The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [115]
Her body tensed as she watched a burly dark-haired man striding on the opposite sidewalk. A resemblance to Jacques, but when he turned onto the street, she saw a long thin face she didn’t know. She released her held breath.
Claire saw Jacques once last winter after Odette’s warning, as she walked along the Champs-Elysées. He was waiting for her in a doorway. He made sure she saw him but said nothing, his face hard. She understood the message, and on ration day before Christmas, Claire rode the Métro to the 14th arrondissement and found Adele Oberon in the ration line on rue Brézin. Claire said nothing but slipped one last message and a pile of francs and reichsmarks in Adele’s shopping bag before she walked away. Then the dreams began.
Claire watched the rain drip from the leaves of chestnut trees and puddle onto the cobblestones. Bullets couldn’t stop summer’s sweet offering. But the sky wept for Madame Palain.
“He’s put some meat back on your bones.”
Sylvie shrugged on a jacket as she scrutinized Claire from silk dress to strappy heel. Claire stared at the street. She wasn’t in the mood to trade jabs today. Together they watched von Richter’s car approach.
Sylvie leaned into Claire’s ear. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”
The car door opened. Claire slipped in next to von Richter.
He scowled at Sylvie as they accelerated into traffic. “What was that foolish woman talking about?”
Claire watched Sylvie out of the rear window until she disappeared from sight. She smiled at von Richter, slid over onto his lap. “She said you were making me fat.”
He raised his eyebrows. “At Le Bal des Etoiles, I will be the judge.” He squeezed her thigh.
The cabaret had already started when they were shown to their table. On the stage, women in garters, hats and little else rode carousel animals to a jaunty circus tune. The smoke-filled room was packed with German soldiers on their Tour Paris. Claire drank deep at her scotch as von Richter rested a hand on her leg. She blew him a kiss.
Three hours and too many drinks later, the music ended. The soldiers in front called for more and pounded empty bottles on their tables. Von Richter laughed at them, finished a desultory cigarette and pulled Claire to her feet. The couple joined the crowd emptying the theater and teetered toward the exit.
Claire leaned against von Richter, her body pleasantly numb, her mind fully occupied with staying upright. Still, she noticed the soldiers watching her, the yellow silk cut tight and low against her skin. Whispers, gazes like wolves, but von Richter’s uniform earned a wide berth.
Their car waited out front, headlights nearly invisible through the pounding rain. The driver waited at the entrance with an umbrella. Claire’s dress was soaked when she stumbled into the backseat.
They pulled onto rue Victor Massé and von Richter gave the driver an order in German. The driver glanced at Claire in the mirror. A quick nod. Passing headlights spun around her. The air was thick with cigarette smoke, and the drink churned in her stomach. She wished she could roll down the window. She closed her eyes.
The driver pulled into a dark alley and killed the engine. Claire opened her eyes as the driver unbuttoned his uniform jacket. He lit a cigarette.
Von Richter leaned into her, gripped her shoulder strap with one hand then yanked. The thin fabric tore away.
“Alby,” Claire said, trying to shove him back. “I just bought this.”
He pushed her down onto the seat, gripped the bodice and ripped.
“Merde, Alby,” Claire said through gritted teeth, pushing against him.
His face spun above her. She heard his zipper. Her legs were forced open. He was clumsy, too drunk. He whispered hoarsely in German as he entered her.
She leaned her head back, trying to keep her dinner down. Upside down, she watched rivulets of water run up the rear window. The driver’s eyes watched in the rearview mirror. A surge of anger and she swung her arms. He deflected her