Derrick read quickly, thoughtfully, then filed the report in a drawer with others accumulated over the past three months. Only one question remained unanswered: Was Victoria acquainted with the other conspirators, all male, or did they work separately? She’d not been reported communicating or even being seen with the men at the same time. There were three of them: a seaman and two other men of undetermined professions. Photographs showed them young, early twenties, strong, fit, and attractive. Routinely, but separately, they were observed slipping messages into the mail chute of the house near the convent, now the canvas for a beautiful mural. Karl had driven him to see the house despite the risk that his staff car’s presence on the street might warn the conspirators that the drop had been compromised. The mural was indeed something lovely to behold. Did this depiction of a peaceful scene of aquatic sea life have anything to do with the clandestine activity going on next door?

His wolfhound had nosed out information on the petite, blond artist as well. Mademoiselle Bernadette Dufor was a clothes designer working for the renowned fashion house La Maison de Boucher. Celeste was a patron of the place. Derrick would have to ask her if she knew her. Two details bothered him. According to his man’s investigation, she had been hired about the time Victoria was employed at L’Ecole d’Escrime Français, seemingly out of nowhere, a graduate of a middling school of design in Lyons now defunct because of the war. No reputation of extraordinary ability preceded her that would justify a position at an esteemed fashion house, but the couturier who owned the place had been desperate to replace designers who’d refused to work in a house that catered to the wives of the Nazi invaders.

Coincidence? Derrick did not believe in coincidences. The other item was her place of residence. She lived within the thick walls of the convent, an ideal location to set up a transmission radio that might go undetected. Derrick would like to know how she came to reside in a house of nuns reserved only for their order, but his wolfhound had stopped short of presenting the question to the woman in charge of the place. “I am Catholic,” he explained, “and I do not run afoul of a mother superior.” He did, however, offer an opinion that ran contrary to Derrick’s suspicions. “My observation of Mademoiselle Dufor has revealed nothing to indicate that she is aware of the purpose of the mail slot next door. It is my view, Colonel, that the artist is not a member of the cell.”