The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [122]
Claire took a deep breath and flipped the page. Claire and Grey. It was taken the day they met in jardin du Luxembourg. The photo was taken at the end of the long allée of squared-off plane trees. They stood in front of a statue of a couple embracing. Grey was smiling, his face open, boyish almost. She was speaking, the edges of her mouth curving into a grin. Her fingers rested on his forearm. We look like lovers, she thought.
Her fingers trembled as she turned the pages. More photos of her and Grey, photos of her walking alone, photos of her leaving the flower shop. A photo of Claire and Madame Palain in front of the shop, drinking real coffee, the day Claire splurged on her ration cards. The bottom of the photo under Madame’s image was stamped in heavy blue ink, Geabschaffen. In von Richter’s hand, the date of Madame’s death and initials, AvR.
Her heart pounded so loudly in her chest that all noise faded into static. Her gaze went to the bedroom, to the dark shape of the pistol still resting on the floor. The phone rang on the desk. A quick jump and Claire hit the receiver. It stopped, mid-ring.
It was too late. In the bedroom, von Richter cursed, the bed creaked.
Claire jumped toward the safe. Her fingers closed on the holster as her knees hit the carpet. She came up with the Walther, pointed at von Richter.
He sat up blinking, still half-drunk. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Her finger was pressed tight against the trigger. “You knew.”
“Knew what?”
“Grey. The flower shop. Me.” She shook the barrel at him. “Who gave you this information?”
He glanced down at the open safe and shrugged, his lips twisted into a hard smile. “The world favors some of us, Claire. It is only that you are currently operating for the wrong side.”
Her finger tightened against the trigger. She saw Grey’s slate eyes. I promise, he told her. He promised he would be back for her and the girls.
The ringing phone jarred her attention. She and von Richter stared at each other as they listened to the phone.
“Schneider,” he said. “An appointment. He will be here momentarily.”
Claire could take Schneider too before the guards got her. But she felt the passes pressed against her skin. And she had promised Marta. She slammed the metal gun butt across von Richter’s head. He slumped sideways across the bed.
Von Richter’s suit jacket hung by the door. She slit a hole along a seam of the lining and slipped in the folder. She shrugged on the jacket and dropped the Luger in a deep front pocket. Her shoes, her purse, and she caught her reflection in the mirror as she walked out the door. Face pale, her eyes dark burning circles.
Claire crept down the hallway, jacket pulled tight, the folder pressed stiffly against her through the thin fabric of her dress. She glided down the stairs, her head erect, chin out. Soldiers stood guard below her on each side of the stairwell. She’d passed them hundreds of times tucked in von Richter’s side or on her way back to the room. Now, in a rumpled dress and man’s jacket, her eyes wild, they watched her approach with hard stares.
The sharp corners of the folder bit into her rib cage. She felt perspiration break out under her arms and run down her back.
Schneider met her at the bottom rung. He took in von Richter’s jacket, her face. His eyes widened. “Where is the Sturmbannführer?”
“Sleeping one off.”
He examined her. His mouth tightened. “You will come with me to see him.”
“Non, merci.” Her hand slid inside the jacket pocket, reaching for the gun.
He spoke a sharp command to the guards. The soldier