The Frenchman pulled a pistol from his overcoat and fired two shots into the back and head of the ensign. There was a vivid splash of red upon white and the German fell dead, as the train began to move off. The ensign’s body was half inside the carriage and half out, now being dragged along the platform, boot caps scraping on the tiles. People on the platform were starting to scream.
The teenage assassin caught eyes with Tommy for a split second, from where Tommy gaped at him from the stairs. Tommy was horrified by the suddenness of what had occurred; the assassin’s look was the same. Tommy guessed why: the other boy had never killed someone before. Then the assassin fled towards the platform’s far exit.
Tommy got Odile moving up the stairs again. ‘What’s happened?’ she said. ‘Did the butterflies go off?’
Tommy knew they’d be dead if they panicked now. ‘They went off,’ he said, with a calmness he didn’t feel.
‘What’s going on then – I don’t get it.’
‘A bit more than we’d planned.’ He now found he couldn’t stop grinning. ‘A kraut just got shot.’
‘What!’
‘Keep cool, a guy like us did it. He was just another kid. But he had a gun.’
‘But – but the stupid gag we put on the butterflies,’ said Odile. ‘It was about killing a kraut!’
Tommy had already realised it. The Freedom Volunteers had unwittingly put their name to a murder they hadn’t committed.
Odile started laughing. ‘We’re completely screwed.’
‘Looks like it,’ said Tommy. He wanted to laugh, too. He only wished that he knew who the assassin was. If he did he could have thanked him for changing the way that the resistance game would now have to be played by all of them, Frenchmen and Germans alike. No one had killed a kraut in Occupied Paris before today. ‘Yeah, we’re screwed,’ said Tommy. ‘But first we’ll be famous.’
Ahead on the stairs came the sound of the sentries, rushing towards them to get to the platform. ‘Press tight against the wall,’ said Tommy. Odile did so. The sentries barrelled past them to the chaos below.
Tommy and Odile reached the top of the Metro stairs. Tommy knew they had the tiniest amount of time to flee before the whole place was flooded with Germans.
* * *
On the makeshift film screen made from a hospital sheet hung from the rafters of the ward’s ceiling, Zita glowered with sexy angst in cheap, off-the-rack clothes. And yet, being Zita, what was happening on screen had nothing to do with clothes, and everything to do with her electrifying portrayal of a tormented victim of blackmail. This was Zita’s third film with Continental Studios, and Polly thought it her best. She had never seen Zita act so compellingly. The rehabilitating French soldiers who were watching the film with her from their hospital beds were clearly in agreement. Amputees many of them, others with terrible burns, they were as one in their love of the film star. Those who could whistle had long since stopped doing so every time Zita entered a scene. Now they watched her with silent fascination as she lived out her character’s inexorable decline. Zita was so realistic, it was almost as if she had experienced the degradations of blackmail for real. Zita was the best actress Polly knew.
Polly tried to push what had happened with Alexandrine in the queue from her mind, together with her anxiety for Tommy. She had heard nothing from him and Odile and wouldn’t know how they’d fared until she returned to the Ritz in the evening. She glanced to the end of the ward and saw Lana Mae struggling in the corridor, her arms full of folded clothes and blankets. Polly joined her outside to help. ‘You look exhausted,’ she told her over the clatter of the projector and Zita’s one-liners behind the ward doors.
‘Oh honey, I feel every last second of my age today,’ said Lana Mae, off-loading some of the things to Polly. ‘My actual age, mind you, not the one I “own up” to.’
Polly politely laughed, although she still knew better than to ask what that age really was. They hefted what they carried to a little office off the corridor, to which the hospital administrators had given a brass door plate that said ‘L’ange américain’.
‘But it’s good exhaustion, I’ve gotta tell you,’ said Lana Mae, dropping folded blankets onto the desk with a sigh. ‘God, the experience of being worked to the bone used to be a mystery to me, honey,’ she said. ‘Once upon a time, the end of the day meant the start of the cocktail hour, which was only the beginning of whatever came next, let’s face it. Now, don’t get me wrong,’ said Lana Mae. ‘I’m still very happy to mark sundown with a martini, but these days I don’t last beyond the second sip. I can hardly keep my eyes open, yearning for bed.’
‘Well, I think you look beautiful with it,’ Polly told her, giving her a hug. ‘Exhaustion becomes you, Lana Mae.’
‘Oh honey, you say all the right things to your ancient guardian,’ said Lana Mae, squeezing her with affection.
‘I suspect personal fulfilment becomes you, too,’ said Polly. ‘The more you give, the more you glow from it. You are fulfilled, aren’t you, Lana Mae?’ she added, teasing her. ‘It’s written all over your lovely face.’
‘I’m not doing anything that anyone else in my lucky position wouldn’t do, too,’ said Lana Mae, modestly. All the same, she glanced at the little mirror that hung on her office wall and was evidently pleased with what she saw.
Polly lowered her voice. ‘Lana Mae, I don’t see how you can possibly have a single jewel left. I know you’re bankrolling the recuperation for all those poor soldiers in there, and I don’t know how many other soldiers besides.’
Lana Mae patted the handbag on her desk. ‘I owe France a great debt,’ was all she said.
‘Your friends Flossie and Babs owed France one, too, but they’ve gone back to New York,’ Polly reminded her.
‘Yeah, well, there’s nothing for me there, remember,’ said Lana Mae. ‘New York had its chance, and it didn’t want me. Paris did. So, I ain’t going nowhere anytime soon.’ She now made it Polly’s turn to come under scrutiny. ‘And while we’re talking of glowing . . .’
‘What?’ said Polly, at once self-conscious.
‘Lately you’ve got a certain look to you, baby. Don’t pretend it’s not so.’
‘Me? Oh, you mean my new outfit?’ Polly displayed her recent buy: a divided skirt ensemble in red, white and blue. ‘It’s by Lucien Lelong. He won a prize for it.’
‘Oh, I know,’ said Lana Mae.
‘It’s bicycling fashion,’ said Polly. ‘Essential nowadays.’
‘And it just so happens to be in the colours of the French flag?’ said Lana Mae. ‘I’m surprised that he – and you – haven’t been arrested for it.’ Lana Mae held Polly’s eye for just as long as she could before bursting into laughter. ‘Oh, baby, I love it,’ she said when she’d recovered. ‘Fabulous Lucien. It’s both chic and slyly defiant – and it looks so wonderful on a girl with your figure.’
Polly laughed, too. ‘You’d have this figure too if you got out and rode a bike more.’
‘Oh honey, do you know me at all?’
Polly struck a fashionable pose. ‘It is a French flag,’ she whispered, ‘I honestly don’t think the Germans have noticed. I’ve been wearing it for a week – and so have plenty of other girls.’
‘There’s more to your glow than just a new outfit, honey,’ Lana Mae studied her quizzically. ‘Tommy.’
Polly froze.
‘Ah-ha!’ said Lana Mae, delighted by the look on her face. ‘Guilty as charged.’
‘I – I don’t know what you mean,’ Polly started.
‘Do you think I was born yesterday?’ Lana Mae retorted. ‘I know he’s your secret boyfriend.’
‘He’s not! We’re friends.’
‘Oh please. That old line.’
Polly found safety in umbrage. ‘Why is an innocent friendship between a girl and a boy so difficult for people to believe?’
‘Because he’s as cute as a button and so are you.’
‘Me?’
‘God,’ Lan
a Mae mused, ‘he’s more than cute. Tommy is divine.’
‘I am not cute,’ Polly insisted.
‘Who says you’re not?’
Polly was dignified. ‘No one has to say it, I can use my own eyes: I am plain, Lana Mae, and don’t go making silly platitudes claiming otherwise. I know what I am, and I accept it – and frankly, it’s liberating. I don’t need a boyfriend, because I’m perfectly happy with how my life is without one.’
When she dared to look at Lana Mae again, she was surprised to see a sadness for her in the American’s blue eyes. Lana Mae blinked it away. ‘All right. If you say so. You and Tommy are just friends then. So why haven’t you told us about him?’
Polly had a believable excuse. ‘I was scared Tommy might get fired for breaking protocol with a guest.’
‘That’s a nice way of wording it,’ Lana Mae tittered. ‘And if it was really a problem, half the staff would have gone thanks to Zita alone.’
Polly saw she needed another excuse. ‘I was scared about Alexandrine.’
‘Why? She’s no Snow White herself.’
‘I don’t think she likes Tommy very much.’ Polly hoped she needn’t say more than that, testing what Lana Mae knew of Alexandrine’s connection to Tommy.
The American chose to have Polly believe she knew nothing of it. ‘Don’t take her so personally, baby. She’s not herself anymore and you know why. Tommy hasn’t even entered her head.’
Polly nodded, having seen through Lana Mae’s words. The American knew who Tommy really was.
Lana Mae seemed to catch a hint of something else in Polly’s face. ‘That is all, isn’t it, baby?’
‘All what?’
‘Why you’ve been keeping things tight. Tell me there’s no other reason why you don’t want people to know about you two.’
Polly swallowed. ‘What other reason would there be?’
‘Like you’re doing something stupid?’
Polly’s shock was real, because Lana Mae’s guess was so accurate. ‘Like what?’
The older woman looked searchingly at her while Polly fought not to squirm. Finally, Lana Mae let the subject drop. ‘Okay. If you say so.’
‘See, there’s nothing else to worry about,’ said Polly, relieved.
Lana Mae was looking out her office door at something that had caught her attention. She went white. ‘Oh hell.’
Polly turned and saw. Sweating Gendarme Teissier was at the end of the corridor, with several fellow officers, in tense conversation with some hospital staff.
‘What is he doing here?’ said Polly, thrown. ‘I signed the Foreigners’ Register this morning.’ She looked down at her divided skirt and suddenly felt sick. ‘Lana Mae, you don’t think . . .’
The gendarmes broke away, heading down the corridor towards them.
Polly felt her heart quicken. ‘Surely, I couldn’t really be in trouble for it?’
Lana Mae put a steadying hand on her shoulder. ‘Empty my handbag,’ she whispered.
‘What?’
‘Tip it out. Empty it. Don’t let them see you.’
‘But Lana Mae?’
The American stepped out into the corridor, beaming. Teissier saw her emerge. The group of gendarmes stopped, surrounding her.
‘Are you Madame Huckstepp?’ said Teissier. He had documentation in his hand.
‘Gendarme Teissier!’ gushed Lana Mae, preening herself among the uniformed French men. ‘Well, of course, it’s me. What can I do you for?’
Inside the little office, Polly couldn’t move for fear. Lana Mae’s handbag sat untouched on the desk.
Teissier read from his papers. ‘As of 1000 hrs this morning, Madame, Germany is at war with the United States.’
Lana Mae blanched. ‘Well, Germany may be, but we’re here in France, aren’t we?’
Teissier just looked at her. He tapped his documentation. ‘This is the order for your immediate internment, Madame Huckstepp. Do you understand what that means?’
One of the other gendarmes had his eye upon Polly through the door. She couldn’t have moved to reach Lana Mae’s handbag without him seeing her, even if her nerves hadn’t failed her.
Outside, Lana Mae was polite. ‘This must be some kinda mistake, Monsieur. Sure, I’m American but I’m no threat to Germany. How could I be? Ask Reichsmarschall Göring at the Ritz.’
The name-dropping had no impact. ‘No mistake has been made, Madame,’ said Teissier. ‘I have the order.’
‘But the order from who?’
‘The Occupation Authorities. As of this morning you have been classified as an enemy alien.’
Lana Mae looked as if she’d been slapped. ‘That a Frenchman should say that to me . . .’
Teissier looked away. ‘I am sorry, Mrs Huckstepp, but that’s how it is. We’re at war now.’
She refused to hear it. ‘France and America will never be at war – they’re like brothers. You gave the Statue of Liberty to us. We share the same principals and ideals.’
He fixed a stare at her, in no mood for such statements. ‘Your “principled” France was on the path to catastrophe, Madame. Too few people give the Occupiers their due for reversing that fate.’
Lana Mae gaped at him, incredulous.
‘And so many of those who don’t are behind barbed wire for it.’ Teissier acknowledged Polly standing frozen, staring at him from the little office. ‘You could learn from your ward, Mrs Huckstepp. One early moment of misplaced patriotism from Polly and there has been no repeat of it since. She is a blameless young person, exemplary in everything.’ He smiled patronisingly at Polly. ‘We are very fond of the girl.’ He gave Lana Mae his full attention again. ‘So, you mustn’t worry for her while you are gone – she has the entire 8th Gendarmerie looking out for her welfare. We all know her well in there. How many other girls her age can boast such thorough protection? She will come to no harm, I promise you.’
From behind the ward doors came the sound of Zita’s blackmail movie hitting its climactic scene. The French soldiers had started to cheer from their beds. At the far end of the corridor hospital staff were watching Lana Mae’s exchange with the gendarmes in misery.
There was hurt in Lana Mae’s eyes. ‘Please don’t do this to me,’ she begged Teissier. She waved her arms uselessly at the closed ward doors. ‘I’ve been doing real good in here – for the recovering soldiers. You must have heard about it.’
Sympathy cracked Teissier’s veneer. ‘It will not be forgotten, Madame.’ He signalled a subordinate to secure her. ‘However, you must be interned. This is our order.’
‘Wait!’ Lana Mae cried out. She glanced at Polly in the office. ‘It’s my time of the month. I need a sanitary napkin.’
A male, Teissier predictably quailed at this feminine need. ‘All right.’
‘They’re in my office. Can I have a moment’s privacy?’
Teissier looked to his colleagues. They were as squeamish as he was. ‘Don’t test our patience by taking long, Madame.’
‘Of course, I won’t.’
Lana Mae closed the office door behind her, her eyes meeting Teissier’s through the little window before she pulled down the shade.
‘Oh, Lana Mae!’ Polly threw herself at her guardian, hugging her. Her guilt was terrible. ‘They were watching me through the door. I couldn’t get to your bag.’
‘It doesn’t matter.’ Lana Mae looked at the drawn shade. ‘They can’t see in here now. I’ve gotta make this fast.’ She opened her handbag and tipped out the contents. Among the detritus was a box of her sanitary pads, her pink bismuth, and another little bottle of pills. Lana Mae unscrewed the pill bottle cap. ‘Fix me a glass of water, honey.’ She was now very pale.
‘You’re ill?’
‘Just my usual belly ache.’
Polly poured a small glass of water from a jug.
Lana Mae tipped the contents of the pill bottle into her palm: instead of pills there were six sizable gems, long ago prized loose from necklaces and bracelets; th
ree diamonds, a ruby, and a pair of extraordinary emeralds. She stared at them ardently.
Polly’s eyes were wide. ‘Lana Mae, what are you going to do?’
‘I wish I could leave ’em with you, honey, so you could go on helping those boys in my place. But I don’t think I can now. I’m gonna need ’em myself. You understand, don’t you?’
‘Understand? What are you going to do with them?’
Lana Mae tipped the gems into her mouth. They rattled hard and sharp on her teeth. She reached for the glass of water and took a great gulp of it. She nearly spluttered. With effort she made herself swallow.
Polly stared at her guardian in horror.
Lana Mae took another deep gulp. ‘Jesus Christ . . .’ She placed her fingers to her throat, her face contorted, as she forced the gems down. When she was finished, there was blood in her mouth. She dabbed at her lips with a handkerchief, before placing it inside her purse, along with her sanitary napkins.
Polly was speechless.
Lana Mae then took a slug from her bottle of pink bismuth. She grimaced as it followed the jewels. ‘That hand cream I gave you. You still got it, haven’t you?’
‘Of course,’ said Polly. ‘For when I’ve got dry hands?’
Lana Mae smirked. ‘You’re funny.’ Her stomach made a loud groan of complaint. ‘Oh Jesus.’ She rubbed at it. ‘Listen, I want you to know something, baby. Something bad.’
All Polly could do was nod.
‘There’s a letter from Marjorie,’ she told her.
‘Another one?’
Lana Mae’s face was a picture of shame as she didn’t quite answer this. ‘Some day you might find it. And if you ever do.’ She embraced Polly tight. ‘Try to forgive us for it, baby, okay?’
‘Forgive you for what?’
‘You’ll know.’
‘I don’t understand – forgive you for what?’
The Heart of the Ritz Page 27