She turned to me then and took my hand, saying, “Such wishing isn’t good for me.... And what I would wish could never possibly come true.” She turned back to the dressing table with a flourish and raised her voice to say, “Don’t bother me, now, little one. You know you get me all upset.... I think you derive some diabolical delight from tormenting me.”
I laughed and let it go at that, and the rest of the afternoon and evening passed without anything further of great interest, although during the evening, when several of her friends dropped in to talk and drink, I caught her more than once studying me in an interested but detached sort of way. I really felt a little uncomfortable and began to wonder if she suspected anything, or if the maid had seen me stick that envelope down my breeches.
Later, when I was about to leave, she asked me if I were never going to please her by staying there instead of traveling the long distance across the river to my barracks. “You’ll be leaving Paris some day soon, my dear, and perhaps we might never meet again—who can tell?”
All I could do was squeeze her hand and blink my eyes. For the life of me, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. She was really so sincere, and her position must have been anything but comfortable there in an enemy city. She was a spy, of course, but one couldn’t help but admire a woman as remarkable as she was. Nor could you blame her for being so brazen about a pleasure which she thought would be genuine—she dealt in counterfeit interest and love and passion so much that it seemed a shame that she could not consummate just once at least her desire for something she really wanted.
I knew it wasn’t a very nice thing to think about, but if Leon showed his face in Paris while I was there, his dear sweet sister would do something that seemed utterly impossible for her or anyone else like her to do.... I guess this job was getting under my skin. I wasn’t built for being hard-boiled.
—10—
The Captain got the envelope and examined it carefully under a microscope. There were faint finger imprints on it and it would be photographed and the prints compared with those in the police archives. He said, “If they aren’t the Madame’s—and I doubt if they are, since she hardly touched the envelope—then they may check with someone whom the police already know.”
“How about the chaplain?” I asked him, remembering that I had been with the Madame practically all day and that his operatives were supposed to keep an eye on the place every minute of the day and night.
“Business picks up,” he replied cryptically.
“What do you mean?”