The Last Time I Saw Paris (37 page)

She turned, her heart in her throat.

“They will try.” He turned and walked away.

T
en mornings later, Claire watched through her hotel room window as the sky brightened from deep violet to a saturated blue. In her mind, she saw Grey huddled in a prison cell, his eyes opening to darkness. It had been so long since he’d seen the sunrise over his garden. Did he still have hope?

A vibrant sapphire gleam and the sun broke free of the skyline. The tune of the Billie Holiday song echoed in her mind.
Just when you are near, when I hold you fast, then my dreams will whisper, you’re too lovely to last.

“A few more hours, Thomas.” The whispered words brought a lightness inside her and propelled her away from the glass. A hot bath, hair set, a sweep of crimson lipstick and a spritz of perfume. From the closet, a simple smoky-blue dress, nipped at the waist. When she looked in the mirror, she was surprised at what she saw. A flush to her cheeks, a ghost of a real smile tugging at her lips. You look like woman in love, she thought.

She pulled a small key from beneath the lamp on the night-stand then perched on the seat facing her desk. Unlocking a deep drawer, she extracted a stack of postcards, her jewelry roll and a small wad of francs. She flipped through the cards, a tugboat under the elaborate pont Alexandre, the Eiffel Tower, the Concorde. Not something she’d send—who the hell would she send them to?—but a shuffling of order was a good indicator her drawer had been searched yet again. She didn’t mind. The important thing is they found what they expected. Nothing more.

Dropping the roll and francs in her purse, she walked over to the bed and wedged herself behind the headboard. Bracing her back against the wall, she pushed the heavy frame toward the center of the room. On her knees, she slid a fingertip underneath a thin slit in the exposed carpet. A moment later, she pulled out an envelope.

One last look at her room. A forlorn rose floated in water in a highball glass on the empty desk, an unmade bed, and a row of dresses and silk gowns in the closet. The gowns repulsed her like so many shed skins. She dropped the envelope into her purse.

Claire left the hotel and strolled along les Champs. Her eyes were on the shop displays,
lèche-vitrine
, window licking the French called it, alongside the handsome men in pressed suits, the striking women in gloves and hats, the German soldiers buying delectables to send home. She made a show of examining a deep red velvet jacket inside a shop window then ducked inside a busy café.

Pressing up to the counter, she ordered a madeleine and turned to watch the street. A flow of passing people, none glanced toward her, none paused too long to deliberate on a table before they moved on. Still, to be safe, she wrapped the pastry in a napkin and slipped out the café’s side door into an alley. Paralleling the street for a block, she turned north toward parc Monceau.

The park was quiet. The carousel was empty, its brightly colored cars suspended in midair. She walked along the gravel to the pool then settled on the shaded bench beneath a gnarled oak.

By now, the transport would have left. Grey would be on the road between Fort Montluc and Compiègne. Where would Jacques’ group attack? An empty stretch of road? A bridge? With her fingers, she ripped a piece from the small scallop-shaped cake and chewed without tasting.

Afterward they would have to hide out somewhere. A farmhouse perhaps. Not Paris. But still, if Grey was close, this is where Jacques would find her. And then nothing would stop her from reaching Grey. She tore at the pastry and hurled pieces to the birds pecking in the grass around the pool’s edge. She would be ready.

A blond woman and small girl walked by at lunch. The girl tossed pebbles into the mossy water. After a moment, her mother pulled her away. She protested, her voice echoing.
Pas plus, Marie
, no more, the mother told her. In the afternoon, an elderly couple rambled past. The woman’s diaphanous snow-white hair glinted in the sun; she gripped the man’s elbow with frail hands.

Claire pulled the envelope from her purse. She stroked the paper, felt the texture of the gold engraved Ritz Paris crown and seal under her fingers. But she couldn’t bring herself to open it. Not yet. The sun disappeared below the buildings and the light faded.

“Madame?” A slender man in glasses and a thick scarf faced the bench.

“Yes?” Her voice quivered. A message from Grey?

“You have been sitting here so long; are you unwell?”

She flushed, suddenly mortified. “
Non, merci.
I lost track of time. I must be going.” She hurried away without looking back.

Claire forced a confident stroll as she stepped onto boulevard Haussmann, but her insides ached. She paused a moment before she turned onto boulevard Malesherbes. Of course it wouldn’t have worked this way. But damn. She had so wanted it to.

The concierge stopped her in the lobby. A note. Sturmbann-führer von Richter was expecting her in his study. Directly.

“Komme,”
Von Richter barked when she tapped on his door.

She steeled herself as she paused in the threshold. Give Grey time.

Von Richter leaned over his desk, his briefcase opened and empty in front of him. “Ah. So you decided to grace me with your presence.” His faced was flushed with excitement but his eyes sparked with anger.

A white-coated server pushed a cart through the door behind her. Two bottles of champagne jutted from an ice bucket. Silver trays brimmed with cheeses, chocolates, pastries and fruit.

Von Richter glared at the man. “I called a half hour ago. Are you purposefully wasting my time?”

The server blanched. “No, Sturmbannführer. We had to retrieve the chocolates from a shop that was raided—”

“On the table. Now. And go.” Von Richter turned to Claire, waved his hand toward the offering. “What do you think?”

She forced a smile and stepped into von Richter’s arms. “Alby, darling. Is it your birthday or mine?”

He smirked, his eyes sparkled. “Better.” He reached for the champagne.

T
he table led to the bed. One bottle was empty and the sheets between them stained with crushed berries when von Richter finally answered Claire’s questions.

“A coup. And a promotion.” He pulled the sheets up to his waist and reached for a crystal glass.

“How did you manage all that?”

“You know how it is, Claire. The world favors some. It is merely for us to reach out and pick up the spoils.”

Claire leaned against his back, felt the heat from his skin soak through her thin silk slip. She massaged his shoulders as she kissed his neck. “The spoils?”

“Today was an important prisoner transport. But a Resistance bomb took out the bridge in front of the convoy. Fighters swarmed from the trees. Gunfire, more bombs. Quite chaotic, I understand. It was a major offensive for those criminals.”

“Oh?” Claire forced her hands to continue kneading the muscles of his neck.

“But, Claire, I am Nazi intelligence. And the escape attempt was not unexpected.”

Fear clawed at her stomach.

“I almost wish I could have seen the looks on their faces when our tanks rolled out of the forest behind them.” He laughed, shook his head in wonder at the imagined sight.

“So, what happened?”

“As you would expect. The criminals fought for their lives. Most were mowed down by our soldiers.”

“And the prisoners?”

He shrugged. “Most died chained in the trucks. An unfortunate result of the heavy fighting. A few managed to run into the forest.”

“And then what?”

“Our dogs made short work of them.” He emptied the glass. “My superiors are understandably pleased with the convenient execution of a number of notorious criminals in custody, as well as the destruction of a dangerous insurgency cell. It will make a fine news item in the papers tomorrow. With a list of the executed criminals, of course.”

Her fingers trembled. She pushed harder against his skin and forced her words around the expanding pain in her chest. “How exciting. Would I know their names?”

“Beauchamp. Murrell. Kinsel. The man called himself a patriot. Loyal to a dead world, sanctimonious fool.” He rolled his shoulders and let out a long, satisfied sigh. “And a British spy. Would have made it out, but for the dogs, I’m told. He was shot out of a tree. Grey was his name. Appropriate for a damn Englishman, isn’t it? Grey.”

The room dimmed around her. Von Richter kept talking. More names flowed by. Blackness pressed against her and crept into the edges of her vision. She rose like a specter.

“Where are you going?”

“I need a bath,” she said over her shoulder as she pulled the bathroom door shut behind her.

Claire turned the faucet then collapsed to her knees on the marble floor. She leaned against the tub, her face pressed against the cool porcelain. When the bath was full, she climbed in and sat. At the touch of water against her skin, she began to shake violently. Her breath came in small, quiet gasps and she felt her chest rip apart. She slid backward until her face was submerged. She lay under the water, her eyes shut as if she could stop time. The burning in her lungs grew.

She imagined Grey, the line of his jaw, his serious eyes. The smell of him next to her, their bodies melded together in a hollow of grass. Gunned down. As lights began to pop in her eyes, she choked and sat up. She dragged herself from the tub, reached for a towel and stood, dripping in front of the mirror.

“What are you doing in there?” von Richter said.

She stared at her reflection, transfixed. In spite of herself, wheels turned inside her head. Von Richter had expected something. The Resistance would think she had set them up.

In the end, her choice was simple, really. She toweled off and ran a comb through her hair. The door swung open and she stepped out, letting the towel drop to the floor. She picked up the phone,
A bottle of your best scotch. Room 527.

She pushed von Richter back on the bed as she dropped the phone into the cradle. “Reach out, Sturmbannführer, and pick up your spoils.”

He pulled her against him.

 

 

C
laire slipped from beneath the silk sheets and felt her way across the darkened room, heavy curtains drawn against the glimmer of early morning sun. She found her dress crumpled up on the floor by the foot of the bed, shook it out and slipped it over her head. Von Richter’s snores rumbling in the background, she crawled around the floor and found one then the other shoe. Climbing to her feet, she tiptoed into the study.

She pulled the door shut behind her, wincing at the click of the lock snapping into place. Von Richter’s drunken snores continued. Out cold.

In the faint predawn light, outlines of chairs and desk were barely visible. Hands held in front of her, bare feet sliding over the carpet, she shuffled to the heavy oak desk. Grabbing the desk chair, she hurried back to the door, wedging the chair back against the handle. It took all her strength to push the sofa against the door leading to the hall.

With the room as secure as Claire could make it, she clicked on the lamp and surveyed the room. She was done fumbling around with a candle in the darkness. Von Richter had most of a bottle of scotch on top of two bottles of champagne in him. And she was going to tear apart every inch of this damn room. She had to know what had happened.

First the briefcase. She used a letter opener to split open the seams one by one. In the end, an expensive pile of leather scraps at her feet. Nothing. Starting on one corner of the desk she worked her way through. Drawers pulled out and pried apart. Cubbies examined. The lamp shining up from underneath, first a visual examination, then by touch. After that the chair, silk cushion ripped open, the sofa, the paintings off the walls and frames pulled away. The table. Dresser. Nothing. She forced her mind to focus and dropped to her knees. From one corner, she worked across the carpet, her fingers probing each inch for a slit, a bulge.

She sat back underneath the window; the rising sun broke free of the buildings to illuminate the far side of the room. Her head fell back against the cool glass. She listened to the growing rumble of car engines on the street below, the noise merging with von Richter’s snores.

There was nothing. No proof it was her fault. But nothing to show it wasn’t. Claire climbed to her feet. It wasn’t enough. She pulled the chair away and pushed open the bedroom door. The room was still dark, curtains pulled. The lump of blankets that was von Richter smelled of sour alcohol. She walked over to stare at the back of his head showing above the covers. How to exorcise the secrets from inside there?

She sighed and sat heavily on the floor, her head in her hands. It didn’t make sense that she found nothing today. Not even a loose paper, a receipt. He had to keep it all hidden someplace. A safe, perhaps, but she’d looked behind the paintings on the bedroom walls before.