As soon as she’d approached him in the park, she’d committed herself, so she joined him in the kitchen.
He leaned against the wall and took a puff from a cigarette. “Do you still want to aid us?”
Us? So it was a group. Lucie lowered herself into a rickety wooden chair and gripped her purse in her lap. “Yes, I do.”
“If you must call me something, call me Renard.”
Renard—the fox. “Oui, monsieur.”
Renard wore a black pullover sweater and gray trousers, and he regarded her with sharp, dark eyes. “Your store is a letter box, a place to pass messages. From now on, we will work with you, but only you. Tell Madame Martel nothing.”
“I understand.” Why did it feel more dangerous knowing she’d work alone?
“We will bring books to you for various reasons, as you said in the park.” He motioned to her with his cigarette. “You will place the books behind your desk. You will never read the notes again. Do you understand?”
Her breath hitched, but she nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“When our friends come to retrieve the messages, they must ask for the title and they must indicate they know it’s behind the desk—a friend put it on hold, they called for it, now they have their wallet. This is vital.”
“That makes sense.” They had to keep the notes out of the wrong hands. “How do they know which book to ask for?”
“You do not need to know.” He raked back the black curl on his forehead. “When they ask for a title, you must ask, ‘Have you read this author before?’ They must answer in these exact words—‘No, but I am determined to better myself.’ In English.”
“All right.”
“I am the customer.” The cigarette dangled between Renard’s long fingers. “I say to you, ‘My friend recommended I readMoby-Dick, and he placed a copy on hold for me.’ And you say ...?”
Lucie smiled as if behind the desk of her store. “Let me check. Have you read Melville before?”
“And the customer must say...?”
“No, but I am determined to better myself.”
“Good. If they don’t answer correctly, you must not give them the book.”
Lucie pressed her hand to her chest. “I’m sorry, monsieur. I sold the last copy.”
Two streams of silver smoke blew from his nostrils. “If we must change the code phrase or if we must communicate with you, we will bring you a journal, not a book. We will ask the price, declare it too expensive, and leave. The message will be inside. You must read it privately, then burn it.”
“All right.” Lucie imprinted the information into her brain—lives might depend on her memory. “If I need to communicate with you—”
“You will not.”
“But what if—”
“If you sense danger or believe messages should not be exchanged, move the potted plant from the mantel to the window. Remove it when it is safe. If you must cease operations permanently, place the pot on the sidewalk by the door.”
Lucie breathed slowly, deliberately. She prayed she’d never have to do such a thing.
“In that situation,” Renard said, “you will burn any remaining messages. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” Her voice wavered.
“If you see me, you may greet me as you would any customer. That is all. Do you have any questions? This is your last opportunity to ask.”
A smarter woman would have questions. But the only questions flying through her head had to do with safety, danger, consequences. And none of those mattered when she had the opportunity to do something of value.
“No, monsieur. No questions. No regrets.”
