PAINLESS
a flashback companion piece to "Show and Tell"

(Nicole demanded I tell her part in the story!)

***January 30, 2023***

When his doorbell rang, the aged man was puzzled. The visiting nurse wasn't due that day, and he rarely received any other visitors.

With great difficulty, he rose from the plush armchair beside the gas fire, flinching with pain that worsened each day. He automatically looked to the wall clock to see if it was time for his next dose of medication. But two hours still must pass before that welcome hour was reached.

His oncologists were generous in the dosage established, he knew. There would be no remission this time since the cancer was spreading; they had no fear of him becoming a long-term addict. But there were still established rules, so the dosage could go no further. If he used up his daily dosages too quickly, they would know. They might decide he couldn't be trusted, confine him to a place with strict observation, somewhere sterile and cold, away from his gas fire, books, and the pleasant view of the market square. It was not worth it. He wished to die at home, not in an uncomfortable bed with tubes running in and out of him. The catheter his urologist had fitted him with two weeks ago was bad enough.

The doorbell rang again, and he heard a woman's soft voice inquire, "Monsieur Devilliers? Are you indisposed? I could return at another time."

He recognized the voice. "No, no, Mademoiselle! A moment–"

Joseph Devilliers had been charmed the first time she had visited him. So beautiful even if she was into her "gracious years," as his late wife had called women over fifty. But not only attractive—intelligent and funny, with a thirst for knowledge he found addicting.

He peered through the peephole to confirm that it was she. The first thing he had noticed—he was certain so had most other men and probably many women, too—were her large, expressive eyes, then the lovely silky blonde hair (today captured neatly in a vintage, crocheted net snood), a flawless complexion, and a fetching smile.

"Mademoiselle Hitchens! I am so happy to see you. Come in!"

Nicole Wallace, in her nom de guerre identity from twenty years earlier, paused only a second to regard the skeletal face of the aged journalist. "Dying by inches," she thought with pity and revulsion mixed. How could a kind society allow this? She hoped that in thirty years, she would not also be a shell of a person, struggling against Death's current.

I would prefer to die instantly! she raged to herself. Of course there is no God, or why would he choose such a fate for this guileless man?

It was by her guile she would acquire what she wanted.

"Monsieur Devilliers, you look so very tired today. I was here in Chartres working on another story and hoped I could glimpse that wonderful box of yours again. But I fear I would interrupt your rest. Perhaps another–"

"No, no, please! I am tired, but talking with you would be a bane to my weary soul and aching body. Please come in."

"If you're certain–" Nicole realized she was entirely sincere in her concern for his welfare.

"Mas oui, my dear. You will help me forget the pain. May I compliment you on the lovely frock? It reminds me of the ones ladies wore in my youth."

"Merci, Monsieur." Of course, she had worn the vintage dress, cream-colored with tiny aquamarine polka dots, with the matching blue snood, by design, knowing it would catch his eye.

Nicole stepped inside the tidy little flat. She knew Devilliers had a home nurse on alternate days—she had planned this second visit as she had the first, on the day the nurse did not call— as well as a cleaner, but he kept the place neat as a pin, and very plainly but attractively decorated: a combination dining/living room done in shades of cream and pale blues, a small white and primrose galley kitchen, and, beyond that—because Nicole had snooped on her previous visit when she used the loo—a small pale-blue bathroom, and a neutral grey bedroom filled with books, as was the living area. The entire flat was dotted with photos of Devilliers through all stages of his career, from early assignments in the Berlin sectors to globe-hopping shots of him in London, Paris, Sydney, Seoul, Da Nang, Hanoi, Sarajevo. The one photograph of him with his late wife on their wedding day had pride of place over the sofa.

Nicole had done her research thoroughly when it came to Devilliers. Her initial probe into investigating Evangeline Pepin's past had resulted in her being crammed into a corner of the public library in a swaybacked chair reading digitized newspapers in both French and English for hours, waiting for the name "Duplantier" to catch her eye. This drudgery had finally brought her the titbit she had longed for, an exposé of Maximiliano Duplantier, the eldest child and only son of innovative Yves Arnaud, a notorious bon vivant who was interviewed by the Sun in the 1990s, and who'd dished with appalling bluntness about his arse-licking sister Evangeline, the "thief of my birthright," and coyly made references to family secrets. (He conveniently didn't mention the car accidents, pregnancies, and drunken escapades his exasperated father had bought him out of.)

The half-toned newspaper photo had perfectly captured the dissolute, drink-ravaged face of the former heir to the Duplantix empire. Nicole would not have given a euro for him or an old-style franc, for that matter. In some other reality, perhaps, she and Evangeline Pepin might have even been friends, as Nicole admired her business acumen and intelligence—but only if Marcel Pepin had not been the contested item between them.

But attempts on her life, and worse, attempts on her daughter Mignon's, were not to be borne.

In any case, Maximiliano's not-so-charming volubility had led her to his other interviews, his manner oozing with increasing vulgarity as he ascended the journalistic ladder to full-blown tabloid trash. In one, he had obligingly referenced "poor Monsieur Devilliers," who had gone up against "his great stupid connard of a nephew" and mentioned with great glee the "hidden things"—these secrets unnamed since "eventually the world will know the truth," was his gloat—that "certain others" knew about the family.

Madame and her dull sister Béatrice had then banded together and sent the poor wretch somewhere to "dry out" in Switzerland, where bribes probably kept him drugged and in a straitjacket.

Thank goodness the drunken sot had mentioned Devilliers only once, and the press, now accustomed to ignoring him since his windmill-tilt with Madame's eldest son, continued to do so! But Nicole had not, and with her usual tenacity had found the journalist and then telephoned him, giving as her bona fides an association with his protégé Sébastien Anouilh—well, she did know him after all, didn't she? Surely Laurent introducing him at a Christmas fête counted?

"That is very kind of you, Monsieur, but, as I said, my visit does have an ulterior motive. I was hoping to look in your box and see the microfilm again. The latter is quite fascinating."

Devilliers smiled at her, happy for the diversion, but Nicole wished he had not because the gesture made him look more like a death's-head than ever. "Oh, no bother, Mademoiselle. I will retrieve the box and then brew us a cup of tea."

To fight off revulsion toward the ambulatory skeleton Joseph Devilliers had become, Nicole switched on all her charm. "How about a trade then, Monsieur? Tit for tat? I can see your kitchen from here—all the items for tea are visible. Why don't you fetch the box and I'll make the tea?"

"But you're my guest–"

"And you are sweet to permit me to impose upon you. Besides, I have a treat, if you'd like. Remember when I was here last and mentioned I'd visited Thailand and sampled some marvelous Thai teas? I have one of the teas in my purse, a mint tisane that should help you with your digestion. How about it? Care to try?"

Could the poor man even eat more than a few mouthfuls any longer? Nicole wondered.

But Devilliers only tilted his head at her fondly. "Of course. I'll try anything when such a lovely lady brings me a treat."

He shuffled away to collect the box while Nicole filled the electric kettle and extracted the tea, parceled out in little filter paper packets, from a plastic pouch in her ample Coach purse. While they looked alike to the untrained eye, Nicole could distinguish the minute marks indicating the safe ones.

Devilliers' kettle was quite efficient. In a trice, she had boiling water transferred into the fat rose-hued teapot, found two mugs and a tea cozy, a sugar bowl and three teaspoons, and taken all, plus the teabags, to the living room using a pretty flowered tray she'd found in a lower cupboard as Devilliers waited at the round tea table with its two café chairs, the battered metal box to one side.

"I'll be 'mother,'" she said brightly, her composure regained, "unless you'd prefer–"

He demurred handsomely, and she nodded. "I'm sorry to have resorted to tea bags rather than something properly brewed, but it's easier to have a cuppa when I'm out."

"It is not a problem, Mademoiselle. We French are not so strict about our tea etiquette as the British colonies."

At first, they sipped the steaming, fragrant tea and discussed its unusual bright mint taste with hints of ginger.

"I'm sorry, Monsieur," she apologized after her second sip, "I completely forgot to ask if you wanted some biscuits. I saw a packet of ginger digestives in your kitchen–"

"Only if you would like some, my dear," he returned benevolently, confirming her suspicions. "I have little appetite these days."

"I have just finished a delicious luncheon, so no need," Nicole lied, mentioning a café two streets away before laying a small digital recorder on the table. "What I'd like to do is review the notes I took during my last visit and make certain my facts are correct. It would not do for me to present this article to the public without having confirmed everything."

"I wish you luck with that, mon cher," Devilliers said wryly. "My evidence was impeccable and still I was taken down by Yves Arnaud's namesake and his dreadnought of attorneys."

"A miscarriage of justice," she answered crisply. "I, too, have connections, several of them persistently tenacious, who I hope—this time—will give credence to your evidence." And then she regarded him gravely. "But it will take time, Monsieur Devilliers–"

"Time I don't have, my dear."

"I suppose not, Monsieur. I am very sorry." Again, she was sincere and became angry with herself. What she wanted was to take herself away from his ravaged face, to instead ride the Eurostar and drop in on Mignon at school and cuddle her, or to call Marcel and take comfort in his warm body. There came the irrational thought, "This is what you did to me, Bobby. Saddled me with a bothersome conscience," when she knew it was a lie. It was Mignon who had awakened that long-dormant emotion.

"So," she said aloud in businesslike tones, "your first documents came from Maximiliano Duplantier–"

"No, no," Devilliers replied as he enjoyed his tea. "The German files were my first discovery or rather the discovery of a close friend who was a correspondent in Germany. He was there when the Berlin Wall fell and had unearthed a cache of documents from a former corporal in the Nazi army; the man kept records for an SS officer. He brought the Duplantier letters to my attention."

"And his name?"

"Gerard Mineaux, but you won't be able to contact him, dear. He sleeps well in a graveyard in Crécy—a motoring accident some years ago. His attorney forwarded me the documents after his demise."

"I'm sure he was nowhere as charming as you," Nicole said, sweetly smiling, but his mention of "a motoring accident" had already raised her suspicions. "Then you received the documents from Maximiliano."

"Not a surprise. He lived in a constant state of irritation because his sister received what he considered his rightful portion. As if a brilliant man like Yves Arnaud would have allowed a debauched inebriate like Maxi to run Duplantix."

Nicole cocked an eyebrow at him. "You dare call a Nazi collaborator 'brilliant'?"

Devilliers flashed his teeth. "I may acknowledge a brilliant man even though he is evil."

"And Herr Hitler?"

"Him! He was not brilliant, just charismatic. That kind is just as dangerous, if not more."

"The microfilm seems a theatrical touch. Where did that originate?"

"Ah, did I not explain that last time? Yves Arnaud had a compatriot who made certain the family secret was not revealed: that the Duplantiers had not fled to Switzerland when the war began but were closeted quite comfortably in an old chateau in Grenoble. A French-Swiss banker with fascist sympathies, Émile Royal, was his partner—for a tidy portion of the profits, évidemment. A loathsome family all around; one of Royal's nephews became an espionage agent for 'the wrong side,' to put it kindly.

"In any case, Royal hid evidence referring to the incriminating French documents on the microfilm, as insurance."

"A nice partnership, based on distrust and greed," Nicole sneered.

"Not-so-odd bedfellows," Devilliers agreed. "Did I mention that Émile met a bad end in 1947? It's said his young nephew the spy had him eliminated."

"And soon afterward the microfilm disappeared from his files?"

"And turned up in Maximiliano's. You would have been a prize student in a journalism class, Mademoiselle."

While she didn't blush, she had the grace to bow her head. "You are too kind, Monsieur." After a considered pause, "More tea?"

"Yes, please," he said, and she dropped another of the unbleached teabags into his mug and poured hot water over it.

"So, let me ask you, a second time if permitted," Devilliers said kindly after his tea had been sugared and steeped and he was sipping the fresh brew, "what is your interest in this?"

"My article, of course, as I told you the first time," Nicole returned brightly, adding sugar to her cup.

"But why the interest in French affairs at all?" Devilliers probed. "You are Australian and would not accounts from that part of the world be more relevant to you?"

Nicole almost caught herself being honest to the man, that she had not set foot in her native land in decades, and cursed herself mentally. "Perhaps because I despise the abuse of the helpless by the powerful."

She didn't mean to add such venom to her words; even in his debilitated state, Devilliers caught it immediately. "Dear lady, who has hurt you so badly?" he inquired in such sympathetic tones that she shuddered in a more intense flashback than she'd had in years.

She could feel the slick of summer sweat on her nine-year-old body and the acrid sting of its scent in her nose as she lay in her new, wider bed—her father had told her gullible and unperceptive mother that the expense had been worth it so that their sweet little girl would have a good night's sleep—in a singlet and bum shorts, on her side staring at the battered alarm clock on the bedside table and praying (to a God she had come to loathe) for the hour hand to tick past 10. Usually, if that happened, it meant Mum and Dad were both so in their cups that she could get a good night's sleep.

But no, the door creaked at quarter till and she held back tears with tightly closed lids. She could already smell Dad's beery, sweaty stench; when he whispered, "Are you awake, Nicki?" she knew that in a few minutes, there would be hands imprisoning her and pain...

"It was so long ago," she smiled, "that I hardly think of it any longer."

He said nothing, but his expression clearly branded her a liar.

"May I inquire what you put in the tea, Mademoiselle?" He looked at her a bit dreamily. "I must admit it does wonders, better than anything the home nurse provides."

Nicole looked so startled that he laughed. "Oh, come now, mon cher. Did you think I wouldn't notice the lessening of pain? It gnaws at me constantly like a wolf chewing my vitals. But since drinking your tisane, I feel better than I have in nearly a year."

"You must ask the Thai tea merchant I bought it from," she said in a kind tone. "I know nothing about it but the name, 'Soothing Bangkok Mint.' It should assure you have a restful nap this afternoon."

She had expected that the tranquilizer slipped into the tea bags prepared for him would have worked already on his weak, cancer-ridden body so she could appropriate the box and its precious contents. If, when he woke, he reported that 'Elizabeth Hitchens' had stolen his property, the police would inform him that Ms. Hitchens was dead. But his fight against pain had made him resilient, and he still was staring, albeit a bit glassily, at her with a benevolent curve of his lips.

"Ah, then, since I will owe you a restful sleep," he said lightly, "might I thank you by your real name?"

"You are so sleepy now that you forget," she teased, "that you greeted me by name when I arrived."

"Come, come," was the precise retort, "I know you are not Elizabeth Hitchens. You see, dear one, I met Elizabeth Hitchens 24 years ago when she was in Sydney for a literature seminar that I was covering for Le Monde. We had dinner and talked for several hours. She was quite as fetching as you are, but under no circumstances could she have morphed so radically that you would be mistaken for her. And even if you were Mademoiselle's doppelgänger, I would wonder why a woman who is said to have embezzled so much money would feel the need to write exposé articles."

Momentarily, Nicole was frozen with fear, as she had been the day that dreadful colleague of Robert Goren's had fed her false information about a woman Marcel was tupping on the side, the one who had remarked that her daughter—her beautiful, bright Mignon—would be a pleasure to raise. No one ever ever would take her girl away—unless she permitted it. Only three people currently rated that privilege, one of them Marcel.

"I am someone who wishes to see justice done," she said stiffly, looking him directly in the eye.

"Justice done," he said with a deep sigh, "or revenge on Evangeline Pepin and her father's family?"

She swallowed. "Both."

He considered. "I approve." His eyelids drooped, and she leaned back to wait him out.

"The tea," he softly questioned, "in larger doses, does it produce a longer, painless sleep?"

Nicole chuckled nervously. "I don't know, Monsieur Devilliers. How long did you wish to sleep?"

He roused himself with an effort to stare at her. "Forever."

She blinked. "Pardon me?"

"Once I am truly terminal, mon cher, and in hospital, they have my directives. They will allow me to die in peace. But the assisted death bill has yet to be passed. Catholic guilt still hovers over France. No one will release me from my torment."

In her head, suddenly, irrationally, she heard little Hannah scream the way she had screamed when her father forced himself upon her, after her misplaced fury turned on her three-year-old and led to her murder. "No, no! Hurts, Mummy! It hurts-" Bobby Goren was right—Death was attached to her like a shadow.

"You are not new to this," Devilliers said shrewdly, his body wavering slightly in his chair.

Ella's soft body next to her in bed...then her sightless face supine as Nicole tossed the container of her own blood down.

The utter satisfaction of stabbing Bernard Fremont with a syringe and plunging its contents home.

Oh, Mignon...if you knew, if you knew, would you hate me?

She took a deep breath, re-centering herself as she wondered if he was sincere, then produced another tea bag and set it deliberately in his cup. "You will have another?"

Devilliers tilted his head at her, then lifted his wasted chin. "Oui."

Mechanically, she poured hot water from the teapot into his cup, and he spooned in sugar and stirred. "But should there not be more?"

"This portion will be enough for deep sleep. In fact, you should lie down on the sofa before drinking that," Nicole observed as she saw his hand tremble, and she lifted the cup while he rose and transferred his seat to the sofa. "I have something different...for the rest."

He did not pretend to misunderstand. "Do I take it now, with the tea?"

"I will wait until you are asleep. There will be no pain," she said stolidly.

"You will put my box to good use?" Devilliers demanded as he finished the cup and then lay down, turning so that he lay on his right side, his still-earnest eyes struggling to focus on her. "You must swear," he added irrationally, as he knew there was little he could do now.

"Not immediately, but justice will be served in time." The irony of her response made her swallow hard. She berated herself fiercely: Sentiment serves no purpose.

He was shivering slightly now as he fought the somnolent effects of the tea. Nicole withdrew a single packet of sterilized latex gloves from her purse, disposing of the packet back into the handbag. There was a soft, knitted throw over the arm of the sofa, so Nicole picked it up and tossed it over him to look as if he had just settled down for a nap.

"Merci," he whispered. "I feel so...cold."

Nicole remained in her chair at the tea table next to the sofa but said in the soothing voice she used at Mignon's bedside when she read a story, "You should be warmer soon. Tell me a warm memory. That should help. What's your fondest one?"

Devilliers smiled dreamily. "Oh…my fondest? It takes me back. My parents were...shepherds in pastures just north…of Montpelier. One summer…when I was six years old...we had just cut hay...and it was a...warm, beautiful day. My little sister, aged five, and I...climbed to the top…of the hay rick—hay is very difficult to climb...so slippery…I had to help her—and we lay...on the top...and watched the clouds and...enjoyed the warmth of the sun…and the smell of the sheep...and lavender."

"Is your sister still with us?" Nicole asked softly.

"She died…during the Occupation. Not enough food…and she was not a well…child as it was." His eyelids closed. "Chloé and I were like…twins. She died because..."

"Because of the monsters, yes." So many monsters, in so many times.

Devilliers was asleep. She took his pulse, finding it extremely slow; she wondered now about the tea. Could she have accomplished what she needed with only the tea?

But she had promised him, hadn't she? And she had to be sure.

She rose, gathered the tea things, moved to the kitchen, then washed each item she had touched with fierce concentration, using Devilliers' scrub brush, and stacked them one by one in the dish drainer. She had tried not to touch anything else, but with alcohol wipes from the capacious cream-colored leather purse, she scrubbed down anything else she conceivably might have touched.

She didn't know why she worried; her DNA records had been well scrambled ever since Declan Gage had taunted her into killing Goren's cretin of a brother. For all intents, "Nicole Wallace" was still dead. Only Madeleine Haynes—and Nicole's pain buried inside her—lived.

Would they autopsy him to find the pinprick under his tongue? Would someone even investigate a pain-wracked, cancer-eaten old man who died in his sleep? Yet no harm was done in taking care...

She disposed of the gloves in a plastic storage bag in her purse, then stared at her slim fingers with disgust. Even having had gloves on, she felt unclean. She snatched an antiseptic cleaner from her purse, scrubbing it over her hands, pushing it deep into the creases of her hand, even deep under her nails, deep until it hurt.

I like it when you fight me, Nicki, her father had whispered to her as she struggled against him. Go on, use your nails, get angry. You know it excites me, you wicked girl, don't you? Daddy's little slut...

When she returned to Devilliers' side, Nicole fitted on a second pair of latex gloves. He was so deeply asleep now that she could not even rouse him by shaking, so she settled him back in a position of repose, spreading the throw to cover him, and fishing inside her purse one final time.

On the Paris-bound railway car, she sat alone even though second class was overcrowded, very erect, shoulders back, in a seat beside the window, her chin held steady, face so aloof, attitude so unapproachable that no one claimed the second seat. Safely stored in the reusable shopping bag she had carried folded in her purse was the battered tin box, filled with its precious documents and the microfilm square. She held the bag tightly against her left side, her purse on her right shoulder still holding the disposable trash from her recent visit, including an empty syringe and bottle, all which she would dispose of thoroughly and discreetly at a more advantageous time.

She had promised him, hadn't she? She'd remained by his side until his breathing had stopped and the usual post-mortem functions had ceased. She'd bagged the box of documents, checked the flat for anything she had missed, and, still wearing latex gloves, secured the door lock behind her. The home nurse would find him the next day, mercifully out of his agony.

Before she left, she whispered, "Merci, Monsieur Devilliers. Justice will be served."

She was shivering slightly but put it down to the cold of January, 7C that day, growing chillier as evening approached. The other occupants of the railway car seemed to waver before her as if fronted by fumes from a fire. The fires of Hell, perhaps?

Christ, what was the matter with her? Previously, this had always been so easy. Bernard had praised her for her detachment; Bobby had rebuked her for having no heart. The former was easier. Almost painless.

But Mignon had opened the floodgates. There was no escape.

As the train approached the Gare du Nord, she pulled out her mobile and pressed the icon for Marcel. She didn't expect him to answer, so her mood lightened when he not only responded in person, but seemed happy to hear from her.

"Hullo, darling," she responded brightly. "I know it's only been a month since the Christmas hols ended, but I'm desperately missing Mignon. I thought I'd pop over this weekend and see her, p'raps take her to the V&A since she liked it so awfully last time." With only a slight hesitation, she added, "I know you're quite busy, dearest, but could I persuade you to join us? It would be such a surprise for her."

To her astonishment, he had said yes, that perhaps they could stay at Claridge's and have dinner at the new Catalonian restaurant in Soho that had received such a favorable review in the Times. "I could use a break from the routine myself. In fact, why don't we leave tomorrow? No crises are breaking out and we can have some time to ourselves before picking up notre belle fille." He added, almost shyly, "You would like that, my Madeleine?"

"Oui, bien sûr, mon cher," she answered softly.

His voice was puzzled. "You are fine, Madeleine? You sound unhappy."

"Just a silly story I had heard that I took too much to heart."

"I will take your mind off it tonight," he promised, then had to go.

Dearest Marcel, she thought as she left the railway station, as if having sex with him would cure all ills!

Her route home took her past a quaint stone Catholic church called St. Anthelm's; suddenly she had the oddest compulsion to stroll in to take Confession—so very odd because her loathsome father had been from a long line of Scots Presbyterians and her diffident mother's family from Ulster. Entering a confessional would have been a stretch.

Still, she was restless when she returned to the flat to find Luisa out shopping. Now would be a perfect time to find a safe place for Devilliers' precious box until the time came for its revelations. She knew exactly where to place the microfilm, and she'd accomplish that during the coming weekend, along with the disposal of the evidence in her purse. She cupped the clear plastic sleeve that held the microfilm in her gloved hand, imagining what would happen when the intended recipients found it—she had researched how to leave a message with it as well—and she had no doubt that they would.

One of those recipients had once told her that confession was good for the soul.

Really, Nicole! she chided herself. If the three of them were to go away for the weekend, she had many more things to pack than if she were seeing Mignon solo, not the least being the sheer violet peignoir she had purchased at that titillating lingerie shop in Chartres.

But she drifted to her laptop nonetheless, opened it, and created a blank document. After a moment of thought and the ghost of a roguish smile, she began:

"Dear 'Greatest Detectives in the World,'

"If you're reading this, it means I have foolishly allowed my heart to guide my head..."