The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [118]
He examined her, mouth turned down. “Merde alors! Odette was right. You do love him.” He lowered the pistol. “If Grey lives, I would not let him rot in a boche prison.”
“Convince them, Jacques.”
“Impossible.”
“I’m not going anywhere. If I am lying, you know where to find me.”
He swore and slipped the gun back into his pocket. “I will do what I can.”
When he was out of sight, Claire stumbled to a park bench and collapsed. She was back in her hotel room before she stopped trembling.
That night, Claire dined with von Richter and two officers at Le Boeuf sur le Toit. They sat at a dark table near the mahogany bar, the wall covered in photos and engraved mirrors. Claire watched herself play with a curl of hair in the reflection as the men spoke German. She sipped champagne, pointedly ignoring the looks they gave her. She didn’t know what von Richter was telling them. Nor did she care.
In ten days, Grey would be transported to Compiègne prison. If the Resistance didn’t believe her, if they didn’t act, she knew what was next. Prisoners stayed at Compiègne only so long. Then they were shipped away to German camps. Those people never came back. She took a long drink, let the bubbles slide over her tongue. She couldn’t drown the ache in her chest. She turned to the waiter in a starched white vest that hovered around their table.
“The bathroom?”
“This way, Madame.” He led her to an oak-lined hallway.
As he pushed open a door he breathed into her ear. “Evelyn?”
She turned, her heart in her throat.
“They will try.” He turned and walked away.
Chapter 12
THE ESCAPE
Place Vendôme. July 23, 1944.
Ten mornings later, Claire watched through her hotel room window as the sky brightened from deep violet to a saturated blue. In her mind, she saw Grey huddled in a prison cell, his eyes opening to darkness. It had been so long since he’d seen the sunrise over his garden. Did he still have hope?
A vibrant sapphire gleam and the sun broke free of the skyline. The tune of the Billie Holiday song echoed in her mind. Just when you are near, when I hold you fast, then my dreams will whisper, you’re too lovely to last.
“A few more hours, Thomas.” The whispered words brought a lightness inside her and propelled her away from the glass. A hot bath, hair set, a sweep of crimson lipstick and a spritz of perfume. From the closet, a simple smoky-blue dress, nipped at the waist. When she looked in the mirror, she was surprised at what she saw. A flush to her cheeks, a ghost of a real smile tugging at her lips. You look like woman in love, she thought.
She pulled a small key from beneath the lamp on the night-stand then perched on the seat facing her desk. Unlocking a deep drawer, she extracted a stack of postcards, her jewelry roll and a small wad of francs. She flipped through the cards, a tugboat under the elaborate pont Alexandre, the Eiffel Tower, the Concorde. Not something she’d send—who the hell would she send them to?—but a shuffling of order was a good indicator her drawer had been searched yet again. She didn’t mind. The important thing is they found what they expected. Nothing more.
Dropping the roll and francs in her purse, she walked over to the bed and wedged herself behind the headboard. Bracing her back against the wall, she pushed the heavy frame toward the center of the room. On her knees, she slid a fingertip underneath a thin slit in the exposed carpet. A moment later, she pulled out an envelope.
One last look at her room. A forlorn rose floated in water in a highball glass on the empty desk, an unmade bed, and a row of dresses and silk gowns in the closet. The gowns repulsed her like so many shed skins. She dropped the envelope into her purse.
Claire left the hotel and strolled along les Champs. Her eyes were on the shop displays, lèche-vitrine, window licking the French called it, alongside the handsome men in pressed suits, the striking women in gloves and hats, the German soldiers buying delectables to send home. She made