Flick glared at him. She did not want to lose her telephone engineer through Bill's brutishness. "Just go easy," she snapped at him.
He was unrepentant. "The Gestapo are a lot worse than me!"
Flick would have to mend the damage herself. She took Greta by the hand. "We'll do a little special training on our own." They went around the house to another part of the garden.
"I'm sorry," Greta said. "I just hate that little man."
"I know. Now, let's do this together. Kneel down." They knelt facing one another and held hands. "Just do what I do." Flick leaned slowly sideways. Greta mirrored her action. Together, they fell to the ground, still holding hands. "There," Flick said. "That was all right, wasn't it?"
Greta smiled. "Why can't he be like you?"
Flick shrugged. "Men," she said with a grin. "Now, are you ready to try faffing from a standing position? We'll do it the same way, holding hands."
She took Greta through all the exercises Bill was doing with the others. Greta quickly gained confidence. They returned to the group. The others were jumping off the table. Greta joined in and landed perfectly, and they gave her a round of applause.
They progressed to jumping from the top of the wardrobe, then finally the stepladder. When Jelly jumped off the ladder, rolled perfectly, and stood upright, Flick hugged her. "I'm proud of you," she said. "Well done."
Bill looked disgusted. He turned to Percy. "What the hell kind of army is it when you get a hug for doing what you're bloody well told?"
"Get used to it, Bill," said Percy.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
At the tall house in the rue du Bois, Dieter carried Stephanie's suitcase up the stairs and into Mademoiselle Lemas's bedroom. He looked at the tightly made single bed, the old-fashioned walnut chest of drawers, and the prayer stool with the rosary on its lectern. "It's not going to be easy to pretend this is your house," he said anxiously, putting the case on the bed.
"I'll say I've inherited it from a maiden aunt, and I've been too lazy to fix it up to my taste," she said.
"Clever. All the same, you'll need to mess it up a little."
She opened the case, took out a black negligee, and draped it carelessly over the prayer stool.
"Better already," Dieter said. "What will you do if the phone rings?"
Stephanie thought for a minute. When she spoke, her voice was lower, and her high-class Paris accent had been replaced by the tones of provincial gentility. "Hello, yes, this is Mademoiselle Lemas, who is calling, please?"
"Very good," said Dieter. The impersonation might not fool a close friend or relative, but a casual caller would notice nothing wrong, especially with the distortion of a telephone line.
They explored the house. There were four more bedrooms, each ready to receive a guest, the beds made up, a clean towel on each washstand. In the kitchen, where there should have been a selection of small saucepans and a one-cup coffee pot, they found large casserole dishes and a sack of rice that would have fed Mademoiselle Lemas for a year. The wine in the cellar was cheap viii ordinaire, but there was half a case of good scotch whisky. The garage at the side of the house contained a little prewar Simca Cinq, the French version of the Fiat the Italians called the Topolino. It was in good condition with a tank full of petrol. He cranked the starting handle, and the engine turned over immediately. There was no way the authorities would have allowed Mademoiselle Lemas to buy scarce petrol and spare parts for a car to take her shopping. The vehicle must have been fueled and maintained by the Resistance. He wondered what cover story she had used to explain her ability to drive around. Perhaps she pretended to be a midwife. "The old cow was well organized," Dieter remarked.
Stephane made lunch. They had shopped on the way. There was no meat or fish in the shops, but they had bought some mushrooms and a lettuce, and a loaf of pain noir, the bread the French bakers made with the poor flour and bran, which was all they could get. Stephanie prepared a salad, and used the mushrooms to make a risotto, and they found some cheese in the larder to finish off. With crumbs on the dining room table and dirty pans in the kitchen sink, the house began to look more lived in.
"The war must have been the best thing that ever happened to her," Dieter said as they drank coffee.
"How can you say that? She's on her way to a prison camp."
"Think of the life she led before. A woman alone, no husband, no family, her parents dead. Then into her life come all these young people, brave boys and girls on daredevil missions. They probably tell her all about their loves and their fears. She hides them in her house, gives them whisky and cigarettes, and sends them on their way, wishing them luck. It was probably the most exciting time of her life. I bet she's never been so happy."
"Perhaps she would have preferred a peaceful life, shopping for hats with a woman friend, arranging the flowers for the cathedral, going to Paris once a year for a concert."
"Nobody really prefers a peaceful life." Dieter glanced out of the dining room window. "Damn!" A young woman was coming up the path, pushing a bicycle with a large basket over its front wheel. "Who the hell is this?"
Stephanie stared at the approaching visitor. "What shall I do?"
Dieter did not answer for a moment. The intruder was a plain, fit-looking girl in muddy trousers and a work shirt with big sweat patches under the armpits. She did not ring the doorbell but pushed her bicycle into the courtyard. He was dismayed. Was his charade to be exposed so soon? "She's coming to the back door. She must be a friend or relation. You'll just have to improvise. Go and meet her, I'll stay here and listen."
They heard the kitchen door open and close, and the girl called out in French, "Good morning, it's me."
Stephanie went into the kitchen. Dieter stood by the dining room door. He could hear everything clearly. The girl's startled voice said, "Who are you?"
"I'm Stephanie, the niece of Mademoiselle Lemas."
The visitor did not bother to conceal her suspicion."I didn't know she had a niece."
"She didn't tell me about you, either." Dieter heard the note of amiable amusement in Stephanie's voice, and realized she was being charming. "Would you like to sit down? What's in that basket?"
"Some provisions. I'm Marie. I live in the country. I'm able to get extra food and I bring some for… for Mademoiselle."
"Ah," said Stephanie. "For her… guests." There was a rustling sound, and Dieter guessed Stephanie was looking through the paper-wrapped food in the basket. "This is wonderful! Eggs… pork… strawberries.."
This explained how Mademoiselle Lemas managed to remain plump, Dieter thought.
"You know, then," said Marie.
"I know about Auntie's secret life, yes." Hearing her say "Auntie," Dieter realized that neither he nor Stephanie had ever asked Mademoiselle Lemans's first name. The pretense would be over if Marie found out that Stephanie did not even know the name of her "aunt."
"Where is she?"
"She went to Aix. Do you remember Charles Menton, who used to be dean at the cathedral?"
"No, I don't."
"Perhaps you're too young. He was the best friend of Auntie's father, until he retired and went to live in Provence." Stephane was improvising brilliantly, Dieter thought with admiration. She had cool nerves and she was imaginative. "He has suffered a heart attack, and she has gone to nurse him. She asked me to take care of any guests while she's away."
"When will she come back?"
"Charles is not expected to live long. On the other hand, the war may be over soon."
"She didn't tell anyone about this Charles."
"She told me."
It looked as if Stephanie might get away with it, Dieter thought. If she could keep this up a little longer, Marie would go away convinced. She would report what had happened, to someone or other, but Stephanie's story was plausible, and exactly the kind of thing that happened in Resistance movements. It was not like the army: someone like Mademoiselle Lemas could easily make a unilateral decision to leave her post and put someone else in charge. It drove Resistance leaders mad, but there was nothing they could do: all their troops were volunteers.