The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [128]
Gusts of wind tore at yesterday’s Le Figaro Claire held over her head. She clenched the message in her pocket, took a deep breath and walked toward the drop. A moment spent below the theater marquee to examine the poster, a woman planning her evening, then she walked past the dentist’s window. Her hand slipped into her pocket, the paper palmed in her hand. A glance at the dentist’s door, her hand moved toward the mail slot.
The door was boarded shut. The dentist was gone.
She forced herself to keep moving. A few more steps and she paused, as if to adjust her shoe. She glanced back for a better view. The heavy wooden door had been shattered, twisted hinges dangled from the broken doorjamb.
Claire let the newspaper fall to the pavement as she strode away. She didn’t notice the rain running down her face. Who could she turn to? She broke into a trot as she turned the corner. She didn’t slow down until she stood across from 22, rue d’Artois.
The lights were on in Laurent’s apartment, the curtains pulled. She remembered standing out here when she first got to Paris a lifetime ago. Claire wiped the rain from her face. She knew she looked like hell, but Laurent had to understand.
Her heels clicked against the cobbles as she crossed the street. Inside the lobby, she stopped and stared at the mailboxes. Laurent’s name had been scratched off the plate.
A harried-looking maid passed, barely more than a girl, her arms full of boxes.
“Who lives in number 4?” Claire asked.
“Kommandant Klein,” the maid said and turned to climb the stairs.
Claire’s legs were shaking as she hurried down the street. It wasn’t possible. They couldn’t all be gone. There was only one person left who might know. Claire had to talk to her without getting killed first.
The city was dark under the heavy clouds, with the streetlights blued out. Rats scurried in the darkness of the alley behind La Vie en Fleurs. Claire had watched and waited until the streets emptied after curfew. Now she picked her way through the trash to the doorway she knew so well. Her searching hands found the key still hidden beneath a rusty iron flowerpot. The door opened with a familiar squeak.
The shop interior was inky black. The air was musty, the rains had leaked through boarded windows. Claire moved carefully. The floor was slippery in a layer of dust. The broken glass, scattered flowers and tins were gone.
She felt her way to the counter, pulled open a drawer and reached in for a box. He buys the best flowers he can afford for his women. He has spent a great deal of money here, Madame Palain said of Laurent so long ago. Claire had never looked through the receipts. Now she needed to know.
A match flared, Claire bent low over the open box. Olivier, Sylvie.
Sixty-seven, rue de Lisbonne. A tall grey building, ornate stone façade, not far from parc Monceau. Oversized wooden doors with an archaic lock. Claire reached for a hairpin. A quick flick into the lock and she was inside. Climbing the grand staircase, she stepped out into a dimly lit hallway and paused in front of Sylvie’s entry.
Her ear pressed to the door, she heard nothing inside. What were the odds, Claire wondered, Sylvie was home, much less alone? Gripping the Walther in her pocket with one hand, Claire took a deep breath and knocked.
The door opened a crack. Eyes flashed wide with surprise and the door swung open another inch. Sylvie frowned at Claire. As good of a reception as Claire could hope for.
“Are you alone?” Claire said.
“Yes, why?”
“We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“Not in the hallway.”
Sylvie scanned the corridor behind Claire. “Come in, then.” She wore a luminous green silk robe, an immense emerald cocktail ring. She eyed Claire’s hair.
Claire fought the urge to smooth her curls. She met Sylvie’s gaze. “The Nazis have taken over Laurent’s apartment. Where is he?”
Sylvie turned away. She shook her head as she lit a cigarette. “Bold of the mistress to ask his wife, isn