A peek of sun through the draperies of rain

I'm slipping through the alleyways of the Pigalle section of Paris. The uneven surface of the walkways are positively hellish on my heels, but this is precisely why I spend hours developing my calves to the sizes of grapefruits. Why would a woman of my class, of my demeanor be lurking around doorways already occupied by the Prostituée kind? My coif is a mess and my legs feel as though they have been clubbed by a burly fly fisherman, as if my gams had been caught steelhead. Walter, my dear, uninformed husband, is preoccupied with the diplomats' ball currently full-on at the Hotel Du Grand Veneur. I was to have been at his side, smiling politely, daintily offering my gloved hand as the dutiful wife, hob-nobbing with generals, prime ministers and presidents of petroleum and gold bullion-rich countries alike. And I'd planned to do just that--hoped to, actually. But a tiny chirp, like that of a goldfinch tucked smartly away in my handbag, roused me from my highbrow delirium. A mission. I'd known it was coming; I'm not completely obtuse, dear reader. That's precisely why Mr. Eisenhower phoned my husband himself, imploring him to attend this facade of a party. It's why I'm here in Paris at all. Someone must die. Someone important, influential. Dangerous. And I'm the dame to do it.