The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [127]
“I assume Monsieur Martin will be joining you later?” the clerk asked with a knowing smile.
“Of course.”
Claire climbed two flights of stairs to number 17. The room was small, faded pink carpet and curtains, a badly patched porcelain washbasin in the corner.
Behind the high window, Claire watched the street below. She gripped the gun as a black sedan rolled up the block. She exhaled and pulled the curtains closed as the car accelerated past. She set the pistol on the nightstand and peeled the folder from her jacket lining.
The photo of Claire with Madame Palain in front of La Vie en Fleurs was taken in the fall of ’42, more than a year and a half ago. The photo of Claire with Grey in jardin du Luxembourg was taken in spring of the last year. It was impossible to say when the other photos were taken. Von Richter knew about her; he knew about them all. And had for months. She went word by word through each line of text in the reports, sifting for a name, a location. Nothing.
Claire rolled back onto the bed, wincing against her scrapes and bruises. Someone had betrayed them long ago. She stared through the cracked window at the deepening sky. The clouds let loose and a torrent of rain pelted the glass. She closed her eyes and smelled the jasmine’s perfume. She slept.
She woke to darkness, her body protesting. Shivering in front of a wash basin, she stared in the small mirror. Her eyes were dark, her face drawn. She reached for the pharmacy bag.
An hour later, she stood in front of the window. Ashes from the shredded box made dirty trails in the sink basin behind her. Light from the blanketed sun cast a chalky pall over her skin. The pallor accentuated the darkness of her short brunette hair, curled around her face. Claire stared at the folder open on the bed and then peeled a photo of Grey and Jacques from the paper. She flipped the photo over and scribbled a note on the back, then reached for her jacket.
She closed the door behind her. A man stepped in the hall from the next room. He glanced at her, then looked again, longer, from head to toe. She reached into her pocket, gripping the Walther.
His shadowed face melted into a small grin. “A shame I did not see you before. Join me for a smoke?” He pulled a handrolled cigarette from a pocket, gesturing toward his room with the flick of his head. He was weaving, the hand holding the cigarette unsteady.
Claire released her grip on the gun. She descended the stairs quickly. His footsteps thumped unevenly behind her. As she reached the final flight of stairs, the lobby came into view. Her heart stopped. Two Germans in black suits faced the clerk. Gestapo. One was pointing to a photograph in the clerk’s hands.
She pulled her jacket close and felt the folder pressed against her. She reached into her pocket. The thumping behind her stopped. Claire turned.
The man stared quizzically at Claire from above. “Change your mind already?”
Claire smiled, a slight nod. “How about breakfast first? And a drink?”
He shrugged, stepped down beside her, one hand slid down her backside. “Pourquoi pas?”
She slipped her free hand around him, her other hand still clenching the pistol. He cupped her hip and pulled her close. She smelled alcohol mixed with stale tobacco. Together they went down the last stairs to the lobby, the man between her and the Gestapo. A cold sweat pricked at her neck. She giggled softly, staggered as if she were drunk, ran a hand through her short brunette hair. One of the Gestapo glanced at the couple once, frowned and turned back to the clerk. If you see her, she heard, and then they were out the door.
A half block later, the street opened up to an alley. Claire pulled them around the corner. The man reached for her, she pushed his hand back. “Merci, monsieur. But I don’t smoke.”
She turned and ran.
Cold rain dripped down Claire’s neck as she turned off rue de Tocqueville. The street was nearly empty in the early morning rain. No tables were pulled