The Last Time I Saw Paris (30 page)

A soft whispering caught Madame’s attention. She looked over Claire’s shoulder. “What do we have here?”

A deep curtsy from each girl and a quiet introduction.

The florist examined Claire, a question in her eyes. After a moment, she smiled and extended her arms. “I am Madame Palain. Please come in.”

“I’m sorry,” Claire said.

Madame met Claire’s gaze, her eyes serious. “Don’t worry, my dear. We are women. We will make do.”

 

 

M
adame pulled out the china. They ate a breakfast of apples and thin-sliced bread, speaking of weather and flowers, sitting on stools amongst greenery in the back room. No questions were asked.

Afterward, the florist led them upstairs into Claire’s room. It was the same as Claire left it; a fresh rose in the crystal vase. Madame saw Claire’s glance, a small nod.

“We will have Georges bring up a mattress. It will be perfect,” the florist said.

“It will be fine, Madame, thank you. But we can’t tell Georges,” Claire said. “No one can know. No one can talk.”

The woman turned to Claire, her eyes sparking anger. “Just because Georges is not fast doesn’t mean he isn’t a good boy. He never said anything about
you
, did he?”

Claire glimpsed a trace of the pain her deception caused. “No. He didn’t.”

“Bon.”
Madame turned toward the girls. “We will get started on your new room before Georges comes over.”

Claire watched as the girls arranged the room with the florist’s oversight. Madame told them
elegance is in the details
. Marta and Anna listened with rapt eyes. Claire knew they would settle in nicely. A look of gratitude to her friend and she reached for her paper and pen.

 

 

T
hat afternoon, Claire slipped a note into the slot of the dentist’s office as she walked by, her quick eyes on the street around her. A young couple strolling, a white-haired man bent over a cane, a boy with worn oversized clothes belted around his thin frame. No one watched her, none trailed too close behind. She got as far as the corner before she turned back. She couldn’t make herself hide at Madame’s and wait.

There was an empty sidewalk table at Café Raphael. Claire claimed a chair and sat down facing the dentist’s office. She ordered a coffee to give her hands something to do. Even with the girls tucked away in the shop, it felt as though a vise were tightening around her, and her body fidgeted for action.

She shifted on her seat, her eyes searching. It was a beautiful fall afternoon, but the street looked shabby in the golden light. The structures seemed to hunch together and the pedestrians stooped from the oppression blanketing the city.

A man emerged from the office. He had the nonchalance of a patient leaving his dentist, but at the end of the block, his eyes flicked over his shoulder to the street behind him before he abruptly descended the stairs to the Métro.

He was the man who had handed her the package on the way to the Gestapo. Dropping coins on the table, Claire hurried across the street and down the steps. She kept his head in view along the long tunnel to the platform. He slipped on the train as the whistle blew.

Claire jumped into the nearest car as the train began to move. She saw him exit the train at Europe station. She shoved her way out onto the platform and scanned the crowd. Not seeing him, she chose the nearest of three possible exits. She hurried through the tunnel, up the steps to rue de Madrid.

A busy street, but the man was not there. She had lost him.

“What a coincidence, running into you here.”

Odette was at her side. Her smile did not make it up to her eyes. She shoved her arm through Claire’s. “Let’s talk.”

Claire pulled her arm free. She was done being intimidated. “I’ll talk. You listen.”

They walked on rue Portalis toward the dome of Église Saint-Augustin de Paris. Passing the statue of Joan of Arc, they entered the church doors and sat. Claire faced straight ahead and spoke about the farm, the messenger who came for Grey and the pilot, the soldiers and her escape with Anna and Marta.

Finally, Claire turned to Odette. “I need two things. One, to know where Grey is now. Second, Anna and Marta need safe passage out of France.”

Odette stared into Claire’s eyes. From her somber face, Odette appeared to read more there than Claire wanted to reveal. “I knew it wasn’t you that betrayed us. I can do nothing for the girls. I am sorry. About Grey, I will do what I can.”

Odette nodded at a figure by the door as she left. The man Claire followed from the train slipped a pistol in his jacket as he followed Odette outside.

Sunlight through the stained-glass rosette window painted the church in blues. As the priest moved to the front of the church, Claire stood and walked out.

C
laire turned up the lapel of her coat as she locked the shop’s front door two mornings later. The light was soft grey, an unseen sun hid behind a heavy mist that blanketed the street. The buildings were faint outlines; her steps muffled in the heavy air. Head down, eyes darting from side to side, Claire hurried toward parc Monceau.

She slid through the side gate from avenue Hoch and took the center path. The apartments surrounding the park were invisible except for soft light from a single window, several stories up. Trees and sculptures seemed to come out of nowhere as she hurried down the passage. The ache in her head, the mist itself, tamped down any fear for her own safety.

She fingered the note in her pocket that had been tucked under the door after closing last night.
Meet at the Roman pond in the park at 6 tomorrow morning.
She struggled to keep her pace natural. The wait felt far too long for this meeting.

A tall man faced the pond, face half-hidden in a scarf, hat pulled low. “Evelyn?”

“Yes.”

“Danielle sent me. As you thought, you were betrayed. The one you asked about was captured.” He handed her a slip of paper. “Memorize this address. Outside Paris. It’s near Noisiel.”

Her eyes skimmed over the crisp letters.
31, rue de Jardin, Champs-sur-Marne.
It was an address she didn’t recognize. Captured. The word chilled her. “Is Grey alive?”

“For now. But you must go today to this address and search for materials that might incriminate anyone. Names, locations, dates, photos. Destroy anything you find.”

Claire gripped the paper. “How would the Gestapo know to go there?”

“It was his home. We must expect him to break. Everyone does.”

“Show some respect.” She slapped him hard across the face.

His eyes narrowed. A red splotch marked his freshly shaved cheek. “This is our life, Madame. He got caught, well, then he will break. If he is lucky, he will die first.”

He fished a cigarette from his pocket, brought it to his lips and lit it with a match pinched between his thumb and the side of his first finger of his other hand. Her eyes were drawn to his fingers. They’d been shattered, four twisted digits curled under his palm.

He took a deep draw from the cigarette and peeled back his lips in a bitter smile. “Everyone breaks a little.” He shoved his ruined hand back into his coat pocket. With the other, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and pointed toward the note. “Go today.”

C
laire caught the eastern train from Gare du Montparnasse out of the city at midday. The sunlight was brittle on the bleached countryside and scattered villages that passed outside the window. The Marne River snaked back and forth beneath the tracks; small boats loaded down with cargo sailed along their route.

The rhythmic chugging of the train’s wheels on the tracks sounded like a heartbeat. She remembered a warm afternoon, the sunlight on her skin, she and Grey lying tangled on their castoff clothes in a small grassy hollow. Her head rested on his chest, her eyes closed. She felt his heart beating against her cheek, strong and calm.

“Madame?”

Claire opened her eyes.

A French policeman stood in front of her.
“Vos papiers, s’il vous plait?”

Skin prickling, she pulled the card from her purse.

“Reason for travel?”

“A friend in Noisiel is very sick. I am going to visit her.” Chin down, a sad sigh.

“Il est regrettable.”
He handed her the card.

Her gaze returned to the window as his footsteps faded. Who could have betrayed them? She knew so few people. That was how the Resistance worked. Small cells that didn’t know each other, so one leak couldn’t bring them all down. Grey was apparently high enough that he knew more. She would damn well look through everything he had. If there were documents to be found, perhaps they would lead to the traitor.

The train reached Noisiel station in less than an hour. Claire exited with a small crowd. Even here, a patrol awaited on the platform, guns ready.

It took nearly an hour of asking in shops in Noisel to find Champs-sur-Marne. In the end, she paid a little boy to draw a map in the dirt to rue de Jardin.
You will see it,
he promised her. Another hour of walking along a picturesque lane before she found an ornate wrought-iron gate.

Gripping the curling bars, Claire peered in. A long straight gravel lane led to a château in the distance. On each side, cut green lawn was bound by tall hedges formed into curving parterre. Three rows of high windows marked the stone building. A grand portcullis was set out in the center. A second-story balcony overlooked the path and entrance.

A push and the gate opened with a creak. Claire slipped inside and started down the path, her mind racing. The challenge of carrying out her mission began to dawn on her. Near the house, the path split into two and circled a large fountain, with some sort of sea god crashing through limestone waves. She ran a hand over the marble edge. It looked like something at Versailles, designed by Le Nôtre. How did she know this? She sighed. An afternoon’s walk at jardin du Luxembourg. Grey had told her.

The massive stone portcullis shaded intricately carved wood doors at the château’s entrance. Claire gripped the gilded lion door knocker and rapped.

The heavy door swung open with a wheeze against wood parquet flooring. A woman stood before her, her face guarded but friendly. She was in her fifties with the polished look of aristocracy, strong bones, luminous eyes, firm mouth. “Yes?”

“Grey—Thomas Grey asked me to come by. I am Claire Badeau. A friend.”

The woman’s expression clouded. She looked in the distance behind Claire as if Grey might be there. “Where is he? He hasn’t called—”

“No, he can’t call, not now. He can’t come. That is why he sent me here.” Claire tried a reassuring smile.

The woman studied her a moment. “Your accent. You are
l’Américaine
?”

The
American? Claire nodded.

“I am Yvette Wyles.” She squeezed Claire’s hand and led her inside the door. “If you are a friend of Thomas, you are welcome to our home.”

Yvette led her to an intimate salon filled with paintings and books. On one wall, a row of oversized windows overlooked an estate that stretched into the distance. In the corner, against the windows, a table was set for two. A man sat hunched on a chair, blankets bunched about his shoulders, slender hand clutching a cup. Thinning blond hair was combed carefully back. His face was chalky and drawn, as if aged by sickness.

Yvette stepped over to his side and rested a hand on his shoulder. “This is my husband, Peter Wyles.”

With a shaking hand he set a tea cup on the table. He tipped his head forward.
“Enchante,”
he said, a clipped British accent bleeding through the French.

“I am Claire Badeau.”

“A friend of Thomas.
L’Américaine
,” the woman completed.

Claire was shown into a seat with a cup of tea set in front of her. Yvette disappeared then returned with a cup, pulled up another chair and sat next to her.

“You know our Thomas? Wonderful. How is he doing?” Peter asked.

Their kindness cut into her. She took a sip to give herself a moment before answering. She looked at Peter and formed a casual smile. “I was with Grey about a week ago. Outside of Paris. He asked me to check up on you.”

Peter turned to Yvette and smiled, as if to say
I told you he was fine
. Yvette played with her cup. She didn’t look convinced.

“Grey’s home is much grander than he spoke of,” Claire said.

Peter laughed, the sound died into a wheeze. “He can be rather circumspect. Can’t he, Yvette?”

Yvette only arched an eyebrow, sipping her tea.

Claire leaned forward in her chair. “You said
the
American. What did you mean?”

Peter chuckled, he glanced to Yvette.