A Matter of Honor

Adam checked quickly through the wallet to discover a driver’s license and a couple of credit cards in the colonel’s real name of Albert Tomkins. He quickly looked around. A double bed that was wedged up against the far wall took up most of the floor space. Apart from the chair he was settled in the only other pieces of furniture were a dressing table and a tiny stool with a red velvet cushion on it. A stained blue carpet covered most of the wooden floor.

To his left was a small fireplace with logs stacked neatly in one corner. All Adam wished to do was fall asleep, but with what strength was left in his body, he pushed himself up, wobbled over to the fireplace, and hid the wallet between the logs. He lurched back toward the chair and fell into it as the door reopened.

Again the girl stood in the light of the doorway, but this time she wore only a short pink negligee, which even in his state Adam could see right through whenever she made the slightest movement. She walked slowly across the room and once more knelt down beside him.

“How you like it, mon chéri? Straight or the French way?”

“I need to rest,” said Adam.

“For two hundred francs you sleep in any ‘otel,” she said in disbelief.

“I only want to be allowed to rest a few minutes,” he assured her.

“Anglais.” she said, and began to try to lift Adam out of the chair and toward the bed. He stumbled and fell, landing half on and half off the corner of the mattress. She undressed him as deftly as any nurse could have done before lifting his legs up on to the bed. Adam made no effort to help or hinder her. She hesitated for a moment when she saw the shoulder wound, bewildered over what kind of accident could have caused such a gash. She rolled him over to the far side and pulled back the top sheet and blanket. Then she walked round to the other side of the bed and rolled him back again. Finally she pushed him flat on his back and covered him with the sheet and blankets.

“I could still give you French if you like,” she said. But Adam was already asleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

WHEN ADAM EVENTUALLY awoke the sun was already shining through the small window of the bedroom. He blinked as he took in his surroundings and tried to recall what had happened the night before. Then it all came back to him and he suddenly felt sick at the memory. He sat on the edge of the bed, but the moment he tried to stand he felt giddy and weak and fell back down. At least he had escaped. He looked around the room, but the girl was nowhere to be seen or heard. Then he remembered the wallet.

He sat bolt upright, gathering himself for a few moments before standi

ng up again and trying to walk. Although he was still unsteady, it was better than he had expected. It’s your recovery that counts, not your speed, he thought ironically. When he reached the fireplace he fell on his knees and searched among the logs, but the colonel’s wallet was no longer there. As quickly as he could, he went to the jacket hanging over the back of the chair. He checked in the inside pocket: a pen, a half-toothless comb, a passport, a driver’s license, some other papers, but no wallet. He searched the outside pockets: a bunch of keys, a penknife, a few assorted coins, English and French, but that was all that was left. With a string of oaths he collapsed onto the floor. He sat there for some time and didn’t move until he heard a key in the lock.

The front door of the flat swung open, and the girl sauntered in carrying a shopping basket. She was dressed in a pretty floral skirt and white blouse that would have been suitable for any churchgoer on a Sunday morning. The basket was crammed with food.

“Woken up, ‘ave we, chéri? Est-ce que tu prends le petit déjeuner?”

Adam looked a little taken aback.

She returned his stare. “Even working girls need their breakfast, n’est-ce pas? Sometimes is the only meal I manage all day.”

“Where’s my wallet?” asked Adam coldly.

“On the table,” said the girl, pointing.

Adam glanced across the room to see that she had left the wallet in the most obvious place.

“It not necessary of you to ‘ide it,” she reprimanded him. “Because I’m a whore don’t think I’m a thief.” With this she strode off into the kitchen, leaving the door open.

Adam suddenly felt very small.

“Coffee and croissants?” she shouted.

“Fantastic,” said Adam. He paused. “I’m sorry. I was stupid.”

“Not to think about it,” she said. “Ça n’est rien.”

“I still don’t know your name,” said Adam.

“My working name is Brigitte, but as you ‘ave not use my services last night or this morning you can call me by my real name, Jeanne.”

“Can I have a bath, Jeanne?”

“The door in the corner, but don’t take too long, unless you like croissants cold.” Adam made his way to the bathroom and found Jeanne had provided for everything a man might need: a razor, shaving cream, soap, flannel, clean towels—and a giant box of condoms.

After a warm bath and a shave, delights Adam had nearly forgotten, he felt almost back to normal again, if still somewhat fragile. He tucked a pink towel around his waist before joining Jeanne in the kitchen. The table was already laid, and she was removing a warm croissant from the oven.