trip stair, something tremendously strong swept by him on the narrow curving stair, knocking him to the side and catching Madame Kunst on the most unstable footing in the tower.
She screamed, twisted. She fired once, twice, and the bullets ricocheted off the stone walls, singing and striking sparks where they touched. One of the bullets struck her in the shoulder and she fell, slid and slid, screaming at first and then whimpering. Her descent stopped only when Saint-Germain reached her.
“You may get up, James,” he said as he lifted Madame Kunst into his arms.
Moving as if he were tenanted in a body that was unfamiliar to him, James rose, testing his legs like an invalid. When he was shakily on his feet again, he looked down at the other man. “Thank you.”
“Thank you, James. Your methods were reckless but your motive laudable.” He looked down at Madame Kunst, who was half conscious and moaning. “I should bandage her and get her to a physician. There must be a plausible story we can tell him.”
James had not the strength to laugh at this as he came down the stairs.
“But it will arrange itself,” Mirelle said confidently with a nonchalant French shrug. “A refugee woman, she says, came to my farmhouse, and I, what could I do but take her in? I did not know that she was carrying valuables, and when there was a commotion, I investigated.” Her minx’s eyes danced as she looked up at James. “It was very nice of you to give me the pistol, Mister Tree. I would not have been able to defend her if you had not been so generous.” She held out her hand for the pistol.
“How do you explain the rest? The beacon and her wound?” Saint-Germain asked, not quite smiling, but with the corners of his mouth starting to lift.
Mirelle gave this her consideration. “I don’t think I will explain the beacon. I think I will present it to a few of my friends in the Resistance and they will see what kind of game it attracts. For the rest, the thief was holding Madame … Kunst, isn’t it? so tightly that I was not in a position to get a clean shot.” She sat back in the high-backed chair that was the best in her parlor. “The physician in Saint-Jacques-sur-Crete will not ask me too many questions, because he likes me and he hates the Germans and the war. Beyond that—who knows? The Germans may take her back, the Resistance may kill her. It does not matter so much, does it?” She folded her hands.
“Mirelle,” Saint-Germain said, with more sadness than she had ever heard in his voice, “you cannot simply abandon her like so much refuse.”
“You say that, after she tried to kill James and would have killed you?” Mirelle shot back at him. “You defend her?”
“Yes,” was the quiet answer.
Mirelle got out of her chair and turned her helpless eyes on James, then looked away from them both. “Perhaps you can afford to feel this way, you who live so long and so closely with others. But I am not going to live long, and I have very few years to do all that I must. Extend her your charity, if you must, but do not expect it of me. My time is too brief for that.” She folded her arms and stared defiantly at Saint-Germain.
“You have chosen it,” Saint-Germain reminded her compassionately; he took her hand and kissed it.
“So I have,” she agreed with her impish smile returning. “For the time, I have the best of both, and when that is done, well, we shall see.” She turned toward James. “Would you like to remain here for the evening, James?”
“Thank you, Mirelle, but no.” He glanced out the window to the parked Bugatti.
“Another time then. I will be at Montalia tomorrow night?” Her eyes went flirtatiously from Saint-Germain’s to James’ face. “You would like that, yes?”
“Of course,” Saint-Germain said, answering for James.
“Then, good afternoon, gentlemen, and I will see you later. I have a few old friends who will want to hear from me, and the physician to mollify.” Without any lack of courtesy, she escorted them to the door, and stood waving as the Bugatti pulled away.
James returned the wave, then looked at Saint-Germain. “What will happen to Madame Kunst?”
“I don’t know,” he said quietly.
“Does it concern you at all?” James was beginning to feel a twinge of guilt.
“Yes. But it is out of my hands now.”