The Black Swan of Paris

by Karen Robards

  “Whatever it is you think I did, I didn’t do it,” she said. It took every bit of self-control she possessed to keep her voice calm, matter-of-fact. Her mind was a whirling dervish. She had no doubt at all that he would shoot her instantly if she gave him reason. She suspected that his intention was to shoot her no matter what she did.

  What could she do? The question formed a desperate beat in her head. If she didn’t show up onstage when she was supposed to, presumably someone would come to find out why. But that brought with it the problem of Touvier, captured, telling all he knew to the Germans. And she might very well not live that long. His face bore the expression of a man bent on a terrible vengeance.

  He said, “You were at the house on Duphot Street. How did you know about it? Who told you?”

  Breathe. In, out. She would not, could not give Emmy up. In case she did not survive, this madman might turn on her sister next. The mouth of the pistol brushed the back of her neck. It was cold, hard, terrifying. She shrank from it before she caught herself and went still. Cold sweat broke out on her forehead. Her chest felt so tight she could hardly breathe.

  “Max sent me there.” She latched onto the excuse Max had whispered into her ear like a lifeline. “Monsieur Touvier, you’re wrong about me. I have never told the boche anything that was not meant to deceive them. I’ve acted, always, on behalf of the Resistance. My heart is purely French.”

  “Stand up. Now.” Disregarding her words as completely as if she’d never spoken them, he nudged the back of her neck with the pistol. Looking at him through the mirror, Genevieve despaired even as she rose, slowly and unsteadily. I have to do something... Her eyes fell on the crystal jar of loose face powder on her dressing table. It was near her hand, which lay flat on the dressing table’s glass top to support her unsteady knees as she got to her feet. The jar was heavy. It was open. The lid and fluffy pink puff she’d whisked over her face not many minutes before lay beside it.

  The powder was white and fine, like flour. She could fling it at him, hoping that the powder would blind him or at least make him shut his eyes, and hit him with the jar—

  Then what? Grab his gun and shoot him with it? Run for the door?

  Her stomach nose-dived as possible outcomes chased each other lightning fast through her mind. None of them were good.

  The dressing room door opened before she could make a move, or decide to make a move, causing both of them to jerk around to face it. Her heart jumped. She caught just a glimpse of the hallway as the opening door blocked her view of whoever was entering. Touvier grabbed her arm, holding her fast beside him. She stood slightly in front of him now, his hand tight on her arm, her skirt spreading out like a rose in bloom around both their legs. The gun was behind her. She could feel it nudging her spine.

  The sight of Max as he closed the door, then took a few limping steps into the room with the aid of his stick, was the best gift she could have hoped for.

  “Thank God.” Relief turned her bones to water. All thought of their quarrel was forgotten. Touvier’s grip on her arm prevented her from rushing toward him. Instead she took a deep breath and embraced him with her eyes. It hit her, then, that no matter what private disagreements they might have, she trusted Max absolutely.

  He stopped short, the water droplets beading on his black hair and broad shoulders providing silent evidence that he’d just come in from outside and it was raining. His expression instantly turned to one of surprise.

  “What the hell?” Max looked from her to Touvier. She didn’t think he could see the gun from where he was standing, but a heartbeat later something changed in his expression that told her he knew it was there. Of course: he could see it through the mirror.

  She almost stuttered in her haste to get the words out. “He thinks I—”

  “Shut up.” Touvier’s voice was hoarse. He jammed the pistol into her spine, hard enough to wring a soft ooph from her. “I warned you about her.” Addressing Max, whose mouth had thinned slightly but whose expression was otherwise unreadable, he leaned a hip against her dressing table. She got the impression that his injury had left him weakened. She hoped, devoutly, that that would make a difference. “She betrayed us.”

  “I didn’t. You know I didn’t.” Her eyes stayed fastened on Max’s face.

  “I heard you were involved in an operation that went wrong.” The look Max gave Touvier was grim. Genevieve felt a fresh spurt of terror: Did the operation he was talking about have anything to do with Emmy, with her mother? The timing was right, and Touvier and his men were involved somehow with the house on rue Duphot, as was Emmy. “What happened?”

  “The bastards knew we were coming. They were lying in wait. Three good men killed at the scene. Cantor, Dardenne, Yount.” With each name, Touvier shoved the gun into her spine again, making her jerk and wince. She expected—something—a glance at her, a frown, but Max didn’t react. “Me, I escaped by the skin of my teeth. Helian, too, got away, as far as I am aware. Jobert was badly wounded. They found him lying in the street, made him talk before he died. He gave up every name he knew. You are fortunate he knew nothing of you. The Nazis are rounding up the rest of my cell now, as is evidenced by their presence here. I came with a warning, but arrived too late. They know about me, of course, which means the only thing left for me to do after I finish here is run. The blood of everyone lost is on her. And on you, for not listening.”

  “I already told you I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Genevieve said. To Max, she added, “There are soldiers here. Their captain told me that they’re searching for Resistance members operating among the theater company.” Her voice cracked with urgency.

  “I saw them when I came in. They checked my papers, let me pass.”

  “And how would the Germans know there are Resistance members operating among the theater company if you didn’t tell them, salope?” Touvier jabbed her spine with the gun again, savagely enough to make her gasp. “Jobert knew nothing of that.”

  “How would I know? Would I tell on myself?” she hissed.

  “If you are one of them, there is no danger in that to you. To Bonet, though, and to—”

  “Quiet.” Max held up a silencing hand.

  The sound of several sets of heavy boots striding past the door caused Touvier to break off midsentence and Genevieve to go still as a post. Her pulse roared in her ears as she focused on the hallway beyond the dressing room. What was happening out there? Were the soldiers in the process of conducting an actual physical search of the building? At any second one of them could throw open the door. Or knock, to summon her to the stage.

  She might be no worse off if the soldiers stormed in now, but there was Max.

  A glance at the clock told her that she had five minutes left until she was supposed to be onstage. Someone would be coming to get her soon—she opened her mouth to warn Max, then decided she dare not mention it lest it spur Touvier to act immediately.

  “Who else knew about your plans?” Max asked.

  “No one I would not trust with my life. A message was left confirming the mission at the rue Duphot. She was there shortly afterward.” Touvier jabbed her with the gun once more. She was so terrified by now that she barely even flinched. “You were unfortunate that I was having you watched.” He switched his attention to Max. “Your operation is still intact, Bonet? Then you should welcome me killing her to keep it so.”

  At this confirmation that Touvier meant to kill her, Genevieve’s knees shook.

  “You make a good case for it, my friend, but I want to ask her a few questions first,” Max said. He switched his attention to her. “If you’ve been playing a double game, this is your chance to tell the truth. Confess, and perhaps we’ll be merciful. Who is your contact with the Germans?” He came toward them, lurching slightly on his stick. His voice was low but harsh. His eyes were hard on her face. His jaw was tight.

  Her
eyes never left his. “There’s no one. You know there’s not.”

  “Stay where you are, Bonet. This is not your decision to make. You are too closely involved.”

  Max stopped. Frowning, leaning heavily on his stick, he was still more than two meters away.

  “Your only hope is to tell the truth,” Max warned her in that same harsh voice. She thought, hoped, prayed he was acting, playing for time. But if his intention was to leap on Touvier, she feared he was too far away. Touvier would pull the trigger and she would be shot before Max ever reached him.

  His face told her nothing.

  “Enough talk,” Touvier snapped. Genevieve heard a metallic snick, which she thought might be a precursor to the trigger being pulled. Her blood ran cold. To her he said, “You’re a traitor, and you deserve a traitor’s death.”

  “Max—” She couldn’t help it. Panic curled through her voice. The feel of the pistol lodged against her back made her dizzy. The bullet would blow through her spine...

  “Let her answer. It’s important that we know.” Max looked at Touvier first, then switched his attention to her. “Who is your contact?”

  “I don’t have one!”

  “Stop lying, you.” Touvier’s fingers squeezed her arm so hard that she made a small pained sound. He was growing more agitated.

  “Are you feeding information to Wagner?” Max’s tone as he addressed her was rough with anger.

  “No!”

  “There is no more time for your questions,” Touvier growled at Max, while frantic scenarios aimed at saving herself chased each other through Genevieve’s head. Should I try slamming my elbow into his injured side? Throwing myself to the floor? Her stomach lodged in her throat. Her knees went weak. She sagged and had to catch herself with a hand on the dressing table. “She must be dealt with before she can—”

  Max’s arm jerked up. Something whizzed past Genevieve’s cheek to hit behind her with the sound of a fist smacking flesh. Touvier’s hand fell from her arm. He dropped like a marionette with its strings cut.

  She leaped away as he landed with a thud at her feet, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle any sound.

  Touvier lay sprawled flat on his back, his pistol inches away from his outflung hand. A small black hole now punctuated the space between his open, staring eyes. Even as she looked at it, blood began to trickle from the hole. His eyes glazed over as she watched.

  She felt her knees start to give way as she watched him die.

  “Are you all right?” Max’s arm came around her from behind. She turned into him, letting her head drop to rest against his chest, clinging to him as she took a series of deep, shaking breaths.

  “Genevieve?” His tone was urgent. His arms wrapped around her, warm and strong, hugging her against him, and she was thankful to let him take her weight. His shirt felt smooth against her cheek. His chest was unyielding beneath. He smelled of the outdoors, and rain, and Max. The combination was insanely comforting. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” she managed. “I’m all right.” Then, on a note of disbelief as she made sense of what she’d seen, she said, “You shot him. With your stick.”

  “It’s also a gun. If certain adjustments are made. I would have done it sooner, but you were in the way.”

  She tucked away the knowledge that all this time his stick had had the ability to be transformed into a gun—a gun with a silencer—and she hadn’t known it to mull over later. “He was going to kill me.”

  “Yes.”

  She shuddered. “Thank God you came.”

  “Yes.” His arms tightened around her. “I know you’ve had a shock, but I have to get rid of him before anyone comes. Can you sit down on the—”

  A knock on the door made her jump.

  “Mademoiselle, I was asked by Captain Hahn to say please come to the stage now.” It was the voice of the soldier who had taken Berthe away, calling through the door.

  Max’s arms around her had gone iron hard.

  “One minute,” she called back, and was proud and relieved when her voice didn’t squeak.

  She pushed away from Max. He let her go, moved fast. He grabbed Touvier’s pistol, shoved it into his pocket and snatched her dressing gown from where it lay discarded nearby. Wrapping the garment roughly around Touvier’s head, to avoid leaving a trail of blood, she realized, he gathered the corpse up in his arms like a baby and stepped behind the screen and out of sight.

  It was enough to save them if someone did no more than cast a cursory glance into the room. But if there was any kind of a search...

  Her stomach tied itself in a knot.

  Where Touvier’s head had lain, a scarlet puddle of blood soaked into the carpet. Horror shivered through her, followed by fear. It could be seen from the door. With a panicked glance around, she yanked the sparkly skirt of the costume she had recently changed out of from the top of the dressing screen and dropped it on top of the blood. At the same time she realized with alarm that the air smelled, just faintly, of gunfire. And Max’s stick lay in the middle of the floor.

  She shoved the stick beneath the dressing table skirt, grabbed a perfume bottle and spritzed the air.

  With relief she discovered that the gunpowder smell was no match for the deep floral bouquet of Chanel No. 5. And the sequined tulle of the sparkly skirt revealed no hint of the dark secret it hid.

  Grabbing her courage with both hands, she crossed to the door, opened it and smiled at the soldier waiting for her.

  “I am to escort you,” he said, and she replied, “How very thoughtful.”

  Heart pounding so loudly she feared he could hear it, she closed the door behind her and walked with him down the hall.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The master of ceremonies bawled, “Ladies and gentlemen, Mademoiselle Genevieve Dumont!” to open the second half of the show.

  Genevieve’s palms were sweating. She stood center stage, front, as the curtains parted and the trio of spotlights hit her. Their warmth was welcome—she was freezing cold—but the sense of exposure that came with them was not. Dazzled by their brightness, unable to see beyond the first few rows, she did her best to block from her consciousness the soldiers standing guard in the wings. A few stagehands—enough to work the curtains and lights—apparently had been cleared by the Nazis and allowed to go about their business, because that’s what they were doing, but they seemed to be under constant watch. There’d been no sign of Berthe or any of the chorus on her way to the stage. She could only pray that they would be released soon. A search of the theater was being conducted, just as she had feared. Knowing how methodical the Germans were, she had no doubt it would be thorough. That thought, coupled with the ticking time bomb that was Max trapped in her dressing room with Touvier’s corpse, was part of what was making her palms sweat. And her heart race. And her knees quiver like jelly.

  The other part, which was just starting to set in, was reaction to having almost been killed. And to having a man killed right in front of her. Having Max kill a man right in front of her.

  For her.

  I can’t think about that now. I have to think about the music, the song.

  “Parlez-moi d’amour” was staged with her alone at the piano. She played; she sang. No other accompaniment, no backing vocals, no chorus or dancers or spectacle of any kind to take the focus off her performance.

  The audience was on its feet, welcoming her back. The deep red horseshoe that was the auditorium sounded like it was full to bursting.

  I am Genevieve Dumont. She summoned the protective armor of her star persona and felt it settle around her like a cloak.

  For the first time ever, she wasn’t sure it was going to be enough.

  Lifting her chin, she smiled gaily at the audience, then as more waves of applause hit, she curtsied and threw kisses to them in acknowledgment.

  W
hile she’d been greeting them, the grand piano had been carried out to occupy center stage behind her. Turning toward it with a theatrical swish of her skirt, she reached out desperately to grasp the talent that was the one thing in her life that had never failed her.

  Max was in the wings. She spotted him with a sense of shock. There was no mistaking his tall, lean form. Deep in shadows, his eyes fixed on her, he was flanked by a pair of soldiers.

  Was he under arrest? Did they find him with Touvier’s body? Did they know what he was?

  The gloom surrounding him coupled with the dazzle of the spotlights in her eyes made it impossible for her to read anything in his face, his stance.

  Hahn stood near him: she recognized his vulture-like profile as he turned his head to track her progress.

  My God, my God.

  The spotlights following her felt bright as a thousand suns. There would be no concealing her slightest expression, her smallest move from such a close observer as Hahn.

  I must act as if nothing’s wrong.

  Smoothing her voluminous skirt beneath her, she took her seat on the bench. Chills coursed through her body. She had to set her teeth against the bone-deep cold that threatened to set them to chattering. Seated now, too, the audience was silent. She could feel their anticipation reaching out to her.

  She adjusted the microphone, took a breath, positioned her feet on the pedals and her hands on the keys.

  To her horror, she realized her hands were unsteady. Fine tremors shook her fingers.

  She couldn’t play like this.

  Panic formed a hard knot in her chest, tightened her throat.

  She wasn’t sure she could sing.

  Her stomach turned inside out.

  You can do this. You have to do this.