When they parted in the Tuileries that afternoon, Legrand hadn’t said anything about how he would gain access to the building, or evade the concierge, or make his way to her floor without awaking suspicion. These were details she left to him, as a man trained in such things. Daisy was just an amateur, a woman playing at spycraft. She was a mere housewife waiting alone in her apartment—the apartment in which she lived with her husband, her beloved children—for a real spy, a genuine agent, to slip inside and steal that husband’s secrets. A betrayal of her marriage, certainly, and also a crime for which she could be condemned to death. Daisy stared down at her hands, which were clasped so tightly that the gold wedding band bit into the flesh of her ring finger. Ticktock, the clock said. Daisy grasped the ring and yanked it free. She was so thin, the metal slipped down her finger without effort. She opened the drawer of the lamp table and dropped the ring inside, and as she pushed the drawer shut a hand came down on her shoulder.
Daisy gasped and jumped to her feet and wheeled around, all at once, nearly falling over the edge of the armchair. Legrand stood there in neat, dark clothes and a hat. A leather satchel hung from across his chest, like a messenger bag. As she opened her mouth to speak, he laid his finger over his lips. She caught herself.
“How did you get in?” she whispered.
He shrugged and smiled a little, and Daisy realized the stupidity of her question, the stupidity of waiting here in this darkened room, in the armchair that was nearest the foyer, when he was a trained agent, of course. He could unlock doors and break into apartments at a whim. Whereas she, Daisy, was in this business far above her head. She put her hand to her chest and said, “You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize I was sneaking.”
There was no teasing note to his voice, no inflection, no gleam in his eyes or arch in his eyebrows to suggest how long he had stood there, and whether he’d noticed what she had just done, to put her wedding ring away in a drawer. He stood very close. He must have washed, because he didn’t smell of pipe smoke or anything, except perhaps soap. Daisy inhaled carefully through her nose. Yes, soap. And toothpaste. She stepped back a pace.
“No, I don’t expect you did,” she said. “This is all second nature to you.”
Legrand’s eyes traveled rapidly around the room behind her, taking in the size and scale of it, the ornate decoration, the gilded furniture, like some kind of professional.
“I hate it,” Daisy said.
“I’m not surprised.” Legrand’s gaze returned to her. He inclined his head to the foyer. “Shall we proceed?”
“Yes, of course. Please follow me.”
Legrand stepped politely aside, as if they were together at a cocktail party, and Daisy led the way into the foyer and down the corridor toward Pierre’s study. She had some idea that she should walk softly, not make any noise, but wouldn’t that seem more suspicious to the neighbors than if she walked about as she always did? Legrand would know. This was second nature to him. Breaking into people’s apartments, sneaking about with restless housewives. All in a day’s work, confident that he was in the right, that these petty betrayals were all committed in the service of a higher cause.
Whereas Daisy, floundering in some moral swamp . . . whereas she . . .
They reached the study. Pierre had left the door locked, of course, but Daisy had made a copy of the key, to Legrand’s own instructions, when they had first moved in. When Pierre’s back was turned, she’d pressed the key in a wax mold that Legrand had given her and taken this mold to a locksmith, who hadn’t asked any questions, had simply made up the key for her and taken her ten francs for it. Now she took it from her pocket and fitted it in the lock and opened the door for them both.
The air inside the study was warm and stuffy and smelled of Pierre. Daisy went to the desk and switched the lamp on. “The safe’s right there in the cabinet,” she said, pointing.
Legrand went to the cabinet in question and opened it without a word. The safe squatted inside. Legrand lifted the satchel over his head and let it rest on the floor, next to his feet. Daisy folded her arms and watched him. He seemed to be taking his time, but maybe that was part of the technique. The lamplight gleamed on his hair, turning it a soft, dark gold. He ran his hand over the top and sides of the safe and crouched to peer at the dial.
“Anything amiss?” said Daisy.
“No, it’s a common safe. He didn’t exactly go to great expense.”