The Lost Girls of Paris

by Pam Jenoff

  An hour later, Grace neared the British consulate, a bustling office building on Third Avenue uncomfortably close to the hotel she’d found herself in with Mark two nights earlier. At the corner, a boy in worn trousers and a cap was selling newspapers. He reminded Grace of Sammy, who she hoped was managing all right at his cousin’s. She took a copy of The Post and paid the boy. The headline read, “Truman Warns of Soviet Menace in the East.” Not a year ago, everyone still feared Hitler. But now Stalin was spreading communism in countries still too weak from the war to resist and dividing Europe in a whole new way.

  Grace flipped through the paper. On page nine, a picture of Eleanor Trigg, the same one that had been on the news the previous evening, was displayed on the bottom half. There was a second photo, a grainy, nondescript image of the street, not the grisly scene itself, thankfully. Grace scanned the article but it contained nothing more than she already knew.

  It was not, Grace reminded herself, her problem. She smoothed her skirt and then marched into the consulate, eager to be rid of the photos and on her way to work.

  The lobby of the British consulate was unremarkable, with just a few hard-backed chairs and a low table holding a plant that had died weeks ago. A lone man in a suit and derby hat sat in one of the chairs, looking as though he would rather be anywhere else. The receptionist, an older woman with her gray hair swept up in a knot and reading glasses perched on the end of her nose, clacked at a Remington.

  “Yes?” the woman asked. She did not look up from the typewriter as Grace approached.

  Grace saw how it must look—an unknown woman, arriving unannounced. She was nobody here.

  But Grace had learned much from her months of working with Frankie to help the immigrants about wheedling her way through government bureaucracy, getting what she wanted from tired civil servants. Steeling herself, she held up the envelope. “I found these photos and I believe they belong to a British citizen.” Belonged, she corrected herself silently.

  “And you want us to do what with them, exactly?” The woman, her English accent cold and clipped, did not wait for an answer or bother to mask her impatience. “Thousands of British citizens come to New York every day. Very few of them ever check in with the consulate.”

  “Well, this one won’t be checking in with the consulate at all,” Grace replied, more snappishly than she intended. She held up the newspaper. “The photographs were owned by Eleanor Trigg, the woman who was hit by a car outside Grand Central yesterday. She was British. I was thinking if there was a family member or next of kin, they might want these photographs.”

  “I can’t comment on the personal matters of British citizens,” the receptionist said officiously. “If you would like to leave them here, we can hold them and see if someone claims them.” The receptionist held out her hand impatiently.

  Grace hesitated. This was her moment and she could just leave the photos and be done with them. But she felt a connection to the photos now, a sense of ownership. She couldn’t just abandon them to someone who so clearly couldn’t care less. She pulled back her hand. “I’d rather speak with someone. Perhaps the consul.”

  “Sir Meacham isn’t here.” And wouldn’t see you even if he was, the receptionist’s tone seemed to say.

  “Then can I make an appointment?” Even before Grace finished, she knew she would be turned away.

  “The consul is a very busy man. He doesn’t get involved in these types of matters. If you would prefer not to leave the photos, you can leave your contact information in case anyone inquires about them.” Grace took the pencil the receptionist offered and jotted down the address and phone number of the boardinghouse. She could practically hear the paper falling into the wastebasket as she reached the exit.

  Well, that hadn’t worked out, Grace thought as she started out the door of the consulate. She lifted the envelope of photographs to study it for further clues. Then she glanced up at the clock on the building across the street. Nine thirty. She was late for work again. Maybe if she told Frankie what had happened, he might have some idea what she should do next.

  As she started down the steps of the consulate, an older man with a waxed moustache wearing a pinstripe suit passed her in the other direction, entering the building. “Excuse me?” Grace called out impulsively. “Are you Sir Meacham?”

  Confusion crossed the man’s face, as though he were not quite sure himself. “I am,” he said. His expression changed to one of annoyance. “What is it that you want?”

  “If you have a moment, I just need to ask you a few questions.”

  “I’m sorry, but I really don’t have the time. I’m late for a meeting. If you make an appointment at the front desk, I’m sure the vice consul will...”

  She did not wait for him to finish. “It’s about Eleanor Trigg.”

  He cleared his throat, an almost cough. Clearly, he had heard. “I suppose you saw the news story. Very sad. Were you a friend of hers?”

  “Not exactly. But I have something that belonged to her.”

  The consul waved her hurriedly back inside the building. “I have two minutes,” he said, leading her across the lobby. Seeing Grace with the consul, the receptionist’s eyes widened with surprise.

  The consul led her to a room off the main lobby that was well-appointed, with brown leather chairs scattered around dark oak tables and heavy red velvet curtains held back by gold rope. A bar or club of some sort, presently closed. “How can I help?” Sir Meacham asked, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his voice.

  “Eleanor Trigg was a British citizen, wasn’t she?”

  “Indeed. We received a call last night from the police. They knew from her passport that she was British. We’re trying to locate family to claim her body.”

  Grace hated the cold, impersonal way that sounded. “Did you know her?”

  “Not personally, no. I knew of her. I happened to be detailed to Whitehall during the war. She worked for our government, did something clerical for one of the sections of SOE, that is, Special Operations Executive.”

  Grace had never even heard of Special Operations Executive and wanted to ask the consul about it. But he was looking at the grandfather clock in the corner impatiently. She was running out of time.

  “I found some photos,” Grace said, being purposefully vague as to how. She took them out of the envelope and spread them before the consul like a hand of cards. “I brought them to the consulate this morning because I believe they belonged to Miss Trigg. Do you know who these women are?”

  The consul pulled out his reading glasses to study the photographs. Then he shifted his gaze away. “I’ve never seen them before. Any of them. Perhaps they were friends of hers, or even relatives.”

  “But some of them are in uniform,” she pointed out.

  The consul waved his hands dismissively. “Probably just FANYs, members of the women’s nursing auxiliary.” Grace shook her head. Something about the girls’ grimly set jaws, their serious expressions, suggested more. The consul looked up. “What exactly is it that you want from me?”

  Grace faltered. She had come here just to return the photos. But now she found she wanted answers. “I’m curious who these girls are—and what their connection was to Eleanor Trigg.”

  “I have no idea,” Sir Meacham replied firmly.

  “You could make some inquiries in London and try to find out,” Grace challenged.

  “Actually, I couldn’t,” the consul replied coldly. “When SOE was shut down, its records were shipped to your War Department in Washington. Where,” he added, “I’m quite certain they’re sealed.” He stood up. “I’m afraid I really must be going.”

  Grace rose. “What was she doing in New York?” she persisted.

  “I have absolutely no idea,” Sir Meacham replied. “As I said, Miss Trigg was no longer affiliated with the British government. Her whereabouts were her own business
. This is a private matter. I’m not sure that it is any of your concern.”

  “What if they can’t find anyone?” Grace asked. “To claim Eleanor, I mean.”

  “I suppose the city will put her in a pauper’s grave. The consulate has no funds for such things.” A woman who served your country—even as a secretary—deserved better, Grace wanted to say. She gathered up the photos and put them in the envelope. The consul held out his hands. “Now, if you would like to give me her photos, I’m sure we can reunite them with her personal effects,” the consul said.

  Grace started to give them over, compliance almost a reflex. Then she pulled back. “How?”

  Sir Meacham’s eyebrows raised, white above his glasses. “Pardon me?”

  “If there is no next of kin, how can you reunite them?”

  The consul huffed, unaccustomed to being challenged. “We’ll hold on to them, make inquiries.” Grace knew from his tone that nothing of the sort would happen. “They aren’t your concern.” He reached for the photos.

  Grace hesitated. Part of her wanted to be done with the photos, hand them over and walk away. But she couldn’t abandon them. She had to do more. “On second thought,” she said evenly. “I’ll just hang on to them.” She stood to leave.

  “But I really don’t think...” the consul fumbled. “You were so eager to return them. That is why you came to the consulate, wasn’t it? I wouldn’t want them to be a burden.”

  “Really, it’s no trouble.” Grace managed a smile through gritted teeth. “I found them. They’re mine.”

  “Actually,” the consul replied, his voice steely. “They’re Eleanor’s.” They stared at one another for several seconds, neither wavering. Then Grace turned and walked from the consulate.

  Outside, Grace paused to consider the photos once more. She hadn’t left them after all, and she still had no idea what to do with them. But she could figure that out later; right now, it was time to get to work.

  Still clutching the photos in her hand, she stepped onto the sidewalk, merging with the current of commuters that surged along Third Avenue. “Grace,” a male voice called. She stopped, certain she was mistaken. No one knew her here. For a second, she wondered if it was Sir Meacham coming after her to insist she leave the photos. But the accent was American, not English. It came again, following and more insistent. “Grace, wait!”

  She turned toward the voice and as she did, a passing businessman bumped into her, sending the photos scattering. She knelt to retrieve them.

  “I didn’t mean to startle you.” The male voice was familiar. “Here, let me help.”

  Grace looked up, stunned by the sight of the man she’d been sure she would never see again. “Mark.”

  Memories cascaded through her: a crush of crisp white hotel sheets tangled between her limbs, the sensation of floating in midair above the bed. A man’s hands on her that were not Tom’s.

  Yet here he was. Mark helped her to her feet, the sleeve of his gray wool overcoat scratchy against her arm. Grace stared at him. He seemed to smile with the whole of his face, hazel eyes dancing. A single lock of his dark curly hair peeked out from beneath the wide brim of his fedora. He kissed her on the cheek like they were old friends, and the scent of his cologne hurled her back to the night before last and all the places she never should have been.

  Remembering the photographs, Grace scurried to collect them from the pavement. “Let me help you,” Mark offered again. Did he feel awkward, too, she wondered, about having slept with his dead best friend’s wife?

  She waved him off. “I can manage.” She didn’t want him to see the girls and start asking questions. But he raced toward the curb, deftly plucking up one of the photographs before it slipped into the gutter.

  When Grace had collected all of the pictures, she straightened. “What are you doing here?” she blurted, feeling her cheeks flush. The other night he had said that it was his last in town. Yet here he was.

  “I was delayed on business.” He did not elaborate.

  They stood awkwardly for several seconds and her eyes seemed to catch where the collar of his tweed overcoat brushed against the freshly shaved skin of his neck. There wasn’t any more to say. “I have to go.” She took a step away from him, the movement more difficult than she might have imagined.

  “Wait.” He reached for her arm, the light touch reminding her all too much of the night they had shared. “I was hoping we could make plans to meet up again. Only when I woke up...”

  “Shush!” she scolded, looking over her shoulder. That it had happened was bad enough; she certainly didn’t want anyone else to hear about it.

  “Sorry. Anyway, now that we’ve run into one another, I was hoping that I could see you again?” His voice ended on an upward note, making it into a question.

  For what, Grace wondered, another night? There could hardly be anything more between them. “I couldn’t possibly...”

  “At least let me buy you breakfast,” he pressed.

  “I need to get to work.” She tucked the envelope back in her bag.

  “You work?” Hearing the surprise in his voice, her irritation rose. Why wouldn’t she have a job? It wasn’t that uncommon, although with men returning from Europe, many women had stopped working, either by choice or because they had been forced from their jobs. But it wasn’t that he underestimated her, she realized. Rather, it was just that they had spoken so little about themselves the night they spent together. That was the comfort of it; they had talked about the war, about Tom. But her actual self and the realities of her world had remained safely out of sight. Mark really didn’t know her at all.

  And she would like to keep it that way. “I do work,” she said. “And I’m late. But thank you for your offer.”

  “Coffee then?” he persisted.

  “I really can’t.” She tried to leave again.

  “Gracie,” he called.

  She turned. “Didn’t you hear me when I said no?”

  But it was just a paper he was holding out, one of the photographs she had missed on the ground. “You dropped this. Pretty girl,” he commented at the photo.

  “I’m sorry. That was rude of me,” Grace said, softening. She took the photo and tucked it away.

  “It was,” he agreed, and they both chuckled. “You really don’t have time for coffee?” he asked, his expression pleading.

  She could use a cup of coffee, Grace realized. And Mark had been nothing but kind. But seeing the consul had made her late. She considered how mad Frankie would be, then decided she could stretch it just once more. “I’ve got fifteen minutes,” she said.

  Mark smiled broadly. “I’ll take what I can get.”

  She followed him to the Woolworths on the next block. They found two spots at the end of the Formica counter. “There, we don’t even have to sit in a proper booth,” he chided. Ignoring him, she climbed onto one of the stools. On the wall behind the counter, bright posters exhorted them to try Coca-Cola and Chesterfield cigarettes.

  “Two coffees, please,” Mark said to the waitress. He turned to Grace. “Something to eat?” She shook her head. Though she could have used breakfast, she didn’t want to stay that long. “How long have you been in New York?” he asked, when the steaming mugs had been set on the counter in front of them.

  “Almost a year.” She could feel the anniversary coming around, the sameness of the weather as it had been that day.

  “Since Tom died,” he noted.

  She tried to take a sip of coffee, but the too-hot liquid scalded her lips so she set it down once more. “More or less. I was here to meet him for a weekend when I got the news.”

  “And you stayed.”

  She nodded. “Sort of.” Technically, it wasn’t true; she had gone back to Boston for the funeral, then to her family’s house in Westport. But the overly concerned looks had been stifling and the murmurs
of sympathy made her want to scream. She left for Marcia’s place in the Hamptons less than a week later.

  “You said you were delayed in New York for work?” she asked, purposefully changing the subject.

  “Yes, I’m a lawyer. The hearing that we started was continued so I extended my stay at The James.” She blushed, remembering his well-appointed suite.

  “So those photographs,” he continued, before she could ask about the type of law and what it was that he actually did. He nodded toward her bag, where she’d tucked the envelope safely away once more. “Do they have to do with your job?”

  Grace hesitated. She dearly wanted to speak with someone about the photos, to have help figuring out what to do. And there was something in Mark’s hazel eyes, the inquisitiveness and concern as he studied her face, that made her feel as though she could trust him. She took a breath. “You heard about the woman who was hit by a car near Grand Central?” she asked in a low voice.

  He nodded. “I just read about it in the paper.”

  “Well, I saw it.”

  “You saw her get hit?”

  “Not exactly. But I was there after, with the police and an ambulance.”

  “That must have been awful.”

  “It was. And there’s more.” Grace found herself telling Mark how she had been detoured through Grand Central and found a suitcase. He rested his elbow on the counter and his chin in his hand, listening intently. “When I was looking inside for some identification, I found these,” she added, trying to make her nosiness sound purposeful. She pulled out the photos and showed him. “I tried to put them back, but the suitcase was gone. Then I found out that it belonged to the woman who was killed. She was English. At first I just wanted to find a way to return the photos to their owner. That’s why I went to the British consulate.”