THE RED-LIGHT DISTRICT of Paris was a neighborhood of narrow, dirty streets on a low hill behind the rue de la Chapelle, not far from the Gare du Nord.

At its heart was "La Charbo," the rue de la Charbonnire.

On the north side of the street, the convent of la Chapelle stood like a marble statue in a junkyard.

The convent consisted of a tiny church and a house where eight nuns dedicated their lives to helping the most wretched of Parisians.

They made soup for starving old men, talked depressed women out of suicide, dragged drunk sailors from the gutter, and taught the children of prostitutes to read and write.

Next door to the convent stood the Hotel de la Chapelle.

The hotel was not exactly a brothel, for there were no whores in residence, but when the place was not full the proprietress was willing to rent rooms by the hour to heavily made-up women in cheap evening gowns who arrived with fat French businessmen, furtive German soldiers, or naive young men too drunk to see straight.

Flick walked through the door with a mighty sense of relief~ The gendarmes had dropped her off half a mile away.

She had seen two copies of her Wanted poster on the way.

Christian had given her his handkerchief~ a clean cotton square, red with white dots, and she had tied it over her head in an attempt to hide her blonde hair, but she knew that anyone who looked hard at her would recognize her from the poster.

There had been nothing she could do but keep her eyes down and her fingers crossed.

It had seemed like the longest walk of her life.

The proprietress was a friendly, overweight woman wearing a pink silk bathrobe over a whalebone corset.

She had once been voluptuous, Flick guessed.

Flick had stayed at the place before, but the proprietress did not appear to remember her.

Flick addressed her as "Madame," but she said, "Call me Regine." She took Flick's money and gave her a room key without asking any questions.

Flick was about to go upstairs to her room when she glanced through the window and saw Diana and Maude arriving in a strange kind of taxi, a sofa on wheels attached to a bicycle.

Their brush with the gendarmes did not seem to have sobered them, and they were giggling about the vehicle.

"Good God, what a dump," said Diana when she walked in the door.

"Perhaps we can eat out." Paris restaurants had continued to operate during the occupation, but inevitably many of their customers were German officers, and agents avoided them if they could.

"Don't even think about it," Flick said crossly.

"We're going to lie low here for a few hours, then go to the Gare de l'Est at first light." Maude looked accusingly at Diana.

"You promised to take me to the Ritz." Flick controlled her temper.

"What world are you living in?" she hissed at Maude.

"All right, keep your hair on." "Nobody leaves! Is that understood?" "Yes, yes." "One of us will go out and buy food later.

I have to get out of sight now.

Diana, you sit here and wait for the others while Maude checks into your room.

Let me know when everyone's arrived." Climbing the stairs, Flick passed a Negro girl in a tight red dress and noticed that she had a full head of straight black hair.

"Wait," Flick said to her.

"Will you sell me your wig?" "You can buy one yourself around the corner, honey." She looked Flick up and down, taking her for an amateur hooker.

"But, frankly, I'd say you need more than a wig." "I'm in a hurry." The girl pulled it off to reveal black curls cropped close to her scalp.

"I can't work without it." Flick took a thousand-franc note from her jacket pocket.

"Buy yourself another." She looked at Flick with new eyes, realizing she had too much money to be a prostitute.

With a shrug, she accepted the money and handed over the wig.

"Thank you," said Flick.

The girl hesitated.

No doubt she was wondering how many more of those notes Flick had.

"I do girls, too," she said.

She reached out and brushed Flick's breast lightly with her fingertips.

"No, thanks." "Maybe you and your boyfriend-"

The girl looked at the thousand-franc note.

"Well, I guess this is my night off Good luck, honey." "Thanks," said Flick.

"I need it." She found her room, put her case on the bed, and took off her jacket.

There was a small mirror over a washbasin.

Flick washed her hands, then stood looking at her face for a moment.

She combed her short blonde hair back over her ears and pinned it with hair clips.

Then she put on the wig and adjusted it.

It was a bit big, but it would stay on.

The black hair altered her appearance radically.

However, her fair eyebrows now looked peculiar.

She took the eyebrow pencil from her makeup kit and darkened them.

That was much better.

Not only did she look like a brunette, she seemed more formidable than the sweet girl in the swimsuit.

She had the same straight nose and severe chin, but that seemed like a family resemblance between two otherwise different-looking sisters.

Next she took her identity papers from her jacket pocket.

With great care, she retouched the photograph, using the eyebrow pencil to draw faint lines of dark hair and narrow dark eyebrows.

When she was done, she looked hard at the picture.

She did not think anyone would be able to tell it had been doctored unless they rubbed it hard enough to smear the pencil marks.

She took off the wig, stepped out of her shoes, and lay on the bed.

She had not slept for two nights, because she had spent Thursday night making love to Paul and Friday night on the metal floor of a Hudson bomber.

Now she closed her eyes and dropped off within seconds.

She was awakened by a knock at the door.

To her surprise, it was getting dark: she had slept for several hours.

She went to the door and said, "Who is it?" "Ruby." She let her in.

"Is everything all right?" "I'm not sure." Flick closed the curtains, then switched on the light.

"What's happened?" "Everyone has checked in.

But I don't know where Diana and Maude are.

They're not in their room." "Where have you looked?" "The proprietress's office, the little church next door, the bar across the street." "Oh, Christ," Flick said in dismay.

"The bloody fools, they've gone out." "Where would they have gone?" "Maude wanted to go to the Ritz." Ruby was incredulous.

"They can't be that stupid!" "Maude can." "But I thought Diana had more sense." "Diana's in love," Flick said.

"I suppose she'll do anything Maude asks.

And she wants to impress her paramour, take her to swanky places, show that she knows her way around the world of high society." "They say love is blind." "In this case, love is bloody suicidal.

I can't believe it-but I bet that's where they've gone.

It will serve them right if they end up dead." "What'll we do?" "Go to the Ritz and get them out of there-if we're not too late." Flick put on her wig.

Ruby said, "I wondered why your eyebrows had gone dark.

It's effective, you look like someone else." "Good.

Get your gun." In the lobby, R ne handed Flick a note.

It was addressed in Diana's handwriting.

Flick ripped it open and read:

We're going to a better hotel.

We'll meet you at the Gare de l'Est at 5 a.m.

Don't worry!

She showed it to Ruby, then ripped it to shreds.

She was most angry with herself.

She had known Diana all her life, it was no surprise that she was foolish and irresponsible.

Why did I bring her? she asked herself Because I had no one else, was the answer.

They left the flophouse.

Flick did not want to use the Metro, for she knew there were Gestapo checkpoints at some stations and occasional spot checks on the trains.

The Ritz was in the Place Vendome a brisk half-hour walk from La Charbo.

The sun had gone down, and night was falling fast.

They would have to keep an eye on the time: there was an eleven o'clock curfew.

Flick wondered how long it would take the Ritz staff to call the Gestapo about Diana and Maude.

They would have known immediately that there was something odd about them.

Their papers said they were secretaries from Reims-what were two such women doing at the Ritz? They were dressed respectably enough, by the standards of occupied France, but they certainly did not look like typical Ritz clients-the wives of diplomats from neutral countries, the girlfriends of black marketers, or the mistresses of German officers.

The hotel manager himself might not do anything, especially if he was anti-Nazi, but the Gestapo had informants in every large hotel and restaurant in the city, and strangers with implausible stories were just what they were paid to report.

This kind of detail was drummed into people on SOE's training course-but that course lasted three months, and Diana and Maude had been given only two days.

Flick quickened her step.

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