‘Nothing? Your conscience is clear?’ The hard, upward inflection thrust another picture at her: of herself trespassing where she’d no business to go.
Taking a draught of wine, she continued, ‘I did do something – I took a letter.’
Cold savagery came to his face, and she felt a familiar panic, legacy of her life with her father. ‘You took more than a letter, Coralie. You took a life. I can never forgive you, and in my dark hours, I dream of inflicting the same pain on you. I have great power here . . . and you, a mother, an undreamed-of opportunity.’
‘What are you saying? Dietrich? What’s my being a mother got to do with anything?’
‘Your child for my child.’ He rose, scraping his chair, and she reached across the table to stop him but he avoided her grasp.
‘You’d hurt my daughter? Why? What happened to your child? Dietrich, tell me!’
He was taut with emotion. ‘Go. I will have a car drive you home to rue de Seine. See? I know every detail. Even that your last hat collection at La Passerinette was predominantly pink.’ He gave a deformed smile. ‘I never cured you of pink.’ He came to the back of her chair and she flinched before she realised that, in spite of everything, habits of politeness had not deserted him.
‘Have you heard from Ottilia since we spoke last?’ he asked.
‘Yes. I mean, no. She went south. Cap d’Antibes.’ That was Una’s favourite holiday spot and she often described its white villas and azure bay. ‘Baronne von Silberstrom took a villa.’
‘Cap d’Antibes, in summer? Ottilia burns like a lamb cutlet. Remember on Epsom Downs, how she wore a coat and gloves? You always were a poor liar, Coralie. She is in Paris, though not at rue de Vaugirard.’
‘Cap d’Antibes,’ Coralie repeated. ‘Send your fellows there for her.’
‘And you should know that whoever hides Ottilia risks arrest. No mercy, even for a beautiful, fast-talking milliner. When you wish to bring me information, find me—’
‘At the Crillon? Or the Lutetia? Or do you shuttle between the two?’
He pulled her chair back for her, and then they stood face to face. An almost palpable current flashed between them. ‘Neither. I have rooms in a place special to both of us.’
‘The Duet?’ In spite of everything, she blushed, and for a moment she thought he was going to bend to kiss her. She whispered, ‘Dietrich, what happened to you?’
He stepped back, clicked his heels and left her.
*
Just after dawn the next morning, Coralie went out. She wore flat shoes and a plain, belted coat, a headscarf knotted under her chin. She needed to be incognito.
Chapter Nineteen
She walked briskly, hardly aware of an apricot sun misting every surface. At rue Valdonne, a narrow street off boulevard du Montparnasse, she mentally reassembled the directions Arkady had given her late last night, after she’d waited up for him. Brown shutters, a plain house, middle of the street. Middle-ish. Trouble was, everyone seemed to prefer their shutters brown. She was looking for the safe house into which Ramon had taken Arkady and Florian when they first arrived in Paris. Their host, an elderly painter, had later created their identity papers for them.
‘Ramon calls him Bonnet. He paints the big pictures.’ Arkady had stretched his arms to imply a vast canvas. ‘But when he makes forgeries, he works with the touch of a butterfly. He is genius but . . .’ Arkady had mimed somebody downing a glass of liquor ‘. . . Ramon must always check for mistakes.’
Should she be doing this? Commission a drunk to produce similar illegal papers for Ottilia? Brave people did that sort of thing. She wasn’t brave. As kids, she and Donal used to play ‘chicken’ on the railway lines at the end of Shand Street. They’d wait till the steel sang with the vibration of wheels, then perform their own special dare. Hop over the rails on one foot, touch the parapet on the other side, then hop back on the other foot.
She’d never managed it, always pelting back to safety before she reached the far wall. Donal could, though. Funny, that. Hesitant and disaster-prone, he’d had the cooler nerve. Would he say she was doing the right thing, risking herself to help a friend? Or that she was being selfish, putting her child’s future in jeopardy?
To get there, she’d walked down boulevard Raspail, her breath shortening at the sight of the Lutetia. The hotel was the headquarters of the Abwehr – military intelligence, she’d learned. Dietrich really had taken her into the wasps’ nest. A sensible person, having escaped once, would not seek to return. Would they?
She walked along rue Valdonne until she smelt the bakery and her stomach rolled. You got used to hunger – or, at least, to suppressing it – but oven-fresh bread got through your defences every time. A queue of local women had already formed outside the shop, and when they saw Coralie, they passed hostile looks along the line. Their message was clear: ‘Our street, our bread.’
Coralie stationed herself in a doorway a safe distance away. Even hard-drinking forgers liked fresh bread. Arkady’s ‘genius painter’ would emerge eventually. And, indeed, at a few minutes past six, a door bumped open nearby and a man came out. Stocky, with a grey beard and red-veined cheeks, he presented a convincing portrait of a drinker. Whether he was also an artist was unclear. That could be oil paint on his overalls or house paint.
‘Monsieur Bonnet?’
He jumped and Coralie thought he was going to scuttle back inside. But he pushed his hands into his pockets and looked at her sideways. ‘Who is asking for him?’
She gave a name, not her real one. ‘I understand you can provide fake identity documents.’
‘Who says?’ The thick beard made it hard to gauge the man’s expression, but Coralie could see he had eaten soup very recently. He must live an upside-down life.
‘I’d rather not give names, but you can trust me.’
‘I trust only two things, Madame. Cognac and cash.’ He walked away towards the bakery.
‘I’m Ramon Cazaubon’s wife, all right?’ she hissed.
‘Ramon’s lady?’ He came back and a grin split his beard. ‘Quite a man, our Ramon!’
‘So, can you help? I have a friend who has to leave town.’
Bonnet hawked and spat the results towards the gutter. ‘Man or woman?’
‘Woman. Can you also forge an Ausweis, a permit to travel? For five people.’
Bonnet inflated his cheeks, letting the breath go slowly. ‘I suppose. But I tell you this. I won’t forge a police signature, French or German. Signatures you get for yourself, yes?’ He drew her into a dingy hallway, which smelt of gas and cooking oil. And something that took her straight back to Bermondsey, to the glue factory on Magdalen Street: decomposing rabbit. Maybe he was a proper artist. Her father used rabbit glue to prime his screens.
Bonnet asked, ‘Your friend’s name?’
‘Dupont. Ottilie Dupont. Yes, I know.’ She’d seen the beard twitch. Using ‘Dupont’ was like booking into a hotel in England and calling yourself ‘Smith’. She and Una had gone through dozens of fake names, selecting Dupont because it had been the surname of Ottilia’s previous lady’s maid, which gave their friend a chance of remembering it. ‘Ottilie’ had been chosen with similar logic.
Bonnet’s eyes creased. ‘Documents for Mademoiselle Dupont and an Ausweis. I’ll need the names of everyone travelling on it. How old is your friend?’
‘Thirty, and we’ll be using her real birthdate because she doesn’t remember new things.’
Bonnet made a tut-tut sound. ‘You know what happens if she is caught?’
‘We know. How quickly can you do it?’
‘Two weeks.’ When she objected, Bonnet gave a dry laugh. ‘For Madame Cazaubon, nine days, but it will cost. A lot. For I am very good.’ They shook hands and Bonnet followed her out on to the pavement. Giving her an odd look, he asked, ‘You know where Ramon is now?’
; ‘No. He went to fight, and I haven’t heard a word.’
‘Why not? He’s back in Paris. He lives there,’ Bonnet pointed across the street, ‘with a . . . Sorry.’
With a woman. What else?
‘If it’s any comfort, she’s nowhere near as nice-looking as you.’
Coralie walked away, contemplating the pleasure she’d derive from booting Ramon’s backside down the stairs if ever he called on her again.
One more stop to make, then home.
*
Being a frump in a headscarf has its advantages, Coralie mused. She made it to the Right Bank without being asked for her papers once. She even passed the gun emplacements on place de la Concorde without the soldiers on duty looking up. Under her breath, she sang a revolutionary song,
‘“Ah, ça ira, ça ira, ça ira!’ It’s all going on . . .”’ All the way to Henriette Junot’s.
Chapter Twenty
Coralie still had a key to Henriette’s shop. In the emotion of her departure, nobody had thought to ask for it. The shop was dark. Not even the early-birds had yet arrived.
Closing the door behind her, Coralie flicked a lighter she’d borrowed from Arkady, illuminating four marottes on the white satin plinth, angled as if in conversation. Dietrich might mock her love of pink, but if you avoided sugar-candy, it could be subtle. Intriguing that Henriette Junot should be displaying hats of the same fanée, faded, shade that she and Violaine had experimented with this spring.
Bringing the lighter flame as close as she dared, Coralie read the hat’s labels. ‘HJ, Paris.’ So – they’d been unpicking La Passerinette labels and inserting Henriette’s, using the same stitching holes. Coralie could already anticipate Henriette’s defence if accused: ‘Prove they’re yours!’
Well, she probably could. Flicking the lighter again, she inspected the sizing band inside the hat. Tiny stitches slanted left to right – put in by a right-handed person. Violaine.
But the stitching inside a second hat sloped in the opposite direction. With Violaine’s encouragement, Coralie had reversed a lifetime of indoctrination, and now sewed with her left hand. To prove these hats were hers, Henriette Junot would have to produce a left-handed milliner prepared to commit perjury.
But it wouldn’t get to court. She intended to take what was hers, now.
She’d start in the stockroom.
That room lay behind the main salon and Coralie had a key, though in fact, she found the door ajar and a light on. Inside, a girl in a raincoat stood halfway up a stepladder. An elderly man held the ladder, which wobbled as he saw Coralie.
Not wanting confrontation, Coralie opened her mouth to justify her presence, when she realised she knew the girl. ‘Amélie!’
‘Oh, heavens!’ Amélie Ginsler, Henriette’s head vendeuse, stepped down. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Fishing. What are you doing?’
Amélie looked guiltily towards the old man, who asked in a whisper, ‘Who is this?’
‘A friend,’ Amélie told him, ‘a good friend.’ Then to Coralie, ‘This is my grandfather. He’s helping me.’
‘Do what, though?’
‘Steal.’ Words poured out. ‘Henriette means to sack me. I overheard her. She wanted to turn me out right away because I’d been asking too many questions about the new stock, but Lorienne said I should be kept on another week because Rosaire is not quite ready to take over my job.’
‘Rosaire?’
‘Henriette’s – ’Amélie shot a glance at her grandfather ‘– newest friend. She started here a few weeks ago, and she’s replaced me.’
So, Henriette had brought in yet more ‘favourites’ to bolster her authority. Coralie felt sorry for Amélie, but there was no time to chat. ‘Where’s this new stock?’
‘Upstairs. I’ll show you. I’m collecting my things and Grandpapa’s taking them home.’ Amélie was cradling something against her chest. Hats made of satin. Not real ones, doll-sized miniatures.
‘May I?’ Coralie examined one. It was perfect, its flowers and curled ostrich feather to scale. The second was just as exquisite. ‘Did you make these?’
‘Grandpapa did.’ Pride ran through Amélie’s voice. ‘He carved the blocks, and blocked the felt, and Grandmama trimmed them. They had a business in Vienna once, making antique dolls, and were quite famous. They tried to carry on here, but it’s hard to start afresh with nothing in the bank. We have a shop in the Marais, on rue Charlot. Bring your little girl some time. Grandpapa used to sell to the best stores in Vienna and Berlin . . .’ She tailed off and Coralie filled in the rest. Of course. Amélie was Jewish. She’d always presumed ‘Ginsler’ was of German origin, and so it was. German Jewish.
‘Did you show these to Henriette?’ she asked.
‘That’s why they’re here,’ Amélie answered. ‘A few years ago, we had a special children’s collection. It was my idea, a way to ensure another generation of customers. Our clients brought their little girls along and other little girls modelled hats. I persuaded Grandpapa to lend some dolls, so he might pick up some customers. At the last minute, Henriette demanded commission on any that he sold, and after the show, she made me give her these little hats because she recognised the trimmings. They were offcuts from the atelier floor. We throw away bags of trim every week! But because they’d been turned into something beautiful . . .’
Amélie left the rest unsaid. She took a tape measure from her pocket and a delicate pair of scissors. ‘And I have my contact book too, with my customers’ names and telephone numbers. After I’m sacked, I shall call them and offer to re-trim their hats. Even rich women can no longer throw away last season’s wear.’
The old man presented a fob watch. ‘We must go. Already, it is nearly seven.’
‘Will Henriette pay the commission she owes you?’ Coralie asked.
Amélie gave a dispirited laugh. ‘My sales have been put down to Rosaire’s account, so, no.’
Rosaire. Number three in the La Passerinette raiding party? Coralie asked how Lorienne was getting on with the other staff.
‘She’s been appointed première. She took over from Madame Zénon, who returned to her family in Marseille – though only after Henriette pressured her to resign.’ Lorienne was hated by the sales staff and midinettes alike, Amélie confided. ‘She blames them for her own mistakes. A monster, except with Henriette, whom she flatters and coddles. The only time I’ve heard them arguing was after the disaster of the April collection.’
‘Oh?’ The night she’d walked out – been sacked, depending on whose point of view you took – Coralie had wagered Henriette that she’d produce the better spring collection. With invasion looming, the bet had fizzled out. ‘What disaster?’
Amélie addressed her grandfather first. ‘Go home, Opa. Take my things and I’ll see you tonight. I must show Coralie something.’
*
‘Prepare to marvel.’ In one of the upstairs ateliers, Amélie opened a vast cupboard, revealing shelves filled with hats. ‘The April line.’
‘Good heavens!’
Amélie chuckled. ‘We all told Lorienne she was mad, that the timing was all wrong for such colours, but Henriette loved them. “People will say we are taking up the patriotic baton. Vive la France.” And within ten minutes, it had been Henriette’s idea all along.’
Coralie had never seen such a frenzy of red, white and blue. The hats exploded with tricolor cockades, feathers and flowers, enough to bring on a flashing headache. ‘They didn’t launch? I never saw them.’
‘No, because suddenly everyone was saying that the drôle de guerre was over. Henriette panicked. Unlike most people, she’d always believed there would be an invasion. People she’d met in Italy had a more realistic view of the German Army than we French ever did. Suddenly she had visions of her customers running from the advancing tanks with her designs on their heads. Sh
e cancelled the show and ordered Lorienne to start again.’
Only Lorienne had faltered, inspiration used up. With time running out, she’d persuaded Henriette to join her in a desperate eleventh-hour solution. ‘Coralie, I didn’t know she’d stolen your stock until I found La Passerinette labels on the floor. Lorienne said you’d sold them to her. She said you were—’
‘Leaving town? Perhaps she hoped I would.’
‘Henriette took over deconstructing your hats, making them up slightly differently to put her mark on them.’
‘You can’t do that.’ Coralie was outraged. ‘The shapes won’t balance.’
Amélie laughed. ‘Balance is the least of Henriette’s worries. She’s brought new people into her business – Rosaire, Soufflard, Lorienne – and, in their way, they rule her. Sometimes I see Henriette looking exhausted. Well, after today, it won’t be my concern.’
They found the bulk of the stolen La Passerinette hats in Henriette’s attic workroom: the straw, the sisal, the chintzes and organdies. Amélie fetched a bundle of laundry bags and helped Coralie fill them. They clumped down the stairs, laden like pack mules.
‘All my blocks were taken,’ she told Amélie. ‘Tools, everything.’
‘We could check the cellar.’
A search revealed nothing but cartons of felt waste, waiting to be traded on to a company that stuffed mattresses. Amélie said, ‘I’d say your equipment was sold within hours. I doubt Henriette has black-marketeers in her address book, but I’d bet my last franc that Lorienne knows a few.’
But Coralie was looking at the bags of felt, an idea forming. Felt offcuts, miniature blocks to shape them on. ‘Amélie, does your grandfather accept commissions?’ But Amélie was anxious to leave. ‘You go,’ Coralie said. ‘I’ve one more thing to do.’
It took several trips up- and downstairs, and she was breathless and hot by the time she’d transformed Henriette Junot’s window into a tableau guaranteed to stop passers-by in their tracks.
The Girl Who Dreamed of Paris Page 24