The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [124]
Claire hit the cobble floor with a thud and rolled like a ragdoll down the steep slope to the parking lot floor. She lay gasping in the darkness, listening to shouts as soldiers ran past the alley. She pushed herself up to her elbows and froze. Two soldiers faced the gate, their forms outlined against the sunlight. She held her breath and closed her eyes. The gate rattled and they were gone.
Forcing herself to her feet, she found her purse and felt her way across the dark empty space. A dim corridor led to a heavy wooden door that opened up onto rue Saint-Florentin. Claire blinked in the sunlight and merged into the flow of pedestrians. She ducked onto the first side street. Tracing her way south, she slipped through private courtyards and twice backtracked out of blind alleyways until she was walking along the Seine, her slim heels clicking on the cobblestone path.
The chalk-grey pont Royal stretched over the dark river. Claire stopped on the bridge midway across. She sagged against the railing, leaning her elbows over the edge. She felt brittle, like too-hot glass that would explode at a touch. Grey, Madame Palain—how many other people had died because of her? Ignorant little dirt farmer—you should have stayed back home. It would be so easy to slip over the barrier, to ride the churning ripples and eddies to the sea. She squeezed her arms close. The folder corners bit into her stomach. No. There was still time. Not everyone had to die.
On rue Bezin, Claire paused in the doorway of a small neighborhood charcuterie, the cases nearly empty of meat. The boucher sat in the corner at a table reading the paper. He glanced up at her, shrugged apologetically toward the empty cases and went back to his paper. Claire looked back down the boulevard, scrutinizing people walking past. She thought she could spot a Nazi tailing her, but a Resistánt? Odette, Jacques, Laurent; they looked Parisian, nothing more. How could she tell who was sent to kill her?
Claire hurried across the street. She entered the Oberons’ apartment building and pressed the button for the fourth floor inside the cage elevator. As the elevator edged upward, Claire pulled the envelope holding the passes from her décolleté.
At the fourth floor, Claire knocked on number 42. A low call, Martin cracked the door open. After a quick check, his lips twisted into a warm smile.
He waved her through the slim opening. “Bonjour, Claire. This is a surprise.”
A quick peck on each cheek, her eyes scanned the room. “Where are Madame Oberon and the girls?”
Martin pointed to the closed door off the salon. He took in her clothes, her expression. His face paled. “To be safe, Adele hid the girls in the closet when we heard the door.”
The apartment was even homier than when she’d been there before. The scent of simmering broth. A photo of their son on the mantel, surrounded by half-burnt candles. A storybook left open on the arm of the couch. Martin must have been reading with Anna before Claire knocked.
“Tell Adele they don’t need to hide, but I must speak with you both, alone.”
Adele hurried out at Martin’s call. Her expression went from happy surprise to pinched fright. Her eyes lingered on Claire’s face as they embraced.
Claire pressed the envelope into Martin’s hands and walked to the window. He stared at the seal. Totenkopf. The SS skull and bones. Slipping on his eyeglasses, he unfolded the papers. “What exactly is this?”
“Freedom,” Claire said, peering through the drawn lace curtains to the street below.
“What do you mean?” Adele slipped to Martin