The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [104]
Georges saw Claire first, his face red and wet from tears. At his yelp, Marta turned. Her face was white, her lips pale. Anna was clutched to her, head buried in Marta’s dress.
Dupré spoke first. “Yesterday afternoon, I sent Georges to the warehouse to retrieve boxes. He was barely gone when I heard shouting. Shots. I ran into the street. The police were in Madame Palain’s shop.” His mouth worked to spit out the words. “That flic bâtard who’d been hanging around held the pistol in his hand. Madame was—”
“He must have seen us, somehow. But we weren’t there,” Marta whispered.
“Pape didn’t know I took Marta and Anna to see our warehouse. It’s not far. Madame said it was alright. But I wasn’t there. I couldn’t stop them,” Georges said.
Claire put her hand on Georges’ shoulder as Madame would have done. “If you were there, my Georges, you couldn’t have helped. They would have hurt you too.” She squeezed the girls against her. “Thank you, Georges. You saved Marta and Anna.” She turned to Dupré. “What about Madame Palain?”
He shook his head.
“Did they take her?”
“Non.”
“Can I see her?”
He gritted his teeth, his face wrinkled in pain. “She is gone.”
Her eyes held Dupré. He had been right, what he told her long ago. Her friend had paid the price for her trust. Pain stabbed deep in her chest. “I am so sorry,” Claire said, but the words felt meaningless.
He turned toward Georges. “We will do what we can. You must take the girls and leave.”
A fire raged inside Claire, burning hot and leaving ice in its wake. Her mind raced, clear and sharp; her eyes recorded every detail. Georges’ breath. Anna’s sobs. The pulse in Dupré’s neck. “Stay here. We will leave after dark. I am going back to the shop.”
“They are watching the street.” Dupré caught her arm as she opened the door; his eyes sought hers. “I went in as soon as they left. She was holding on to life to speak. She said one thing. She said to tell you La Vie en Fleurs must go on.”
In his eyes, Claire saw only pain, no recrimination. “How can I—”
“Madame’s flower shop must survive.”
Claire could not meet his gaze as she pulled her arm free and slipped out the door.
A block away, Claire found the man watching the shop. He leaned against a doorway three buildings down. She backtracked up an alley and slipped into the back door. He had seen her go in the front door an hour before. He would see her leave that way.
Claire raced upstairs, grabbed Marta’s case and threw in all the girls’ clothes she could find. Moving to the window, she peered out at the man below. He glanced up and she slid out of view. Cursing, she turned to the clothes piled on the closet floor and tossed a few in a bag.
At the rumble of a diesel engine, Claire rushed to the window. A heavy delivery truck rolled up the street. As it passed below in front of the shop, the man disappeared from view. Claire pushed open the window, reached out and grabbed the brick in the windowsill. She dropped to her knees against the wall as the truck moved forward, jewelry roll and bills clenched in her hand.
Glass crunched under her feet as Claire walked to the door. A corner of the garden photo stuck out among the mirror shards. Claire stared at it a long moment before she dusted off the glass and picked it up. The picture was scratched and torn nearly in two. She slipped it in her jacket pocket and stepped over the flattened blush rose in its shattered crystal vase.
For Grey. For the girls. She would find Albrecht von Richter.
Three shadows slipped through the darkened city. They crossed the Seine at pont Alexander III. Claire carried Anna; Marta gripped her suitcase as they moved south through back streets and alleys.
In the 14th arrondissement, at 12, rue Brézin, Claire motioned the girls inside a large apartment building. Up four floors in a cage elevator to number 42. A low knock and moments later the door opened a crack.
“It is Claire Badeau,” Claire said, her voice low. “I’m sorry, but . . .”
The door swung open; wide eyes stared from the darkness. “Come