But today, Yvette had more important business than mooning after some man, no matter how compelling he might be. She went back to Lelong and picked up more deliveries, plotting her course so that she would need to pass the bookshop again. She didn’t register the geranium until too late. It was a poor specimen with only one limp crimson flower to its name. Easily missed if you weren’t looking for it.
Instead of turning around and going back, Yvette made another delivery, then approached the bookshop again. This time, she stopped, dismounted, and rested her bike against the wall. Her heart seemed to expand until it knocked hard against her rib cage. Careful not to go too fast or too slowly, she approached the bookshop, pausing with her hand on the doorknob.
What she glimpsed through the web of masking tape that laced the glass door made her snatch back her hand. A large man stood over Monsieur Arnaud, a wooden stick like a policeman’s baton in his grip. The two men seemed to be arguing, though she couldn’t hear what they said.
The big man turned, raised one booted foot, and kicked over a table, sending books flying. Monsieur Arnaud retreated behind the counter, his hands raised defensively. Rotund, balding, and bespectacled, half the other man’s height, the bookseller was no match for this ruffian.
What to do? The bully with the baton was huge, not someone she could even think of fighting. Catherine had instructed her not to involve herself in anything that would draw attention. Yet here was this thug, clearly threatening Monsieur Arnaud. The bigger man was not in uniform, so it was not an official visit. Could it be about monsieur’s black-market trade?
The stranger surged toward Monsieur Arnaud, baton raised, and smashed it down on monsieur’s shoulder. Yvette cried out, cringing in sympathy.
She couldn’t stand by and do nothing. She wrenched open the door, setting the bell jangling. “Stop! Stop that! He is an old man.”
The bully turned to glare. “Store’s closed,” he snarled. “Get out.”
Yvette glanced at Monsieur Arnaud, who was struggling to his feet. “For God’s sake, do as the man says, Yvette,” he panted.
“I will call the police!” It was the only thing she could think to do.
The big man showed his teeth in a horrible grin. They were capped with gold, glittering with menace. “I am the police.” His gaze sharpened, and the grin turned into something more appreciative as he eyed her up and down.
“Leave her out of it, Rafael,” said Monsieur Arnaud, growing even more agitated. He glared at Yvette. “Damn it, girl, just go!”
She swallowed hard, wishing with all her heart that she could see a way to fight this Rafael and win. But the way that man was looking at her . . . What he’d already done to Monsieur Arnaud . . .
Rafael feinted a step toward her and laughed when she skittered back toward the door.
“Run!” said Monsieur Arnaud. “You silly girl, get out!”
This time, Yvette did as she was told. She darted out the door, making the bell clang wildly, and swung onto her bicycle. Pedaling as if all of hell’s demons were at her heels, she shot toward the Place de la Concorde.
She turned the corner and nearly collided with a boy who was dashing across the street. He yelled at Yvette and made a rude gesture.
“Sorry, sorry,” she called, slowing her pace. Just in time, too. A couple of Gestapo officers in their evil black uniforms rounded the corner, making her heart beat harder, but they scarcely glanced in her direction.
The image of Rafael striking Monsieur Arnaud played again and again through her mind. Had that been an interrogation? Had he somehow suspected Monsieur Arnaud of resistance activities? He’d said he was the police. What had he meant? At least it wasn’t the Gestapo or some other German official. Small comfort, that.
Yvette was supposed to avoid trouble. That’s what Catherine had told her. Stay alert and watch for anything out of the ordinary. The slightest indication that something might have gone wrong and she was to disappear. That was all very well, but what if Rafael killed Monsieur Arnaud or injured him seriously? Monsieur was all alone in that place.
The bookseller had not wanted her help, but she could not rest until she knew he was safe. Then, too, she refused to let her first mission for Catherine and Liliane result in failure. As soon as she’d reloaded with parcels from Lelong, Yvette headed straight back to the bookstore.
Having scouted the area carefully before approaching the establishment, she peered inside, to see that the shop was empty. “Monsieur Arnaud?” she called as she pushed open the door and walked in.
A soft moan drew her attention, and she found him lying on the floor behind the counter, a trickle of blood issuing from his temple, his glasses askew. His blue eyes were dazed.
“Oh, monsieur!” She kneeled down to help him up, but the bookseller waved her away.
“Leave me,” he panted. “Let me catch my breath.”
“But why was that awful man here?” she demanded. “Why would he treat you like that?”
“I’m an old fool,” muttered Arnaud. “That was one of Friedrich Berger’s men. Berger is a big player in the black market. He was content to let me run my little side business while I paid him protection money, but lately, he has demanded more and more. Takings have been down. I couldn’t pay the full amount this time. So he sent Rafael.”
He grunted, then groaned as she helped him stand. “Thank you, my dear. But you shouldn’t have interfered. Now you might well have made yourself a target.” He took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the blood on his temple. “What were you doing here, anyway?”
Yvette hesitated, thinking that it was hardly the time to ask for the book on birds. However, that was her mission and she was determined to show Catherine Dior she could carry out her instructions. She made the unusual request.
Monsieur Arnaud stared at her, then rasped out, “Have you any idea how close you just came to betraying us both?” He exhaled a breath. “That man, Rafael. He is not just a thug and an extortionist, he is a gestapiste.”
Yvette went cold. She had not come across this term before, but it sounded like a diminutive of “Gestapo,” the most hated and feared organization in Paris. That told her most of what she needed to know.
“Rafael runs with the Berger gang,” said Monsieur Arnaud. “The Nazis have given them policing powers. To search premises for Jews and dissidents, to arrest and interrogate. They are criminals—smugglers and murderers—running amok, all with the might of the Third Reich behind them.”
“But . . . but he was a Frenchman,” Yvette said. “Surely he would not betray his own country like that.”
Monsieur Arnaud grunted. “That sort would betray his own mother. You have a lot to learn about people, Yvette.” He looked troubled. “How did you get yourself mixed up in this?”
“Never mind that,” said Yvette, trying to sound businesslike, even though monsieur had just exposed her ignorance and lectured her as if she were still the little girl who used to curl up with her favorite storybook on the window seat of his shop. “Please. Give me the book on birds.”
He stared at her hard, as if willing her to back down, but she simply stared back at him. He was taking a much bigger risk than she was if he had dealings with these gestapistes while also working for the resistance. Finally, Monsieur Arnaud gave a cross between a grunt and a sigh. “Give me a moment and I will get it for you.”
While he went to the back room, Yvette did her best to tidy the mess Berger’s henchman had made of the bookstore. She hadn’t made much progress before the bookseller returned.
“Here you are.” Monsieur handed her a package.
The book was very small, wrapped in brown paper. Yvette shoved it into her satchel.
“Will you be all right now, monsieur?” she asked, reluctant to leave him in this state. “Would you like me to fetch someone to sit with you?” He’d suffered a head wound, after all.
“Get out of here,” growled the bookseller, waving her away. She hoped his snappish retort meant he was
feeling better. “And stay out of trouble!”
* * *
HAVING DELIVERED THE book on birds to the address she had memorized, Yvette arrived back at Lelong, still shaken by the violence she had witnessed and by how close she had come to danger, both to herself and to Catherine’s resistance cell. She jumped when Madame Péthier said, “About time! You’re late. You’ve completely missed Louise Dulac’s fitting. She asked for you particularly—” Abruptly, madame stopped scolding and caught Yvette’s chin in her hand, turning her face to the light. “What is it, little one?”
Yvette told her that she had seen a man in a shop being beaten and tried to help.
Madame’s brow furrowed. “You are a good, kind girl, Yvette, but you must stop interfering in things that don’t concern you.” She made a helpless gesture. “I am sorry for your distress, but we don’t have time to waste. We’ve made the alterations to Mademoiselle Dulac’s suit and she wants you to deliver it to her personally. She has the de Noailles party tonight and desires you to help her dress. Quick! Tidy yourself. There’s a car waiting.”
Yvette stared. How could she even think about fashion and movie stars and parties when such people as this Rafael were allowed to terrorize innocent citizens?
“Here.” Madame produced a silver flask and held it to Yvette’s lips.
She reared back a little as the fumes hit her nostrils. “What is it?”
“Brandy. Medicinal. Just a small sip, mind.”
Yvette obeyed, and madame let her sit quietly for a few minutes, before she said, “I am truly sorry, my dear, but you must get moving. Mademoiselle was not happy when you were not here to attend her today.”
Reluctantly, Yvette obeyed. Within minutes, she was on her way to the Ritz. The doorman who stooped to let her out of the car was the one who had been on duty when her bicycle was stolen. Having directed his minions to carry the movie star’s packages up to her room, he tipped his hat and smiled at Yvette as if he remembered her. “Good afternoon, mademoiselle.” He winked. “Not with your boyfriend today?”
Whatever else about Paris might change, the tendency of its citizens to believe that everyone was in love had not. Yvette flushed at his teasing but repressed the urge to deny any interest in the Swede. “Is he not here already?”
The doorman shook his head. “I haven’t seen him, but I only started work ten minutes ago. He is often in the Little Bar at this time of day.”
Yvette showed her papers to the guards, then went into the hotel and up the grand staircase. The youth who had pinched her last time was not there. The old man who had taken his place operating the elevator seemed completely uninterested in her, for which she was grateful. She had more important things to do than fending off wandering hands.
What did Dulac want with her? If this mistress of a high-ranking German officer did intend to make Yvette into a pet, was there some way that could be used to help the resistance? Delivering messages for Catherine Dior was one thing; getting close to the Germans for the purposes of espionage was as risky as openly opposing them. Yvette would need to be careful, curb her temper and conceal her disgust.
Outside Mademoiselle Dulac’s door, she hesitated, listening. The movie star seemed to be entertaining guests in her suite. There was a murmur of voices—masculine ones. Friends of Gruber, perhaps?
Ordinarily, Yvette would scorn to eavesdrop. Now every cell of her body strained to hear what was going on in that room. She frowned. They were speaking in French, that much she could glean, but their voices were too low for her to discern more than a word here and there.
She knocked and the maid answered, her expression repelling.
Yvette smiled sweetly. “Mademoiselle Dulac?”
The maid grunted and shook her head. “Nein. Sie ist nicht herein.”
“She’s not here?” Yvette waved a hand. “Oh, I do not mind waiting. Monsieur Lelong has put me at the disposal of mademoiselle for the afternoon.” She craned her neck to see who was present, but the great lump of a maid had not moved an inch from the doorway. Was she hiding something? Perhaps whoever was in the suite didn’t want anyone to know they were meeting there?
A male voice, probably Gruber’s, snapped, “Wer ist’s?” The maid turned her head to answer in a stream of guttural language, but Gruber cut through her speech with a curt response.
“Hmph.” The maid stepped aside, allowing Yvette to enter.
Yvette tried not to appear interested in the group of men assembled in mademoiselle’s sitting room as she followed the maid to the boudoir. On a quick glance, she had an impression of three middle-aged men: Gruber plus two men in civilian clothing.
The cold good looks of one of the civilians made Yvette steal a second glance. At first, she’d mistaken his slicked-back blond hair for silver, but now she realized he was younger than the others, perhaps in his late thirties. He possessed an air of command, however, and it would not surprise her to learn that he was the most important man in the room.
“Wait, mademoiselle. Will you come over here?” The blond man spoke in flawless French.
She halted and turned slowly, fixing a vapid expression to her face.
Officiously, the maid grabbed Yvette’s upper arm and yanked her toward the men, who were grouped around the fireplace, their booted legs stretched before them, glasses of brandy in hand. The remnants of a lavish luncheon lay on the supper table by the window. Yvette could not fail to note the sharp contrast between this genteel scene and the brutality of Rafael’s attack on Monsieur Arnaud—all sanctioned by the Nazi occupiers. Masking her feelings when in the presence of such men was never easy, but now Yvette struggled to hide her revulsion.
“Come here, little one,” said the blond man, again in French.
Yvette tugged free of the maid’s grasp and walked between two sets of booted feet, over to where the blond man sat by the fireplace. He tilted his head and his bright blue eyes surveyed her in a considering way she didn’t like.
“But you are a beauty,” he remarked softly, as if he wanted only her to hear. “Where did you come from, hmm?”
“I am from the House of Lelong, monsieur,” she replied. He raised his eyebrows and she added, “I beg your pardon, but I do not know what rank to call you. I do not mean to offend.”
A gleam of humor came into his eyes, warming them. “They call me King Otto,” he said, flinging out a hand. “The king of Paris.”
His arrogance made her blood boil, but she forced herself not to react.
“This is the Third Reich’s ambassador to France, you ignorant hussy,” snapped Gruber. “You call him ‘Your Excellency.’ Show some respect.”
The ambassador rubbed the side of his mouth with his fingertip. “No, no, don’t yell at the child, Gruber. She wasn’t to know. How could this little slip of a girl have any regard for ambassadors and the like?” He eyed her over his glass. “You find mademoiselle away from home. What shall you do now?”
The third man remarked testily, “What does it matter? Get rid of her. We have important matters to discuss.”
Her eyes widened. The man spoke with a Parisian accent so idiomatic and perfect that he must be a native. A dirty collaborator, right here in mademoiselle’s suite, probably a high-ranking one, too, if the company he kept was any guide.
The ambassador did not seem to mind the Frenchman’s rudeness. He said, “Why don’t you go down and find mademoiselle at the bar? Tell her our meeting should end in half an hour.”
“Yes, Your Excellency.” What could she do but obey?
There was more than one bar at the hotel, but when she inquired after Mademoiselle Dulac, Yvette was directed to the Little Bar. Intimate and clublike, with wood-paneled walls and leather chairs, the Little Bar was one of those places where it always seemed to be night—to encourage drinking, she supposed. Even at this hour, it was well patronized, mainly by men with a military bearing and an arrogance that led her to believe they were probably officers of the German air force, but a few perfectly coiffed
and dressed women smoked cigarettes in ebony holders and leaned in to hang upon the men’s every word.
No one paid Yvette any attention, yet she felt awkward and conspicuously out of place. The harsh accents of the Germans seemed to bombard her from every direction. At a glance, she could see that Louise Dulac wasn’t there, but she lingered, thinking hard.
The meeting upstairs . . . What had that been about? Something of interest to Catherine Dior and her friends? If only she’d had the chance to overhear.
She was about to try her luck elsewhere when Vidar Lind came in, heading for one of the small circular tables in the darkest corner of the room. Yvette’s stomach lurched, as if she’d jumped from a great height.
Her first instinct was to get away before he saw her. But that was foolish. At the least, she ought to acknowledge him when he’d been so kind about replacing her bicycle. Hadn’t she hoped to run into him here? But now that she was faced with the reality of speaking with him again, it did not seem like a simple thing to do.
She made herself move toward his table. “Good day, Monsieur . . . Lind?” As if his name wasn’t emblazoned on her memory.
There was a moment when she thought he had not recognized her and would tell her to get lost. If he did that, she would sink through the floor with embarrassment. But after a quick scan of the room, a corner of his mouth quirked up. Rising, he gestured to the empty chair at his table. “Please. Join me.”
She hesitated. She was supposed to be looking for Louise Dulac. But this man intrigued her, and if he was a diplomat, he was almost certainly also a spy. And if he was a spy, then he might be able to . . . what? Help her. Guide her. Tell her how to be useful.
She glanced around. A few minutes one way or the other would not matter. She took the proffered seat.
As if he sensed her heightened state of excitement, Vidar leaned in, his eyes alight with interest. “Is something wrong, mademoiselle? Not your bicycle again.”
Sisters of the Resistance Page 11