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A rmand enjoyed his meal, and after smoking another cigarette, he eased his tired body off the chair and went to look for the housekeeper.

He entered the busy kitchen but couldn’t see her. When he enquired where he could find her, no one seemed to know. The butler, who had his hands full, suggested she might be in her private sitting room, taking a break.

Armand tapped on the door, but there was no reply.

He tapped again, but still no one responded.

His curiosity to see more of the chateau prevailed and instead of returning to the kitchen to ask someone to find the housekeeper for him, he opened the door and poked his head inside the room.

It was small and neat, much as he would expect a housekeeper’s room to be.

A hardback register lay on the writing desk, and the temptation proved too great to resist. He shuffled into the room, glancing back over his shoulder to check no one saw him. The hallway was deserted, so he closed the door softly behind him.

He opened the heavy book and thumbed through it, scanning the handwriting, looking for clues.

Armand was always searching for clues and fancied himself something of a seasoned detective.

After several minutes, he realised it was just a record of mundane housekeeping notes and held no interest for him.

Footsteps approached the door, and he froze, then cast his eyes around for a place to hide.

The room was too small, so he decided to pretend he was lost, but the sound of footsteps continued past the door and faded into the distance.

The thrill of nearly being caught excited him and he craved more adventure, and wished he could go into the city on one of his surveillance operations.

Armand sighed at the unfairness of his situation and shuffled back out of the room. In the kitchen, there was still no sign of the housekeeper, so he asked the butler how to reach the turret he had seen from the courtyard.

The butler looked surprised until Armand added that he merely wished to admire what must surely be a magnificent view.

He gave him directions and pointed him towards a spare lantern, and the disgruntled chauffeur limped out of the kitchens and along the hallway towards the back stairs.

The lantern flickered to life reluctantly after several attempts with a match, casting an eerie yellow glow onto the steps.

He dragged his wasted leg up the winding staircase, grunting as he got ever higher, and his chest grew tight as he struggled to breathe. The steps were steep, and he hadn’t realised it would be so difficult for him to reach the top after such a hearty meal and several large drinks.

Halfway up, he paused to catch his breath, his muscles burning, and considered turning back.

The turret would probably not live up to his expectations, anyway.

But he reminded himself he was no quitter and who knew when he’d have the opportunity again?

Armand proceeded, slowly but methodically until he reached the top and leant heavily against the stone wall, breathing fast from the exertion.

He let himself rest for a few minutes and after he recovered his strength, pulled himself upright and edged towards the turret room.

Armand pushed on the thick wooden door, and it creaked, startling him.

The light was insufficient to see properly, and he was regretting going up there at night.

His impulsive nature often led him to do things he later wished he hadn’t.

Dust floated in the air, and he sneezed loudly as he crossed to the turret window.

He pulled back the shutters and was rewarded for his persistence with a breathtaking view of Toulouse and the surrounding countryside.

He had made it just in time to see the sun dip below the horizon and the soft cape of dusk coat the skies.

The panoramic scene was glorious, and he inhaled deeply.

It was the perfect night, and it was so peaceful, he stood there revelling in the experience.

He squinted, trying to work out who was running in the distance. He was surprised to recognise the figure of the housekeeper, obviously in a great rush.

What on earth was she doing at that time of night when her master was entertaining such prestigious guests? Armand watched her run, his mind ticking over as he tried to think of a viable excuse for her strange behaviour.

It made no sense. He concluded it was very odd indeed and couldn’t find a reason for it.

Armand made a mental note to add the housekeeper—Suzanne—to his list of potential traitors.

He would discover her family name easily enough if he made enquiries with his network of informants.

They were always keen to please in any way they could, desperate to buy his good favour.

His climb to the turret was proving more stimulating than he had imagined and his juices were flowing again as he thought of uncovering some kind of resistance connection to Suzanne. She might even be the ringleader.

The Resistance was becoming more troublesome, and he had received a fresh set of orders to scale up his investigations into local troublemakers.

Recently, a rail track had been destroyed by explosives and the expensive cargo bound for Germany had been ruined and the transport delayed considerably until a new track could be laid.

The commissaire was furious and told the Legion they must do better.

The police could not handle everything alone and they were relying on them to root out enemies of state before they gained anymore traction.

Nightfall arrived swiftly whilst Armand deliberated about Suzanne and her possible motives for roaming around the chateau grounds alone at night.

He closed the shutters and searched the small turret room to see if there was anything of interest. It occurred to him that this might even be a space the housekeeper used for her treasonous activities, and he regretted not combing her sitting room whilst he had the chance.

Armand pulled the drawers out of the old desk and poked about, but there was nothing inside except for a few dusty Toulousian keepsakes.

He explored the room, looking for anywhere incriminating evidence might be hidden.

His eyes rested on a shelf which protruded from the rugged stone wall, and his pulse raced at the thought of the imminent discovery that would show his superiors, he was someone to be reckoned with.

He reached up to the shelf and sneezed again as a shower of dust tickled his nostrils.

His heartbeat picked up pace as he patted the inside of the stone shelf, and his fingers located a large key.

He stretched and clutched at it, fumbling to pull it off.

Surely this must be for something significant, or why would a key be stashed away like this?

Armand found it most intriguing, and his instincts told him there was more to this chateau than met the eye.

He cast about for a fitting hole for the key but couldn’t find one.

Then he thought it must be the key for the door and chided himself for missing the obvious, but when he jangled the key in the lock, it didn’t fit.

Armand turned the key over in his hands and puzzled what to do. This key must fit something in the little room high in the sky, but what?

The evening brought one disappointment after another. He had still not glimpsed the dashing Michel Dubois, and soon he would have to leave.

Armand made another round of the room, his eyes searching for a lock that could be a receptacle for the key.

He stooped down, groaning at the strain as he tried to push the thick heavy rug aside.

He scanned the room for any telltale signs of a secret compartment.

In his training at Gestapo HQ, they had taught them about the many ways their enemies were caught concealing their spy equipment.

Armand sneezed again, glanced at his watch, and realised Von Schneider might have summoned him already.

The Gestapo officer hadn’t seemed like a patient man.

He must go now but promised himself he would return at the next opportunity and conduct a more comprehensive search.

He was weary, and his sore leg throbbed, so he pushed the rug back with his shoe, released a long-laboured sigh, and walked to the door and back down the winding stone steps.

Armand tried to hurry, but it was difficult with his uncooperative leg. Halfway down the spiral staircase, his fingers clasped the cold ornate key in his pocket, and he smiled.

At least he had something tangible to show for his efforts.