by James R Benn
Then I heard a crash and a yell.
I ran closer and saw that a garbage can had done my job for me. Paul Lambert—it had better be him, after all this—rolled on the wet cobblestones clutching his knee and moaning. I trotted to a halt, holding out my hands to show him I meant no harm.
“Paul Lambert?” I said. “Do you speak English?”
That got his attention.
“Oui. You are not boche?”
“American,” I said, giving him a hand as he got himself up. “I have a message from your brother.”
“I do not have a brother,” he said, looking around in a bit of a panic. “Mon violin!”
He scampered around the spilled garbage and came up with a violin case. He wiped the scraps of debris off with reverence, looking at me with unabashed pride.
“Italien,” he said by way of explanation. “From the last century.”
“That’s swell, but aren’t you curious about your brother Marcel?”
“What do you want?” he asked, holding the case to his chest like a baby. He was skinny, with a mop of dark hair curling around his ears. He had a few years on the kids at the barricade, but not many. Old enough to have been drafted for forced labor in Germany, and I wondered if Jarnac had traded information to keep his kid brother alive.
“I know your brother. Marcel Jarnac,” I said, working to convince him I was legit. Jarnac had probably drilled him on revealing nothing. “He asked me to bring you to him. He said the Germans had discovered he had a brother and were coming to arrest you.”
“I have done nothing,” he said, looking around as if Gestapo agents were hiding in the bushes.
“Right, but if the Germans have you, they will force your brother to give himself up. Do you understand?”
“Yes, I do. But why did he send an American? Are you with the FFI?”
“It’s a long story, Paul. I was shot down, and the Resistance helped me. That’s where I met Marcel. He couldn’t make it to warn you, so he asked me to take you to a safe place,” I said.
“Are the Americans coming?” he asked.
“Yes, they are very close. And General Leclerc as well. Tell me, how long has it been since you saw your brother?”
“A month, maybe longer,” Paul said. “I did not know he was in Paris.”
“His work is very secret,” I said. True enough. And I knew by now he’d had plenty of time to get to the Abwehr at the Hotel Lutetia, assuming the Krauts he surrendered to didn’t immediately put a bullet in his head. So, I had to get to him as soon possible.
“Where are you taking me? To Marcel?”
“No, Paul. To a safe place. You’re going to love it, believe me.”
I told him to lead the way to the Gare Saint-Lazare. He said all the trains had stopped running, and I explained that was just the general area. I couldn’t tell him the actual destination in case we got picked up. Need to know, and he didn’t need to know right now.
The route was a lot easier going downhill. We reached the boulevard de Clichy and hid in the shadows of a recessed doorway as I scanned the road and the buildings beyond. I couldn’t make out much in the grayness but shuttered windows and garbage strewn in the gutter. The air was damp and sour, a faint mist floating in the darkness. I rubbed my eyes, raw with the grit of exhaustion, trying to see what awaited us on the other side.
I heard the rumble of an engine. Two engines, one running rough. A vehicle appeared in the distance, taking form as it came closer. Then another, close behind. Trucks jammed with armed men. Rifles jutted out at every angle as they passed us and faded into the foggy distance. Security troops? FFI? Germans retreating from the front lines? Vichy Milice making a getaway? It didn’t really matter. Any of them would have been trigger-happy enough to gun down a couple of figures skulking in a doorway.
“Come on,” I said to Lambert. He looked nervous. Smart kid.
We walked slowly. My theory was that running attracts more attention than a couple of guys out for a stroll, and given that we weren’t being chased, it seemed the most sensible thing to do. If a Kraut had us in his sights, running at him wouldn’t exactly calm him down. On the other hand, this slow pace would make it easy for him to take a steady aim.
Hell, since it didn’t make much difference, I’d go with the walk. I was too damned tired to run.
Halfway across the boulevard, I heard shots. Pretty far away. I put an unsteady hand on Lambert’s shoulder and told him not to worry. Mainly, I wanted a good hold of him in case he decided to run back home.
“Where is Marcel?” he asked, hugging the violin case to his chest.
“It’s best for me not to say,” I told him.
“You sound like Marcel,” Lambert said, his pace quickening.
“Slow down and shut up,” I said, disliking any comparison to his murdering traitor of a brother. Which wasn’t fair to the kid. But then again, nothing that I was going to do would count as fair in his book.
On the far side of the boulevard we stopped, and I listened for any movement or voices ahead. Nothing.
“Sorry,” I said to Lambert. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
“Snap?”
“Speak harshly,” I said, pulling him into a doorway and glancing down the street. “It’s just nerves. Don’t worry, you’ll be safe.”
“I am nervous too,” he said. “I have never been out after curfew.”
“I think the boche are too busy to enforce it,” I said. “But they’re still dangerous. You aren’t involved? With Marcel’s work, I mean?”
“No. He made me promise I would attend to my studies. He said one life ruined by war was enough.”
“He lost his wife in Spain, didn’t he?” I said.
“You must be a good friend,” Lambert said. “He never speaks of it. To anyone.”
“We’ve become close,” I said. Not close enough to suit me, but true enough. I didn’t want him getting suspicious, so I tried to change the subject. “You’re a musician.”
“Yes, I study at the Sorbonne. I want to become a concert violinist,” he said. “That is why I took my violin. It is the only thing I have of value.”
“Okay, keep a good grip on it. You know the way to the train station from here?”
“Bien sûr,” he said. “This way.”
We scurried down a narrow street called the rue des Martyrs, which was a little disquieting, but it provided more cover than a lot of the monolithic blocks of apartments that I’d seen. The buildings were smaller here, rows of little shops with uneven facades, recessed doors, overhanging balconies, and a scattering of trees. Plenty of places to hide, at least in the darkness.
From there we moved through side streets angling off in different directions, taking us through a small park and around the back of a church. Then I saw the sign, the white letters easily visible. The rue du Havre, where Kaz and I had potato soup.
“This way,” I told Lambert, who kept close to my side. I wondered where Kaz was right now. If he’d evaded capture, he’d be fine. He always was. If not? A Pole with false papers wouldn’t last a minute. But Kaz was a fast talker and fluent in German. I told myself to stop worrying. Kaz was smart and resourceful. Like giving me landmarks such as this café to get me to the One-Two-Two club.
We were about a block away. I heard a car door slam, loud and startling in the quiet night. We ran ahead to a covered archway. A department store, fancy shoes and dresses still on display. Last-minute gifts for the departing Krauts to buy their fraus.
It gave me a good view of the entrance to the One-Two-Two, but not of who was in the car. It drove off in the opposite direction, and the quiet settled in around us. Last customer of the evening? I hoped so.
I motioned for Lambert to follow and hustled across the street like a guy late to a party and worried about getting mugged in a strange part of town. In a hurry
but trying to look nonchalant. I pulled off my FFI armband and stuffed it in my pocket as we approached the large double doors painted a deep burgundy red.
“Ask for Malou,” I said to Lambert. “My French isn’t so good.”
“Oui,” he said, agreeing readily as I knocked on the door. Nothing. I wondered if there was a secret knock, or if everyone had gone home. I raised my hand to give it another rap as the door swung open.
I’d expected a doorman. Or a bouncer.
Not two drunken Kraut officers.
They pushed past us as a staff car prowled down the street, a huge Mercedes-Benz that pulled over by the door, its engine purring like a leopard. Two Germans got out, one to hold the door open and the other to keep watch, submachine gun at the ready.
I got my foot in the door before it closed, keeping a tight grip on Lambert. One of the officers, a colonel, turned and studied Lambert clutching his violin case. He began asking questions, first in German, then French.
The Kraut on watch quit scanning the street and focused on us, his MP40 swinging in our direction. The colonel pointed at the violin case and laughed. Lambert joined right in, nodding and chatting with the Kraut like he was an old pal. The colonel chuckled and waved off the suspicious guard, who shifted his weapon but not his eyes.
I kept my eyes down, taking a deep breath as we made it over the threshold. The door shut behind us with a reassuring solidity.
“What was that about?” I whispered, casting an eye down the hallway from the foyer where we stood.
“He reminded me to use the servant’s entrance. Musicians should not use the front door, according to him. What kind of place is this?”
A woman walked down the stairs, her high-heeled shoes coming into view first. Then a bit of sheer gauzy material that didn’t hide a thing. The next thing I saw was a surprised look on her face, her smile vanishing as she called for help, scurrying back up the steps.
“No Frenchmen today,” Lambert translated. His neck craned as he followed her retreat up the stairs. “Is this un bordel for boche only?”
“Yes, but it’s a safe place,” I said, wondering if the joint was off-limits for civilians and keeping an eye out for muscle. The last thing I needed was to be thrown out into the street. “It’s called the One-Two-Two.”
“I have heard of it,” he said, a mixture of reverence and worry in his tone. “They do strange things here, I am told.”
“Relax,” I said. “The whole world is pretty strange right now.” Footsteps thundered down the steps. Not high heels. A sturdy fellow in a nicely-tailored suit made his appearance and snarled a few sentences between his teeth, the kind of thing you do when you don’t want anyone else to hear how mad you are. He needed a shave and smelled of wine souring on his tongue.
“Malou est ici?” Lambert asked, as soon as he could get a word in.
“Malou? Attendez,” he growled, but there was a shift in his tone, the words laced with less threat than before. We obviously weren’t clients, not dressed the way we were, but he didn’t toss us out, so I figured our contact here had to be the real deal. We waited, as instructed, and in a couple of minutes he came down a few steps, snapped his fingers, and we went up.
It was on the next floor, which was good if what Kaz had told me about the shenanigans getting more risqué with the altitude held true. I didn’t want Lambert running for the exits. We followed the guy to the end of the hall, where he pointed to a door.
“Malou,” he said, and left us, ascending the stairs at the rear to loftier heights and baser instincts.
Chapter Twenty-Five
I knocked, not sure what to expect. A Gestapo trap? Half-naked ladies? The door swung open and there stood the last person I expected to see in this high-class whorehouse.
Diana Seaton. The woman I loved. Dressed in a red silk dress cut low in the bosom and high on the thigh, her honey-colored hair pinned back to show off a ruby-studded choker.
“Hello, Billy. Who’s your friend?” Diana couldn’t hide the smile growing at the corners of her mouth, which only made me more confused. She didn’t seem the least bit surprised to find me at her door, while my jaw was hanging open, my brain unable to get two words moving together.
“Paul Lambert,” my companion said, his wits apparently unimpaired. “Enchanté, Mademoiselle.”
“Entrez,” Diana said, her hand on my shoulder as she pulled me across the threshold, her touch red-hot through my shirt.
“Diana,” I whispered, finally able to speak.
“Malou, for now,” she said, a finger to her lips. Lambert plopped himself down on a purple velvet chair that looked right at home facing a large bed with a red quilt matching Diana’s dress. What there was of it. I’d encountered her working undercover for the Special Operations Executive before, but this put that notion in a whole new light.
“How did you know it was me?” I asked. I was having a hard time thinking this through. I was on the knife edge of exhaustion and wasn’t entirely sure I understood what was going on.
“First, sit down,” Diana said. “You look terrible.”
“Haven’t slept much,” I said, collapsing on a couch, the soft cushions feeling like clouds. “Been dodging Krauts.”
“Here,” Diana said, pouring glasses of water from a carafe and giving them to Paul and me. I drank, then put the glass to my forehead, feeling the coolness against my skin. I set the glass down with a clatter and rubbed my hand to hide the quiver. “Paul is a friend?” She cocked a brow in his direction, inquiring about intentions and loyalties in one subtle movement.
“Can we talk? In private?” I said, watching Paul with the violin on his lap, his eyes taking in the room with its gaudy furnishings and flowery wallpaper. I nodded in the direction of a door that looked to lead to an adjoining room.
“It is best we all remain here,” Diana said. “There are clients about. You were lucky to make it inside. Frenchmen are allowed only as guests of the Germans.”
“The boche thought I was here to play,” Paul said. “An officer who was leaving said I should have used the rear entrance.”
“You are a violinist?” Diana asked, eyeing the case he cradled.
“Listen, we don’t have time for small talk,” I said. “I need your help.”
“Then wait,” she said, holding up her hand while nodding to Paul for his reply.
“Yes. I study classical music at the Sorbonne. I could not leave my instrument behind, it is the only thing of value I have.”
“Then play for us, please. Can you do that?” Diana said, leaning closer to Paul. At that point, he was ready to do anything she asked. I finally realized what she was up to. Noise, to cover our conversation. They chatted in French for a while, and he decided on Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D. I almost put in a request for “GI Jive,” since that was the big hit on Armed Forces Radio these days, but I didn’t have the energy to play the wise guy.
Man alive, that GI Jive.
Diana turned off the lights and cranked open the window facing a small courtyard. She motioned for Paul to take his place. The breeze blew the curtains into the room, the late-night air shimmering Diana’s red dress. Man alive, indeed.
“Go ahead, Paul,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “There are many important people who will hear you, although you will never know their names. The One-Two-Two is très discret.”
The first notes were mournful. Or maybe that was the mood I was in. Then the pace increased, the tune growing lively, Paul swaying and leaning into the music. The kid was good.
“Now, tell me what you need,” Diana said, whispering as she sat on the couch.
“First, what’s going on here? How did you know to expect me?”
“The name Malou, that’s all. I had a radio transmission from SOE that you and Kaz would be in Paris ahead of the troops. If someone asked for Malou, it had to be one o
f you. The doorman is a loyal résistant and knew to bring you to me. I have many names here, Billy,” she said with a cunning smirk.
“Of course. Sorry, my brain is moving pretty slow tonight. It’s taking everything I have just to stay awake. What’s with the outfit? Are you, you know, working here?” I glanced at the ornate bed.
She slapped me. Paul played on.
“There, that ought to wake you up. Now, tell me what you need. I don’t have all night.” The grin was gone.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I don’t know what I meant,” I said. “I had no idea what to expect, and then there you were, in that dress.” I reached for the glass and gave up, my hand trembling too much to trust I could hold it.
“You don’t look well, Billy,” she said, her hand resting on my arm and her brow wrinkling with worry.
“I’m okay. I’m sorry about that remark, it was stupid. I need to keep this kid on ice for a day, that’s all. And find Kaz.”
“Has something happened to him?” Diana asked, her eyes wide with concern.
“We were separated. Got caught up in a Kraut raid and barely made it out. I thought he might have found his way here. Hoped he had, anyway.”
“The situation in the streets is very fluid,” she said. “In some areas there are pitched battles, in other neighborhoods all is quiet. We have to hope Kaz found somewhere safe.”
“Yeah,” I said, happy to grasp at that straw. “He knows how to take care of himself. But I hope he didn’t get caught in a crossfire or picked up by the Krauts. Our papers aren’t the best.”
“That doesn’t matter, sadly enough,” she said, as Paul continued with his playing. The notes echoed in the courtyard, an odd serenade of serene beauty in the midst of terror and death. “Anyone picked up by the Germans is taken away. They sent another trainload of prisoners to Germany early today. The last, I hope.”