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When she spoke, her voice was lower, and her high-class Paris accent had been replaced by the tones of provincial gentility.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."! 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 Lernas'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 Men- ton, 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.

He began to feel hopeful.

"Where are you from?" said Marie.

"I live in Paris." "Does your aunt Valerie have any other nieces hidden away?" So, Dieter thought, Mademoiselle Lemas's name is Valerie.

"I don't think so-none that I know." "You're a liar." Marie's tone had changed.

Something had gone wrong.

Dieter sighed and drew the automatic pistol from beneath his jacket.

Stephanie said, "What on earth are you talking about?" "You're lying.

You don't even know her name.

It's not Valerie, it's Jeanne." Dieter thumbed the safety lever on the left of the slide up to the fire position.

Stephanie carried on gamely.

"I always call her Auntie.

You're being very rude." Marie said scornfully, "I knew from the start.

Jeanne would never trust someone like you, with your high heels and perfume." Dieter stepped into the kitchen.

"What a shame, Marie," he said.

"If you had been more trusting, or less clever, you might have got away.

As it is, you're under arrest." Marie looked at Stephanie and said, "You're a Gestapo whore." It was a wounding gibe, and Stephanie blushed.

Dieter was so infuriated that he almost pistol- whipped Marie.

"You'll regret that remark when you're in the hands of the Gestapo," he said coldly.

"There's a man called Sergeant Becker who is going to question you.

When you're screaming and bleeding and begging for mercy, remember that careless insult." Marie looked poised to flee.

Dieter almost hoped she would.

Then he could shoot her and the problem would be solved.

But she did not run.

After a long moment, her shoulders slumped and she began to cry.

Her tears did not move him.

"Lie facedown on the floor with your hands behind your back." She obeyed.

He put away the gun.

"I think I saw a rope in the cellar," he said to Stephanie.

"I'll get it." She returned with a length of washing line.

Dieter tied Marie's hands and feet.

"I'll have to take her to Sainte-Cecile," he said.

"We can't have her here in case a British agent comes in today." He looked at his watch.

It was two o'clock.

He had time to take her to the chateau and be back by three.

"You'll have to go to the crypt on your own," he told Stephanie.

"Use the little car in the garage.

I'll be in the cathedral, though you may not see me." He kissed her.

Almost like a husband going to the office, he thought with grim amusement.

He picked Marie up and slung her over his shoulder.

"I'll have to hurry," he said, and went to the back door.

He stepped outside, then turned back.

"Hide the bicycle." "Don't worry," Stephanie replied.

He carried the bound girl through the courtyard and into the street.

He opened the trunk of his car and put her inside.

Had it not been for the "whore" comment, he would have put her on the backseat.

He slammed the lid and looked around.

He saw no one, but there were always watchers in a street such as this, peering through their shutters.

They would have seen Mademoiselle Lemas being taken away yesterday and would have remarked the big sky-blue car.

As soon as he drove away, they would be talking about the man who had put a girl into the trunk of his car.

In normal times, they would have called the police, but no one in occupied territory would talk to the police unless they had to, especially where the Gestapo might be involved.

The key question for Dieter was: Would the Resistance hear of the arrest of Mademoiselle Lemas? Reims was a city, not a village.

People were arrested every day: thieves, murderers, smugglers, black marketeers, communists, Jews.

There was a good chance that no report of

the events in the rue du Bois would reach the ears of Michel Clairet.

But there was no guarantee.

Dieter got into the car and headed for Sainte-Cecile.

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