It was past midnight now, and the date she’d been dreading for weeks was safely behind her. All she had to do was get to the hotel, go to bed and fall asleep, and when she woke up, it would be a new day, a new year, and she could look forward instead of back.
The Citroën waited at the foot of the steps, its motor running. The pass permitting it to be on the streets after curfew was displayed prominently on the dashboard.
“Ready?” Max asked as one of the soldiers reached them, and Genevieve nodded.
They started down the short flight of steps. The soldier escorted them, holding an umbrella over their heads, lighting their way with a covered torch.
Rain spattered on the umbrella and the pavement and fell all around with a soft rushing sound. The smell of it was fishy, like the scent of the nearby river. A sliver of moon peeped out from behind the clouds, providing barely enough light to enable her to see the car and the steps. Even with her coat, she found herself shivering. Max held tightly to her arm, and for once she was glad. The steps felt slick, and that would be because they were wet with rain and her soles were leather. Leather was a valuable resource and reserved almost exclusively for the war effort, but she was allowed to have leather shoes instead of the wooden or cork soles with cloth uppers most people had to make do with.
Just as she had access to real rather than ersatz coffee, special meals in special restaurants when all around her people were starving on a diet of little more than potatoes and leeks, and all kinds of freedoms unavailable to ordinary French citizens, which with more and more frequency lately she fiercely wished she was.
Resplendent tonight in a chauffeur’s uniform, Otto was once again behind the wheel. An Austrian whose real name she had never discovered, he’d been with Max since long before that first night in Morocco, when she’d made one of the many life-altering mistakes that pockmarked her existence and walked right up to that piano in that bar and started singing along to Max’s playing.
“Below-stairs gossip had it that Wagner was here tonight,” Otto said as the car pulled away from the steps. He cast a glance in the rearview mirror at Max, who had climbed into the back seat beside her. “Did you see him?”
“We did,” Max said. “Genevieve sang to him.”
“Did she?” Otto’s next glance was aimed at Genevieve, who shot Max a sideways look but didn’t otherwise bother to respond. She was feeling rather pleasantly floaty now, and the last thing she wanted to do was engage in a verbal sparring match. “He must have enjoyed that.”
“He certainly seemed to,” Max said.
“Castellano satisfied with his present?” Otto asked.
“He was.”
Genevieve frowned. “What present?”
Max said, “A quarter million pounds deposited in a Swiss bank. Keeping Spain open for business is expensive.”
“Oh.” That the British government paid millions of pounds to Spain and various Spanish officials to sweeten the pot of continued neutrality was an open secret, and she promptly lost interest. The worry that had been niggling at her for the last twenty-four hours niggled again. She didn’t want to—she wanted to forget the whole experience because of the associations it dredged up—but she had to ask. “Did you find out anything about what happened to Anna’s mother?”
“Anna?”
“The baby. From last night.”
“Oh. The woman’s alive,” Max said. “Wounded, but alive. Her name is Rachel. Rachel Katz. She was taken to Drancy.”
Genevieve sucked in air. Located in a suburb of Paris, Drancy was an internment camp for Jews slated to be deported to Germany. Everyone knew about the abysmal conditions prevalent there. For someone who was wounded, being taken to Drancy was the next thing to a death sentence.
There’s nothing to be done. She did her best to force the memory of big, dark eyes, of terrible desperation and fear out of her head. The baby—was she being looked after properly? Little ones were so helpless, so utterly dependent on the adults in their lives...
She had to clear her throat before she could speak again. “What of Anna?”
“You don’t have to worry. She’s being cared for.”
“Did you leave word—”
Max shook his head before she could finish. He knew what she was asking: Did he leave word in the fountainhead about where Anna had been taken?
“The building is being watched. To try something like that now would be too great a risk. The best thing we can do for Anna and her mother is keep our heads down and do our jobs,” Max said.
Difficult as it was to accept, it was the truth, she knew. She closed her eyes, opened them again.
The interior of the car was dark and warm. It smelled of fine leather, cigarette smoke and rain. Fat droplets spattered the hood and slid down the windows. The motor purred, the heater hummed, the wipers swished, and the effect was surprisingly cozy.
“Looks like they’re being extra thorough.”
The tension in Max’s voice as the Citroën pulled in line behind another car waiting to be allowed out through the big iron gates instantly brought her back to full alertness. She peered anxiously ahead through the windshield to see what was happening. Soldiers who’d spent the evening in a truck parked alongside the entrance as backup for the pair of guards in the small gatehouse were out in the rain in force with their shielded torches, courteously holding umbrellas over the heads of the resplendent guests as they stepped out of their cars for inspections of their papers and persons. More soldiers examined the car, looking inside it, opening the trunk, running a mirror beneath the chassis. Citizens were subject to search at any time, and those entering or exiting areas like the Spanish embassy, which was considered the sovereign territory of another nation, were heavily scrutinized, but this seemed more extreme than usual.
“They’ve got invasion fever,” Otto said. “It’s almost as if they’re afraid enemies might be hiding in their midst.”
“God forbid,” Max said.
Knowing what was in her evening bag as they’d arrived, Genevieve had been nervous even though her pass allowed her to escape inspection. Still, as she frequently pointed out to Max, it took only one soldier to disregard the pass or not understand the scope of it and she was done for. Minus the incriminating songbook now, she watched with more interest than concern as the people in front of them were frisked, had their papers checked and their cars examined before they were allowed to leave.
“We’re up.” Otto pulled forward, rolled down his window and raised his voice to be heard above the rain as he spoke to the guard. “We are not subject to search. We have a pass. I am driving Mademoiselle Genevieve Dumont.”
“The Black Swan?” The soldier pushed his head almost all the way through the open window and shone his torch into the back. The light danced over Max and then hit Genevieve. She blinked once at its brightness, then smiled and waggled her fingers at the guard. He goggled.
“Mademoiselle Dumont,” he gasped, straightening away from the window so fast he knocked his hat askew. Righting it, he waved them on. “Proceed!”
“Of all the possessions of this life, fame is the most useful,” Max murmured once they were moving and Otto had the window rolled up again. Genevieve knew a misquote when she heard one, although she couldn’t quite place it.
“Don’t you mean noblest?” Otto asked.
Ah, there it was: Of all the possessions of this life, fame is the noblest. It was a quote by—she couldn’t remember who, but Max had said it to her before. Actually, he’d needled her with it before. More than once.
“That, too,” Max replied.
Pulling slowly through the gates as they opened, Otto turned onto the street, heading for the first arrondissement and the Ritz. Because of the blackout, the Citroën’s headlights were fitted with slotted covers that directed their beams downward to the ground. Wet, the pavement gleamed as shiny black as
the nearby Seine.
“There’s another reason they’re being so careful,” Otto said as the Citroën sped up. “Word is, a few hours ago someone tossed a grenade into a truck full of German soldiers on the quai des Grands-Augustins. Six died. Just about everybody in the vicinity got rounded up and hauled off to Fort Mont-Valérien.”
“Oh, no,” Genevieve said. Fort Mont-Valérien was a notoriously brutal prison the Nazis had established in the western suburbs of Paris.
“There’s been some rioting in retaliation.” Otto sounded grim. “You can be sure there’ll be more. And it won’t end well.”
Max said, “At least now we can make an educated guess about why Wagner left the party the way he did.” He looked at Genevieve. “When he was talking to you, did he say anything about trouble in the city?”
Genevieve shook her head. That made her vision go fuzzy, so she rested her head back against the smooth leather seat behind her and blinked in an effort to clear it. “He wouldn’t tell me something like that.”
“I bet you’d be surprised by what you could get him to tell you.”
Fuzzy vision or no, her head came up. “No,” she said.
“I didn’t ask you anything.”
“I know what you’re thinking. I won’t do it.”
“Won’t do what?”
“Date him so I can milk him for information for you.”
“Such a thought never crossed my mind.”
“Just like such a thought never crossed your mind about Ernst Goth, or Ryszard Zelewski, or Hans Conti, or—” She wasn’t even halfway through the list of Nazis in various occupied territories whom Max had strong-armed her into meeting for coffee, or dinner, or dancing, or a drive, or anyplace, really, where she might be expected to be able to get them to talk.
“Not the same thing at all.” Max remained imperturbable. “They had information I needed. As far as I know at this point, Wagner doesn’t.”
“Whether he does or not, you can forget it. He scares me. It’s something in his eyes.”
“So what did you tell him when he asked you out?” Max said.
Her answer was reluctant. “I said it would be my pleasure.”
Max didn’t say anything. He didn’t even change expression. He didn’t have to. She knew him.
Her voice grew heated. “What was I supposed to—”
A loud boom rent the air.
The sound was muffled, distant, but unmistakably an explosion. Two more equally muffled detonations followed in rapid succession. Genevieve sat up in time to watch in shock as a pillar of flame shot skyward from the general direction of the Champs-Élysées. Blindingly bright in the darkness, high enough to be seen above the area’s gabled roofs and church steeples and monuments, it threw off sparks like fireworks and bathed the interior of the Citroën in a seething orange glow.
Chapter Eight
“Hell,” Max said. “That’s too close for comfort.”
“Not a grenade,” Otto said. “Dynamite, probably. Wonder what they blew up.”
Max shook his head. “Whatever it was, the Krauts will go nuts.”
“Retaliation for the arrests, do you think?”
“Probably.”
None of them had any doubt that the explosion was the work of the Resistance, whose members were growing increasingly bold as the rumors of an upcoming invasion multiplied.
Even as the blaze shrank out of sight, multiple police sirens went off almost as one. Their strident two-note wail filled the air.
“They’ll be out in force now,” Otto said. “Setting up roadblocks. Searching everything and everyone.”
There was something in the way he said it—Genevieve frowned at the back of his head.
“Probably not a good time to be pulling up to the Ritz,” Max agreed.
The Luftwaffe had taken the hotel over, using it as their Paris headquarters. Genevieve thought of the guards stationed around the entrances, of the lobby and restaurant where the Germans ran tame, of the high-ranking officers lodged permanently on the Vendôme side of the property. It was, however, still being operated as a hotel, though it was accessible to only the most high-level guests, most of whom had rooms on the rue Cambon side. She, in fact, was staying in a VIP suite, one of the few that overlooked the square. As far as she knew, they’d gotten rid of any incriminating evidence when they’d left the songbook behind at the embassy. They had a pass permitting them to be out after curfew. So why would returning to the hotel, even under enhanced scrutiny, be a problem?
“Why is pulling up to the hotel a problem?” she asked.
“Lousy timing,” Otto said. “They’ll be arresting people left and right.”
Max said, “One thing’s for sure—we need to get off the street. Our best bet’s to head for the rue de la Lune.”
They’d rented a rehearsal studio in a building there, on the sixth floor. A studio was necessary because, to save costs, the Casino de Paris was stingy about making heat and electricity available during the day. Chorus run-throughs were routinely held in the studio in the mornings, and featured performers might be put through their paces as necessary afterward. The rest of the time, it was Max’s lair.
“Tonight?” Otto flicked another look at Max. His tone was uneasy. “With her?”
“You have a better idea?” Max asked.
“I know it’s a brothel, if that’s what’s worrying you,” Genevieve said. Since the Wehrmacht had come to town, brothels were almost as common as cafés and nightclubs. Heavily promoted for the “comfort” of the German soldiers, they were even listed in a guide to the city’s amusements issued to all newly arrived military. “I might have picked somewhere else to use as rehearsal space if it had been up to me, but then I wasn’t consulted.”
“It has dependable heat. Not many buildings do anymore. And a lot of people coming and going, especially at night. Nobody’s going to notice a few extra.” Max glanced out the window. A distant popping sound puzzled Genevieve for a moment until she realized: gunfire. Probably the Milice in pursuit of the bombers. The French police were arguably more vicious and more hated even than the Germans.
Otto had changed directions, and the Citroën glided smoothly through the rain toward the second arrondissement. Few cars were on the streets and speed limits had been drastically lowered in an effort to prevent accidents in the dark city, but a pair of big black sedans raced by. They were clearly official and headed toward the site of the disturbance at great speed. Running without sirens and with their slotted headlights making them difficult to see, they were upon them with no warning. The whoosh of their passing was unexpected enough to make Genevieve jump.
She stared after them uneasily. “Do you think they’ll catch whoever did it?”
Max said, “I think they’ll catch somebody.”
None of them said anything more for a few minutes. The atmosphere in the car was somber.
“What do we do about the, um...” Otto broke off, but the significance with which he did so was not lost on Genevieve. His lack of specificity was for her benefit. It was clear he expected Max to know what he was referring to, just as he expected her not to.
“Nothing we can do except sit tight,” Max said. “Anything else is too risky right now.”
“Should we try to get word to them?”
“They’ll know when no one shows up. And they’ll know why.”
“Best laid plans.” Otto’s shrug was philosophical.
Genevieve said, “Do either of you want to tell me what you’re talking about?”
Otto grunted, a negative sound if she’d ever heard one.
Max looked at her. “Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“No, you don’t. Trust me.”
Her brows snapped together, which made her head hurt, which added an extra degree of sharpness to her voice.
“Have you ever met a secret you didn’t like?”
“Here we are,” Otto interrupted as the Citroën turned a corner and slowed. The words La Fleur Rouge were scrawled in giant neon letters above a modest entrance. Because of the blackout, the sign was unlit. Their destination was at the end of a block, one of four buildings abutting one another and facing off with four more across a section of narrow, cobblestoned street. The lower levels were occupied by commercial establishments, including a restaurant, a cobbler, a patisserie—and the brothel. All were completely dark. Not so much as a sliver of light showed through the doors, or the windows behind the wrought iron balconies that marched up the smooth stone facades.
Inside was a different story. Thanks to the Germans, Paris’s fabled nightlife was alive and well and more decadent than ever. The curfew had simply driven it behind heavy curtains and closed doors.
Max said, “You can let us out around the side.”
Otto nodded. “Then I’ll find a place to park.”
The car stopped and Max got out. She sat blinking against her exhaustion in an effort to get her eyes focused properly as he came around to open her door for her, then slid out under the protection of the umbrella he held. Her head swam as she stood up. She had to grab hold of his arm to keep her balance.
“Steady,” he said. “You all right?”
She nodded. Despite that initial wobble, she made it the short distance across the sidewalk to the door without mishap and under her own steam, and even managed to hold the umbrella over them both to shield against the rain as Max used his tenant’s key. The cold, damp breath of the wind made her shiver, while the unrelenting wail of the sirens and the whiff she got of something burning made her stomach knot.
At least the gunfire had stopped.
A burst of music and light and warmth enveloped them as they stepped inside a long corridor. The gaiety in the air was palpable. It was such a stark contrast to what was going on outside that it was briefly disorienting.
The Black Swan of Paris Page 8