The Milliner's Secret (53 page)

He got his hand over her mouth. ‘You are part of the Dachterrasse Circle, so stop behaving like Julie Fourcade.’

When he took away his hand, she said, ‘I’m only part of Dachterrasse because you involved me.’

‘I believed in you, as that proves.’ He restored the gun to safety and returned it to its holster. ‘Come upstairs.’

‘What’s up there?’

‘You will see.’ But instead of leading the way, he held her away from him and slowly shook his head. ‘What are you wearing?’

What she was wearing was a nipped-in dress with Gypsy sleeves, a skirt that swirled when she turned, a frilly peasant apron tied at the front. For warmth, she’d added a sleeveless bolero. ‘It’s the latest fashion.’

‘There are such shortages of cloth, of labour, of everything. Yet French couturiers are designing marionette costumes for women to traipse to work in. It makes no sense.’

It did to her. She and her fellow milliners might be out of materials, but factories were weaving clothing textiles again. For French consumption, defying the pressure to shift production to Germany. ‘You lot don’t get it,’ she said. ‘And I mean that both ways.’

They stared each other out until Dietrich said, ‘Come on. The young gentleman upstairs cannot wait much longer.’

CHAPTER 30

Young gentleman? He wouldn’t explain. Coralie mounted the stairs ahead of him. The door to Violaine’s flat was ajar and there she stalled. Her legs refused. ‘I can’t.’

‘It is only floorboards and bare walls.’

‘That’s why I can’t. Where’s Violaine? Where are Madame Thomas and Amélie? Where’s Amélie’s daughter?’

‘Lost in Germany or Poland, and I am ashamed.’ He ushered her inside the flat, impelling her until they were in the living room, which seemed vast. Violaine’s furnishings had been big because she’d needed landmarks to help her get about the room. She’d liked textures, too, and Coralie had watched her steer by them, her fingers finding a passimenterie trim or the taut skin of a lampshade. The furniture had been taken out a few weeks ago by a team of men. ‘I don’t know who they were,’ she said. ‘German, obviously.’

‘They call themselves M-Aktion Kommando,’ Dietrich told her. ‘The M stands for Möbel.’ Furniture. ‘Kommando implies, of course, a military operation.’

‘All her things.’

‘Really, they’re just a looting party but they’re thorough. I do not suggest you look in the bathroom. Take it from me, there is not even a toothbrush holder, flannel or a sliver of soap left. We have a reputation to keep up of impeccable efficiency. But look,’ he ironed the bitterness from his voice, ‘something else is here.’

She had noticed the wicker basket in the middle of the floor, assuming it was something M-Aktion had left behind. Dietrich unfastened clips, reached inside. A moment later, he was cradling a cat, whose jet fur made his own leather coat look discoloured.

A baritone miaou made Coralie gasp: ‘Voltaire? Where—’

‘In the Jardin du Luxembourg. The kitchen staff at the Palais have been feeding him.’

‘No wonder he wouldn’t go home. Traitor.’ She went up to offer a cautious stroke, noticing that his torn ear had mended in lumpy scar tissue. Perhaps she got too close to it because Voltaire hissed and lunged a paw. ‘Has he gone feral?’

‘I think so.’

‘I suppose I’m the lucky so-and-so who gets to look after him?’

‘You could, now you have no child to worry about.’

‘How did you know?’ Because he made no answer, she flung defensively, ‘Yes, I sent Noëlle away. You’d given me an Ausweis so I used it.’

‘You were wise, I think.’ Dietrich studied her. Voltaire purred noisily in his arms. ‘The permit had both your names on it so why did you not accompany her?’

‘I have other ties. I mean, hat-making – what did you imagine?’ She’d caught the flash of misgiving. ‘I have to make money. I won’t let Ottilia pay for my child to live.’

‘She would do so with great joy.’

‘And I’d still feel I was imposing. I’ll take the cat if that’s what you’re here for. We’ll rub along, won’t we, Voltaire?’

‘Au contraire, dear one. Once a daddy’s boy, always a daddy’s boy.’

Looking into the doorway, Coralie gave a cry of disbelief. ‘Teddy! Is it you?’ He was thinner, but seemed otherwise well and was smiling in his particular way. ‘You utter bastard.’

‘Charmed to see you too.’

‘I thought Dietrich had killed you.’

Teddy tapped his breast. ‘Quite solid, as you see. And, yes, I know what transpired at the Rose Noire and that I was in the frame as the arch-betrayer. Be assured, it was not me. I may tease the dear Graf – and you – with slanderous hints and libellous asides, but I am his friend eternally.’

‘I thought they’d chucked you into the Seine or something.’ Coralie ran to Teddy, laying her head against his chest.

He stroked her hair. ‘It was Dietrich’s bomb-damaged friend who had the murderous intent that night. Kleber, fortunately, was decoyed to the Rose Noire while the Graf doubled back to the rue de Seine. Finding me at home in night attire, he became unspeakably domineering. Slapped my face.’

‘So I did, Clisson, because you needed to leave Paris at once, only you wouldn’t listen.’

Coralie remembered Una’s report of raised voices. ‘So, when you went to find Teddy, it wasn’t to hurt him?’

‘I knew he was not our informant.’

‘I wish you’d told me!’

She shrugged as Dietrich said, ‘How? When?’ reminding her that she’d done everything in her power to avoid him. ‘Where did you hide him?’

Teddy answered. ‘The dear Graf put me on a train to Dreux. I have been living in the gardener’s cottage in the grounds of my château, incognito. Tomorrow,’ theatricality fell away, ‘I go to Switzerland because Graf von Elbing fears I may still be in danger.’ He turned to Dietrich. ‘Does the Freiin von Silberstrom like cats?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘You’re going to Ottilia? Noëlle’s there,’ Coralie said eagerly.

Teddy smiled. ‘I know, and I’m sure it will be at least eighteen pages.’

‘What will be?’

‘The letter you will ask me to take to our little sprite. Get to it, as I cannot linger. Goodness, my dear—’

She’d burst into sobs, emotion finally catching up with her. ‘I’ve lost everyone, Teddy.’

Teddy gently detached her. ‘You have not. Though our friend here has more layers than an onion – and the onion’s talent for stimulating tears – you still have him and must never be afraid of him. Peel him, my dear. Make him reveal everything, and once you have done that, stand by him.’

CHAPTER 31

In her villa in Hohen Neuendorf in north-east Germany, Hiltrud von Elbing woke with a painful neck because she’d fallen asleep in her chair. Her knitting lay in her lap.

Voices in the hallway alerted her to a visitor.

‘Who is it, Vati?’ she called, pushing the half-made sleeve into her knitting bag, then pulling down the cuffs of her jersey to hide the puckered scars that disfigured her wrists.

Her father opened the door. ‘A visitor, Hiltrud.’

‘Yes, I know, but who – ah—’ The tupp-tupp of a walking-stick, the uncertain shuffle, announced the visitor’s identity. Finding a gracious smile from somewhere, Hiltrud rose and walked forward to greet her mother-in-law. ‘Hannelore, you are welcome. How did you get here, though?’

‘By train. They are still running, despite the destruction.’

‘But so far, in this cold? And you so soon out of hospital.’

‘Everybody helps me. Soldiers, passengers, even some French labourers handed me down from the carriage, like a parcel. It was fun. Certainly, it beats sitting alone in my flat, waiting for British and American bombers.’

This was a long speech for the dowager Gräfin von Elbing, and much of it was slurred. Her face drooped and her right foot turned inwards.

‘How did you get from the station?’

‘Mm?’ The dowager leaned on her stick as she made her way to the sofa. ‘I paid a man to bring me in his wheelbarrow. Your face, my dear. I paid a man to bring me in his car, better? Is this one going to loom over me?’ Ernst Osterberg had shadowed her in case she fell. ‘I don’t want him next to me. He snuffles.’

Hiltrud made a face to her father, begging him not to react. ‘Vati, could you make us coffee?’ She said to her mother-in-law, ‘It’s awful stuff, I’m afraid.’

‘Then why offer it? I’ll have schnapps, Osterberg.’

Ernst Osterberg left, muttering, ‘Since when did I become the butler?’

Hiltrud sat down again, twitching at her cuffs. ‘Hasn’t the weather turned bitter? Will we ever see spring?’

‘No small-talk, I have not the reserves. I want to know why you are still in Germany, Hiltrud.’

‘Where else would I be? My father is here. Claudia can still come home when she has time off. And Waldo—’

‘Waldo’s dead, and weeping over his grave every Sunday won’t change that.’

‘Don’t. Please don’t.’ Hiltrud pressed herself back in her chair, wanting distance between herself and this drooping, wrinkled reminder of Dietrich. Her father came in with the schnapps, his expression saying clearly, Alcohol before lunch. I am humouring dissolute customs for your sake, Hiltrud.

Oh, good God, what if her mother-in-law meant to stay? Hiltrud made a mental sweep of her kitchen cupboard. Dried mushrooms, preserved apples, a jar of pickled eggs. Hardly lunchtime fare for a woman who used to dine in the best houses in Berlin, who’d travelled through Europe in private railway carriages, guest of princes and industrialists. She remembered, then, the reason she’d become upset a few moments ago. ‘I am happy to see you, Hannelore, but please do not speak lightly of my son.’

‘My grandson. My son’s son. Of course I may speak of him. Put that tray down, Osterberg, and leave us be.’

Ernst Osterberg told her he’d stay where he damned well liked in his own house.

‘My son’s house. Graf von Elbing bought this house with his inheritance from his father and don’t you forget it.’

‘I heard that the money came from the von Silberstrom coffers. Stick your nose up in the air, but there was a time you ¬weren’t above taking handouts from a Jew.’ Osterberg turned to his daughter. ‘You know this old fiend hid Max von Silberstrom in her house when the Gestapo wanted him? In her bed, knowing her.’

‘Vati, please! Forgive him, Hannelore.’

‘I excuse him. One cannot ask a turnip to be a China orange. But your memory is awry, Osterberg. It was Max’s father Bernard who was my good friend. As for my bed, for at least twenty years it has been as empty as your head.’

When her father had stamped out, Hiltrud poured schnapps and the smell of peach-stones filled the air. Her mother-in-law’s unflinching gaze was unsettling and she almost dropped the decanter.

‘Poor Hiltrud, are you not getting any better?’

‘I think so. My doctors say so.’

‘Then why are you here and not with my son?’

Hiltrud repeated doggedly, ‘Because my daughter comes home when she can. Claudia expects me to be here, and my father needs me.’ She’d overfilled one of the glasses. She’d better take it; her mother-in-law had suffered two strokes and now found it difficult to grip small things. ‘I am still Claudia’s Mutti, and a housewife.’

‘You are also Gräfin von Elbing. Listen to me.’ The old Gräfin took her glass in trembling fingers. ‘Claudia is eighteen, with her own life now. Your father can fend for himself, but Dietrich is in danger.’

‘We’re the ones in danger! Does Paris get bombed? No! They eat four meals a day in France, Claudia has been told, and all the coal that is supposed to come to Germany feeds their fires. Fires in their grates even in the summer. They burn coal with their windows open so that we go without!’

‘The French are for the French. Why should that surprise you? Answer a question. Do you want to lose Dietrich?’

Did she? Hiltrud wasn’t sure. She hated him so powerfully, the mere sound of his name made her pulse jerk. But lose him? ‘No, I think not.’

‘Good, because he is involved in a conspiracy to assassinate the Führer.’

Schnapps spattered the carpet. ‘Have you lost your wits, Hannelore?’ They had not expected the old woman to recover from the second stroke, and if this was how her mind was going, it would have been better had she not. ‘Who spoke this treachery?’

‘Dietrich. He thought I was dying last November and made a confession at my bedside. A very full confession, though I am not certain he expected me to understand it. There is a group in Paris called –’ the old lady summoned a word ‘– Dachterrasse. His purpose in returning to Berlin was to confirm the allegiance of this group with a more powerful one here in Germany. I had heard he often visited army headquarters on Bendlerstrasse. Now I understand why.’

Hiltrud drew herself up, wishing she had not put on an old dress this morning and such thick stockings. Shrivelled as her mother-in-law was, she put Hiltrud to shame in her black two-piece and pearls. ‘You were at the gates of death. I suggest that you misunderstood Dietrich, who, after all, has taken an oath of allegiance to the Führer. What you are suggesting is foul and dishonourable and I will put it down to your infirmity. I will not hear another word.’

‘There is something in my pocket. Take it out, see if it changes your mind.’

A moment later Hiltrud was thinking, The old woman has certainly gone mad. It was a piece of card cut from an outdated desk calendar. A French one at that.

‘Other side,’ her mother-in-law said.

Hiltrud turned it over and spoke the unfamiliar words. ‘La Passerinette.’

‘A hat shop in Paris.’

Below were numbers, one to thirty-six. After each number, more words in French. ‘I never pretended I could speak foreign languages,’ Hiltrud snapped. Belle. Séduction. Caprice. Plume. Rose. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It is the running order of a collection – a parade of hats. The shop is owned by your husband’s mistress.’ The old Gräfin acknowledged Hiltrud’s recoil. ‘When in Paris, Dietrich sleeps with a milliner. I said he made a full confession, didn’t I? It wouldn’t matter, except that this female seems to have charmed him to the point that he spoke of marrying her one day. She is blonde, tall and lovely, so it is perhaps not so remarkable that he should want to make her his wife.’