Authors: Robbins Harold
Contempt crept into Caroline's voice. "I've heard about such confessions."
The voice hardened. "Nevertheless, it was your brother. And he is hurt and somewhere in Paris. Possibly not far from here, perhaps bleeding and dying. If we can find him there is a chance his life may be saved."
"By whom?" Caroline asked sarcastically. "And for what? To be tortured and stood up against a wall and shot?"
"We're not as bad as all that. You must not believe all the propaganda that our enemies are spreading."
Caroline did not answer. She took a cigarette from a box on the table in front of her. Quickly the German leaned over and held a light for her.
"Why can't you be reasonable? Surely you must understand; you were German once. At least your family came from there."
Caroline took a deep drag on the cigarette and stared at him. "That was almost a hundred years ago, and we left because we were Jews. Things haven't changed so much we'd forget."
The SS man sank back into his chair. "Despite what you have heard, the Third Reich is not unreasonable. Once a German, always a German. It could even be forgotten that you were once Jews."
Caroline looked into his eyes. "Perhaps by you. But could we?"
The German's lips tightened. He reached over and snatched the cigarette from her mouth. All politeness disappeared from his voice. "Jew bitch! Next time the telephone rings you will answer it!"
"And if I don't?"
He moved quickly, the back of his hand swiping across her face. She fell sideways from the chair to the floor and lay staring up at him. He got out of his chair and stood over her, his eyes cold with hate. "If you don't," he said slowly, "you'll wish you had!"
Robert huddled in the doorway across the street, his hand clutching the shoulder where he had been shot. He felt the warm sticky blood seeping through his fingers. He looked over at the house.
It was almost morning and there was still a dim light escaping around the edges of the heavy drawn drapes in the library. The German staff car with the two soldiers in it was parked in the street in front of the house.
Suddenly the front door opened, and the two soldiers sprang out of the car and stood stiffly at attention. Caroline and a man came out. The man was dressed in an ordinary business suit. One of the soldiers opened the door of the car and Caroline got in as the man spoke to him for a few moments.
In the crisp morning air Robert could hear his brisk "Jawohl." Then the man got into the car beside Caroline and closed the door. The driver got back into the car and started the motor. The remaining soldier stood for a moment watching the car drive off, then turned and entered the house.
Robert waited until the door had closed behind him before he came out of his hiding place. He stood indecisively in the street. For the moment the fact that they had Caroline was more important than his wound. He did not have to be told what Germans did to their prisoners. A cold dread began to run through him. Something would have to be done to get her away from them.
Briefly he thought of giving himself up, but then reason took over. It would do no good; the Nazis would simply have both of them. He felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. The quick movement had started the bleeding again, and he felt weak and on the verge of tears as despair coursed through him. Then the sound of heavy boots rang out from down the street.
He didn't wait to see whose they were. He knew the cadence of the goose-step too well. He went down an alley into a dark doorway and huddled, shivering He didn't even stick out his head until the sound completely faded away.
After that he moved through the early-morning streets almost aimlessly. There was no place for him to go. All the others were dead, and when he had gone back to the hideaway there had been Nazis all around it. He began to feel weak, almost lightheaded from the loss of blood. If he did not find help soon he would no longer have to hide from the Germans. They would find him lying in the streets.
CHAPTER 18
The woman's voice over the telephone was hushed and guarded. "Monsieur Xenos, this is Madame Blanchette. Do you remember?"
"But of course." From the first night Dax had spent in Paris, he had passed her house almost every day. "How are you, Madame Blanchette?"
"I am fine. But I am so disappointed. You have not come to visit us since your return."
For a moment Dax was puzzled. He had never been a client of her establishment. Then he remembered. The baron had. "I am sorry, madame. I have been too busy."
"A man must never allow himself to be so busy he cannot relax once in a while," Madame Blanchette said reproachfully. "It is only by the leisure time spent away from his work that a man can maintain his peak."
Dax laughed. "I apologize again, madame."
"I took the liberty of calling in the hopes that you could visit us this evening. I am giving a very special soiree. It might be quite amusing. I think you will find it most novel."
Dax looked down at his desk calendar. "I have another appointment—"
"We should be most disappointed if you did not come, Monsieur Xenos," she interrupted. "In a way the entire soiree is planned around you."
There seemed to be a strange insistence in her voice. "All right, I'll come. But it will have to be late."
"How late?"
"One in the morning?"
He sensed the note of relief in her voice. "That will be quite satisfactory. Nothing much will happen before then."
As Dax put down the telephone Fat Cat came into the room. "Well, what did you find out?" "She's gone all right. None of the servants will talk. There are two Germans hanging around the house."
"Did you check the neighborhood?"
Fat Cat nodded. "The same everywhere. Nobody knows. Or dares talk."
Dax thought for a moment. "I just had a curious phone call from Madame Blanchette down the street. She was a friend of the baron's. Could Caroline be hiding there?" He reached for one of his thin cigars. "Madame Blanchette seemed very set on my coming there tonight."
The telephone began to ring again, and when Dax picked it up a familiar voice greeted him. "Good morning, darling." Giselle's voice was still fuzzy with sleep. "Why did you go off and leave me at that horrible party last night?"
Dax glanced at his watch. It was nearly noon. "You were enjoying yourself."
"But, darling, that was because I was with you."
"And six other men. I couldn't even get close to you."
"But I'm alone now. You could come over for lunch?"
Dax could almost see her sprawled across the huge bed, her breasts pushing up against the decolletage of her nightdress as she lay on her stomach talking into the telephone.
"I'd like to, but I can't."
"Oh, darling, I'm so disappointed!"
He laughed at the patent fakery in her voice. She was a good enough actress to make her voice do exactly what she wanted it to do. "No, you're not. You're going right back to sleep again, which is what you planned to do all along."
She laughed and the sound was warm in his ear. "Then dinner tonight?"
"Yes, but I shall have to leave by midnight. I have another appointment."
"At midnight?"
"Yes."
A jealous note crept into her voice, and now she was no longer acting. "There's another woman."
"No. How could there be? You have never given me enough time to find one."
"You won't have strength for another woman when you leave me tonight!"
"Is that a threat or a promise?" "Don't joke with me," she said. "I am a very jealous woman."
"Good. That is the best kind."
Sergei stood in front of the Hotel Royale Palace. There was a curiously faded air about it since the Germans had taken it over. He went through the doors into the lobby. He noticed that the paint was peeling from the walls behind the front desk as he stepped up to it.
The German corporal looked at Sergei's expensive clothing respectfully. "Ja, mein Herr?"
"Colonel Count Nikovitch."
"Do you have an appointment? The colonel is extremely busy."
"He'll see me. Just tell him his son is here."
The soldier picked up the telephone, and a moment later Sergei was escorted to an office on the second floor. He paused for a moment at the door bearing his father's name, and then opened it. He stopped momentarily, as he always did when he saw his father, realizing once again the tremendous stature of the man. Then he was caught in a powerful bear hug as his father came around the desk and almost crushed him against his breast.
"Sergei, Sergei," he said over and over, and tears flowed freely from his eyes. "Sergei!"
Sergei looked up into his father's face. There were lines there that were new, and the once jet-black hair was now shot through with gray. "How are you, Papa?"
"I'm fine now," the count replied in his gruff hearty voice. He went back behind his desk and lit a long Russian cigarette. "You look well. How is your wife?"
"She's gone back to America."
The old man looked at him shrewdly. "She's taken Anastasia with her?"
Sergei shook his head. "No, Anastasia is with me."
Count Nikovitch slipped down into his chair. "How is the child?"
"She's improving. But it will take time."
"Is your wife coming back?" the count asked bluntly.
"I don't think so."
A momentary uncomfortable silence fell between them. Sergei looked around. "It's a nice office."
"I don't belong here," his father replied tersely, "but the General Staff considers me an expert on Paris, so here I am."
Sergei laughed. "And you left Paris because you thought the Germans would send you into Russia!"
His father didn't smile. "All armies are the same. But we shall invade Russia yet."
"But they have a nonaggression pact with Stalin."
The count's voice lowered. "Der Fiihrer has made many pacts. He hasn't kept one of them. He's too smart to open up another front and fight a war on two fronts. After we get through with the English, then you'll see."
"You really believe that, don't you?"
His father looked at him steadily. "A man has to believe in something." He ground his cigarette out in an ash tray. "After I left Russia there was nothing to believe in. Our whole world vanished overnight, ground into the dirt by the stinking feet of the Bolsheviki."
"What makes you think Hitler will permit that world to rise again? Why should he want any other world than his own?" Sergei walked over to the window and looked down into the street. "I don't think he will, Papa. He already has more power than any czar. Why should he let any of it go?"
His father didn't answer. After a moment he got up and came over to the window beside Sergei. They stood there looking out silently.
"When I was just a boy, once a year your grandfather used to bring me to Paris. It was essential for every young nobleman, he used to say. Paris was where one learned to live. I remember how we used to stand together in a window of this very hotel and look down at the streets and the pretty cocottes and the beautiful horses and carriages. And at nights, the grand parties!" He fell silent for a moment, then began again.
"Then when I came here after the Revolution the owner, who had liked my father, was kind enough to give me a job as doorman. He would stop by every once in a while and we would talk about the good old days. Sometimes I would look up at the windows and wonder if I would ever be on the inside again, instead of outside in the cold and snow and rain. Now everything has turned around again and once more I am." "But the whole thing's different."
"What do you mean?"
"Where are the people? The pretty cocottes, and the laughter and the gaiety? It's not Paris any more." Sergei turned back into the room. "Even up here it's not the same. This used to be a fine suite, now look at it. And the owner? What happened to him—was he a Jew?"
His father didn't answer. He went back to the desk and sat down heavily. "1 don't know. I am a soldier, not a politician. I do not involve myself with things which do not concern me."
"But the man was kind enough to help you when you needed help. You said so yourself."
His father looked at him. "Since when have you become so concerned about Jews?"
"I'm not. I'm only concerned about Paris. Somehow, somewhere, all the laughter has gone. Perhaps the Jews took it with them."
His father stared at him. "Why did you come here?"
"On business. I represent the Credit Suisse. I'm trying to contact certain of their clients."
"Jews?"
"Some of them, yes."
The count was silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was heavy. "I might have guessed. The first time in your life you have a decent job, and you get yourself involved with the wrong kinds of people."
Caroline was cold. She had never been so cold in her life. She went over to the door of the little cell and banged on the bars. The matron sitting across the hall looked up.
"When will they return my clothes? I'm freezing."
The matron stared at her blankly, and Caroline realized that she must not understand French. Haltingly she repeated her question in German.
"Ich weiss nicht."
The sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor, and the matron .suddenly snapped to attention. A man's voice spoke but the man himself was just out of the range of Caroline's vision.
"Das Fraulein Caroline de Coyne?" "Dreiundzwanzig."
"Offnen Sie die Tiir."
The matron came toward the cell, turning the ring of keys. Finally she found the right one, and opened the steel door. Caroline shrank back into the corner of the tiny cubicle as the matron stepped back to allow a man to enter.
He had to duck his head to get through the small door. Slowly he straightened up, kicking the door shut with his foot. A faint smile crossed his lips as he saw Caroline trying to cover herself with her hands. "Don't be embarrassed," he said in French. "Think of me as you would your doctor."
"Who are you?"
He smiled again, seemingly enjoying the hint of fear in Caroline's voice. "Or perhaps it would be better if you thought of me as your priest," he continued softly. "You see, in a way I am your confessor. It is to me you will confide all your secrets, all those little things you never tell anyone else."