The Last Time I Saw Paris (34 page)

He shoved the girl off his lap and stood. “Champagne, then,” he shouted to the waiter. “And a private table.”

A table against the wall was cleared; two chairs placed side by side. Claire and von Richter sat as the waiter placed a bottle and two glasses between them. Von Richter turned his chair to face hers, his eyes on her as he played with an unlit cigar.

Claire ran her hand over his insignia on his uniform sleeve. “My, Alby darling, haven’t you become important.”

He smiled and pulled the cork. “When I last saw you, you were in New York.”

“The last time I saw you there was plenty of scotch involved. I saw at least two of you. And you were all very grabby.”

“We are known for that.” He lit his cigar.

“It’s your fault I’m here. Your stories of Paris lured me.”

“You hadn’t heard?” He gestured with his cigar at the room full of soldiers.

“This is Paris. The good times don’t change.”

He nodded, his eyes on a woman who walked by, nude except for a man’s leering face painted on one butt cheek. “Only who enjoys them.” He looked back at Claire, his eyes hardened. “So, what about the name?”

“What name?”

“Stone. Why the deception?”

Claire ran a hand over her diamonds; let her fingers rest lightly against the curve of a breast. “No deception. A fresh start, I call it.”

He sat back and puffed on his cigar. “Giving a false name to a German soldier is a crime.”

Claire forced a smile. “I’ve learned certain skills in Paris. I can give the
right
German soldier a few things that would be considered criminal—in more civilized countries.” Claire drained her glass. “I don’t think he’d mind.”

He reached out and gripped her necklace, tugging her toward him. “So what should I call you?”

“Claire Badeau.”

“French?” He looked surprised.

Claire shrugged, let herself drift closer. “A husband—briefly. French.”

“Another husband? You move quickly.”

“You did business with Russell. How easy do you think it was to get away from him? With the name Stone, I get on a list and
poof
, I am back in New York.”

Von Richter laughed.

Claire started. “What is it?”

“You don’t know, do you?”

“Know what?”

He smiled. “Russell Stone is dead. I would offer you my condolences, but I don’t think you need them.”

Russell was dead? Claire struggled to find an emotion for her husband. She felt nothing. His face was fuzzy, indistinct, like a faded photo. “How do you know?”

“Our steel contract was severed. I inquired as to why.” He smiled and refilled her glass. “Stupid of you not to stay with him longer. You’d be a wealthy woman today.”

Claire shrugged. “I got what I wanted and I moved on.”

“To Badeau?”

“Badeau was handsome, French; he knew people. He was a fresh start.”

Von Richter’s eyes remained suspicious, but he looked intrigued. “Was?”

“The war. He didn’t last long.” Claire drank, allowing for a suggestion of sadness. She leaned back in her chair, letting her legs rub against von Richter’s. A broad smile. “But I find there are perks to being a widow. What do I care about a man’s war? I am a woman, Alby darling. I make do.”

“You certainly do.”

A waiter brought another bottle of champagne.

Claire slid in close and traced her fingers down his uniform buttons. “Have you conquered those clubs you once told me about?”

“I am working on it. It takes time and”—he grinned—“utmost concentration.”

She had to get him out of this brasserie, not just to the backseat of one of those black sedans, but inside—deep inside—the Ritz. Licking her lips, she leaned in close. “I am sure you are an unrelenting conqueror.” She pressed her mouth to his ear, her mind flashed to a flower arrangement that Madame Palain had taught her. “You have experienced
Le Lis Enchaîné
?”

“No.” His brow furrowed.

She laughed as if she were shocked he would miss something so delicious. She ran her fingers over her necklace, let them rest against her breasts, as her mind raced. “You will need two silk scarves, a fine cigar, three bottles of champagne and a very knowledgeable, willing woman.”

He faced her, his eyes burning. “Just one woman?”

“You must learn to walk before you run,” she said.

He captured her hands and pulled her close. His hand slid down her leg. A sigh. “No stockings to remove. Sad.”

Claire placed her hand over his and moved it to the warm inside of her thigh. “We will have to think of something else for you to do with your teeth.”

Von Richter gestured to the lieutenant who had retrieved Claire from the lobby.
“Mein auto,”
he said, gesturing toward the door.

The lieutenant smothered a frown and disappeared. He reappeared a moment later. Claire and von Richter followed him into the brasserie lobby.

“Sturmbannführer von Richter.” A stout officer stepped up to them, a thin woman at his side. “You are leaving?”

Von Richter nodded. “An important matter calls for my attention.”

The man examined Claire’s body in the thin silk, his gaze caught in the curve of her breasts. His lips turned up in a thin smile.

Claire stared at the woman next to him. Mean eyes, small mouth. They recognized each other at the same moment.

“Madame Sylvie Olivier,” Claire said, before she could speak. “How enchanting to see you again.”

Sylvie stared at Claire’s necklace. “How did you get in here?”

Claire felt her face go hot. Forcing a smile, she snuggled tight against von Richter. “Perhaps you can ask to review the guest list next time.”

“Goodnight, Kapitän.” Von Richter pulled her against him as they stepped out into the cold night air. “Interesting acquaintance you have, Claire.”

“Mmm,” Claire agreed, her attention on von Richter’s hand sliding below the curve of her back.

 

 

V
on Richter tasted Claire from her lips to the vee of her dress before the car pulled up in front of the Ritz. The soldiers that had stared at Claire earlier that day offered sharp salutes as the couple stepped through the arched stone doorway into the hotel.

He steered Claire toward tall golden columns at the bottom of a staircase. The soldier standing guard saluted von Richter, his eyes moving discreetly to the floor as Claire passed. At the top of the stairs, von Richter glanced over his shoulder then looked to her with some pride. “Only officers of the Reich may occupy the Vendôme building of the Ritz. The decomposing remains of Parisian high society are stuck in the back against the Cambon.”

Claire thought of the parade of jackboots down this long hallway and swallowed the bad taste in her mouth. The walls seemed to narrow as they walked. Von Richter’s hand slid lower.

He stopped in front of the third door, one hand fumbling with the keys, the other hand on Claire. The door opened and he pulled her inside the foyer. A phone rang.

He released her with a sigh. “One moment.”

Claire stepped into the salon, her eyes taking in every detail. She passed an antique desk and chair in Louis XVI style and walked toward the windows. The skyline of Opéra Garnier was visible in the distance. She glanced at a stack of papers on the desk; the top sheet dated that day. A list of names followed by numbers, then in the last column, initials.
Ml, MV, Fs, Verkehr.
A signature line at the bottom awaited von Richter’s hand. Could those initials be the prisons, Montluc, Mont-Valérien, Fresnes? What was
Verkehr
? Hope bubbled inside her. A trail to find Grey.

Von Richter hung up the phone behind her and met her at the window, sliding his hands down her sides to the slit of her dress. He kissed the side of her neck. “Nice view, isn’t it?”

Her resolve hardened. “Hmm,” Claire said, allowing herself a small smile.

“Tell me about this
Le Lis Enchaîné
,” Von Richter said.

Claire lifted her dress. “Step one.”

 

 

T
he room was black, heavy shades drawn tight. Claire slid from the bed and crawled on all fours to the salon. She felt her way to the door, slipped inside then pushed it shut behind her. Sitting on the desk chair, she felt for the matches she’d seen earlier, found one and lit it.

The diamonds she wore glittered in the light against her bare skin. She moved the flame until she saw the pile of papers. Lighting a candle, she peeled open the stack of forms, scanning each one. A week of what she thought might be prisoner transports, memos in German. But no mention of Thomas Grey. She sat back and closed her eyes, shouted at the ache in her groin. She knew Grey had to be alive. And she’d find him.

In the meantime, she’d be a good spy.

Claire pulled out a pen and hotel stationery. She began to write in clear small letters. She had completed the page when she heard von Richter stir. In one movement, she blew out the match, grabbed the notepad and replaced the paper on the stack. On her knees, she found her dress thrown over the sofa and slipped the page beneath it. A moment later, she slid back in bed, heart racing, as she listened to von Richter’s slow breath.

The next morning before light, Claire pulled on her dress, tucked the paper inside the lining and, shoes in hand, headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Von Richter sat up in bed, his mouth petulant.

Claire went back and kissed him long and hard on the lips. “Miss me already?”

He wrenched her to him and jerked the dress over her head. Claire palmed the paper as it slipped free. Her free hand reached down beneath the covers, grasping him tight, as she slid the note between the mattresses.

He smacked her on her buttocks then threw her on her back on the pillows. “I didn’t say you could leave yet.” He reached between her legs.

His roughness made it easy to shut down, to arrange her body as she would a doll. Her goading whispers in his ear hurried him. She had a delivery to make.

Afterward, von Richter smoked a cigarette from bed as he watched her dress. “I know your type, Claire. Your French husband may have left you a few centimes, but a woman like you doesn’t stay alone.”

She gave her best enigmatic smile, body tensing for his next words.

“He is married isn’t he? He keeps you on the side, an apartment near a Métro station. He comes by in the afternoon on his way home from work.”

Claire sat on the bed, bent over to slip on her shoes and slide the paper back into her dress. He had Claire Harris Stone pegged alright. Once upon a time that man might have been Laurent, the Comte, anyone. “You got a better offer, Alby darling? What would your Führer say?” She turned toward the door. “We had a night. A very, very good one. That’s all it can be.”

Von Richter caught up with her in the foyer. He pulled her against him, spoke into her hair. “I am a Sturmbannführer. I can have whatever or whoever I want. Don’t forget that.” He pressed his lips hard against hers until she softened in his arms. “Bring your things this afternoon. Lieutenant Schneider will take you to your room—on the Cambon side.” He reached for the phone. “The lieutenant will escort you to the door.”

 

 

T
he sky was scrubbed to a clear blue and the air smelled fresh, with just a hint of last night’s storm. Claire forced herself to take a leisurely route to the dentist’s office to drop off the note, keeping an eye behind her and doubling back twice. She made a show of considering the play in the theater next door before she slipped the note in the dentist’s box without stopping.

In her mind, she was cataloguing what she’d seen in von Richter’s study the night before. She knew she’d be able to find something of value. Grey’s voice, wry and low, came from the recesses of her mind.
Don’t get greedy, my little spy.

Her heart ached. She paused in front of a store window. Her reflection stared back at her.
Haunted
was what she would call that face. She willed her features to smooth, her eyes turned to glass. They see weakness and you’re dead, she told herself. And so is Grey. She took one last look behind her and boarded the Métro for her hotel. It was time to move up.

 

 

L
ieutenant Schneider met her at the Ritz concierge desk off rue Cambon, his face impassive, eyes cold. Without a word, he took her bag and led her down the corridor. An elevator to the third floor, at the end of a hallway. He opened the door, set her bag inside and handed her the key. “The Sturmbannführer asked you to notify me should you need anything.” He turned on his heel and left.

Her breath caught in her throat as she stepped inside her room. Ceiling-to-floor windows overlooked the gardens below with leafy trees shading a long grass
alleé
. A delicate chandelier hung over the bed, a gilded mirror rested over a white vanity. Claire dropped her bag and slid onto the four-poster bed that seemed to welcome her. Suddenly feeling her lack of sleep, she examined the pale butter walls through half-closed eyes. Blue curtains were gathered with silk rope; the floor was carpeted in flowers the color of sky. Her eyes closed and her head sank into the pillow. She couldn’t help it.

She felt Grey’s arms around her. She couldn’t help that either.