hears that one of his own men a mere patrolman attempted to prevent the delivery of these Romeo y Julietas to his home on the Quai des Orfevres, cigars needed for an urgent late-night meeting, you will be out of a job. And that's if Didier's in good spirits. Now, your number, please."
The cop stepped back a bit. His expression was transformed: now he was genial, wreathed in smiles. "Please, sir don't take offense. Go on, sir. My apologies!"
Metcalfe shook his head as he turned and walked away. "Don't let it happen again," he said.
"Of course not, sir. It was entirely a mistake!"
Metcalfe strode on past the phone booth, deciding against stopping to place a call. He would just show up at Flora Spi-nasse's flat unannounced.
Her apartment house on the rue de la Boetie was shabby and in poor repair. The little foyer, like all the walls in the building, was painted a hideous mustard-yellow, and the paint was peeling. He let himself in she'd given him a key to the front door and took the self-service elevator to the fifth floor. He knocked on her door, using their secret code: three quick raps followed by two. A dog yapped somewhere inside. It was a long while before the door opened. Flora gasped when she saw him.
"Daniel!" she said. "Why are you here? What time is it?" She was dressed in her long cotton nightgown, her hair in curlers. Her poodle, Fifi, ran in circles at her feet, growling and yapping.
"May I come in, Flora dear?"
"Why are you here? Yes, yes, come in good heavens! Fifi, down, my little toutou!"
Flora was not looking her best, but then, few did at this hour of the morning. She was embarrassed; her hands fluttered up to her curlers, then down to her nightgown, not knowing what to conceal first. She shut the door quickly behind him. "Daniel!" she said again, but he kissed her at once, on the mouth, and she kissed him back with growing urgency.
"Is everything all right with you?" she said at last when they had pulled apart.
"I had to see you," Metcalfe said.
"But... but Daniel, you should have called me first! You know that! You can't simply show up unannounced at a woman's flat, when she is unprepared!"
"Flora, you don't need preparation. You don't need to paint your face. You look loveliest in your natural state, I've told you that."
She blushed. "You must be in trouble, that's all there is to it."
He looked around her tiny, forlorn apartment. Her windows were draped in black satinette for the blaqueoute, the blackout. There was even a blue shade on the standing lamp in the corner of the living room. Flora was a young woman who did everything by the book, observed all the rules. Her greatest transgression was her dalliance with a foreigner and the information she provided him. It was the single act of naughtiness in a life of orderliness and respectability. And it was no small violation.
But then, it was always the plain women, Metcalfe had learned, who made the best agents. They were paid less attention, assumed to be dutiful and hardworking. While secretly deep in their hearts lurked the spirit of rebellion. In the same way, it was always the plainer girls who were the most ardent, most inexhaustible lovers. The beautiful girls like Genevieve, vain and self-absorbed, tended to be far more nervous and self-aware in bed. Whereas Flora, who was no beauty queen, had a voracious appetite for sex. Metcalfe sometimes found her demands exhausting.
No, Flora was happy to see him anytime. That he was sure of.
"It's ice-cold in here, darling," he said. "How can you sleep?"
"I have just enough coal to heat this one room for a few minutes a day. I save it for the mornings. I'm used to sleeping in the cold."
"I think you need a warm body next to you in the bed."
"Daniel!" she said, shocked but pleased.
He kissed her again, a quick, affectionate peck. Fifi the poodle had settled down on the threadbare rug near the couch and was watching the two with interest.
"I think you should get me some extra coal," Flora said. "You can do that, I know you can. Look at what I have to burn." She motioned toward her fireplace, in which were half-burned balls of paper pulp, made from newspapers and cardboard boxes, even books, soaked in water until they turned back into pulp, then molded into balls. All over Paris the French were burning