The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [121]
With the room as secure as Claire could make it, she clicked on the lamp and surveyed the room. She was done fumbling around with a candle in the darkness. Von Richter had most of a bottle of scotch on top of two bottles of champagne in him. And she was going to tear apart every inch of this damn room. She had to know what had happened.
First the briefcase. She used a letter opener to split open the seams one by one. In the end, an expensive pile of leather scraps at her feet. Nothing. Starting on one corner of the desk she worked her way through. Drawers pulled out and pried apart. Cubbies examined. The lamp shining up from underneath, first a visual examination, then by touch. After that the chair, silk cushion ripped open, the sofa, the paintings off the walls and frames pulled away. The table. Dresser. Nothing. She forced her mind to focus and dropped to her knees. From one corner, she worked across the carpet, her fingers probing each inch for a slit, a bulge.
She sat back underneath the window; the rising sun broke free of the buildings to illuminate the far side of the room. Her head fell back against the cool glass. She listened to the growing rumble of car engines on the street below, the noise merging with von Richter’s snores.
There was nothing. No proof it was her fault. But nothing to show it wasn’t. Claire climbed to her feet. It wasn’t enough. She pulled the chair away and pushed open the bedroom door. The room was still dark, curtains pulled. The lump of blankets that was von Richter smelled of sour alcohol. She walked over to stare at the back of his head showing above the covers. How to exorcise the secrets from inside there?
She sighed and sat heavily on the floor, her head in her hands. It didn’t make sense that she found nothing today. Not even a loose paper, a receipt. He had to keep it all hidden someplace. A safe, perhaps, but she’d looked behind the paintings on the bedroom walls before.
Sighing, she examined the carpet beneath her and ran her fingers across the heavy grey-green wool. The faded swirls showed the wear of years of scuffling feet. A rug rested in the corner beneath a reading chair and table. Claire crawled over to the corner to get a closer look. The rug’s green didn’t quite match the carpet’s.
She gently pushed the chair and table away, then rolled back the rug. Beneath, a ragged square was cut in the carpet. She peeled that back. The floorboards had been sawed away. A square metal safe sat inside the opening. She ran her hands over the metal, felt the sharp corners of the keyhole.
She’d seen von Richter’s keys before. A quick trip to the closet, his uniform jacket pocket. She squeezed the key ring tight in her palm to keep it from jiggling as she crept back. The third key turned; the click made her flinch.
Claire gripped the metal handle and pulled the heavy door open. A holstered Walther rested incongruously on a pile of folders. She set the pistol gently on the floor next to her then reached for the papers.
On the top, a thick envelope with the emblem of the SS. Claire stuck a finger under the flap and peeled it open. Squinting in the dim light, she unfolded the pink pages inside. Ausweis. Laissez-Passer. Four blank travel permits. Better than gold. Tucking the papers back inside, she slipped the envelope inside her dress against her skin.
The first folder she opened appeared to be a pile of invoices. She set it aside and picked up the next. Obere Sicherheit. Sicherheitsdienst. The SS insignia. She flipped open the cover and her heart stopped. She grabbed the entire pile beneath the open folder and tore into the study. The files spilled onto the desk beneath the glow of the lamp. Her hands began to shake.
Top left of the page, a photo of Grey. The