She was so shocked that for a moment she could not move.
She had suspected him of being interested in someone else, but she had not imagined it had gone this far. Yet here was the proof, in front of her eyes.
Shock turned to hurt. How could he cuddle up to another woman when Flick was lying in bed alone in London? She turned and looked at the bed. They had done it right here, in this room. It was unbearable.
Then she became angry. She had been loyal and faithful, she had borne the loneliness-but he had not. He had cheated. She was so furious she felt she would explode.
She strode into the other room and stood in front of him. "You bastard," she said in English. "You lousy rotten bastard."
Michel replied in the same language. "Don't angry yourself at me."
He knew that she found his fractured English endearing, but it was not going to work this time. She switched to French. "How could you betray me for a nineteen-year-old nitwit?"
"It doesn't mean anything, she's just a pretty girl."
"Do you think that makes it better?" Flick knew she had originally attracted Michel's attention, back in the days when she was a student and he a lecturer, by challenging him in class-French students were deferential by comparison with their English counterparts, and on top of that Flick was by nature disrespectful of authority. If someone similar had seduced Michel-perhaps Genevieve, a woman who would have been his equal-she could have borne it better. It was more hurtful that he had chosen Gilberte, a girl with nothing on her mind more interesting than nail polish.