The sun had gone and a fire had been lit by the time his man knocked on the door of his private quarters. Derrick had a whiskey waiting. His wolfhound took it gratefully. “You were correct, Mein Colonel,” he said. “Mademoiselle Colbert left her hotel almost immediately after her return and took the metro to Saint-Michel. At a house on Rue des Soeurs de Charité, next to the convent for which the street is named, I saw her slide a note through the mail slot, then she returned to her hotel.”

Derrick nodded. “A dead-letter box. Any further observations?”

“A curious item. Some artist has drawn an astonishing mural on the convent’s courtyard wall attached to the house. It’s become a street attraction, apparently. A small group of Sunday strollers were gathered round.”

“A mural of what?”

“A tropical scene. Blue water and seabirds and lily pads and other aquatic elements. There’s a dog, too, and some dragonflies flitting about. Quite lovely. Quite peaceful. A pleasure to view.”

“I doubt one has anything to do with the other, but it’s worth watching. I’ll put a man on the street immediately.” Derrick offered his whiskey glass for a toast. “Good work.”

“I am honored to serve, Mein Colonel,” his wolfhound said, crystal rims ringing in the firelit room.

Now Derrick had to wait until time for Victoria’s contact to react to her intelligence report. Derrick had chosen the target to eliminate the improbability that she reported to someone within the Nazi Party. If the chosen target remained untouched, Derrick would know that Victoria’s contact was a member of an Allied intelligence agency. His bet was still on the OSS. It was an organization not easily deceived, and for some time Derrick had suspected that it was onto the game that he and Konrad were playing against the Third Reich.

Derrick had decided not to share his suspicions of Victoria Grayson with his coconspirator. For her safety, there was no need for Konrad to know. His friend was already in danger because of his association with Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. Rumor was that Heinrich Himmler’s vultures were beginning to circle over the admiral’s head, and Derrick feared that whatever befell Canaris would befall his mentee. What his friend did not know, he could not betray.

The buzz of his desk intercom interrupted his ruminations. “Yes, Karl?”

“Chief Detective Maurice Corbett and an associate of the criminal investigation department of the French National Police are here to see you, Colonel.”

Derrick stiffened. What the devil were they back for? He’d thought they were through with their questions. “Send them in, Karl, but make it clear that I can give them only a few minutes.” He stood as they entered, the fledgling detective and his superior, the middle-aged police veteran whose deeply lined face appeared to have been stitched back together after falling apart at one point in his lifetime.