The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [26]
The café door opened, the Frenchman set the foot of his cane onto the sidewalk before him, as if testing his next stride. The officer didn’t spare the man a glance and shouldered into him. The cane slid in between the Nazi’s striding legs and tangled. He stumbled, windmilling his arms to catch his balance as he slid over the icy walkway and landed hard on his back.
Movement on the street froze. The soldiers guarding the hotel entrance, the men loitering in front of the restaurant, the people passing by. Even the chatter from inside the restaurant was silenced as if a switch was turned off. The old man’s eyes widened in shock, his mouth dropped open. The Nazi lunged to his feet, brushing at the filthy slush soaking his uniform.
In one motion, the officer pulled a pistol from inside his jacket and fired a bullet into the old man’s chest.
The frail body flew backward; the door shook against the hinges with the force of the blow. The fur hat skittered across the sidewalk as the man collapsed onto the cobbles. Blood turned the grey slush under him into a dirty copper brown. Kicking at the hat, the officer led the men into the café.
Claire released the handle of her cart and leaped forward. Attendez, wait, someone called behind her. She didn’t. She couldn’t. Dropping to her knees, Claire peeled off her scarf and pressed it against the wound.
He looked up to her, cloudy eyes gleamed over the pallor of his face. “Ha.” His voice was raspy. “I nearly brought that batârd down.”
The old man was fighting back the best way he could. He may well have fought the Germans twenty years before in the Great War. Even here, bleeding in the frozen slush, he was a proud French soldier. Claire blinked back tears burning behind her eyes and smiled. “You fought a good battle today, Monsieur.”
He choked on a reply, his breath a thin wheeze. Claire looked up for help.
Across the street, the soldiers guarding the hotel were staring, guns at attention. Everyone else had disappeared except for one of the men who warmed himself in the café’s heat. Even he had retreated back into the building’s shadows. He watched beneath a cap pulled low over his eyes.
“Help us. He needs to get to a doctor,” she said.
His bearded face remained expressionless as he scrutinized her. He finally turned away, cigarette clenched in his mouth, gaze on the street. Biting back a curse, Claire turned to the old man. His grimace faded as he let out a long, hoarse sigh. His rigid body went slack. He was gone.
Claire sank back into the slush, feeling its bite as it soaked through to her legs. She heard panting, realized it was her breath. The cane rested half off the curb. The handle was ivory, goldrimmed, an elaborate dog’s head. Claire reached, felt the cold surface press into her skin.
Coarse laughter echoed from the café. A moment’s amusement for them, she realized. The fear and anger she felt for the old man, the German soldiers, the constant struggle for life in this tortured city blazed together. She leaped to her feet, cane clenched in her fist, and strode for the door.
A strong hand grabbed her shoulder and yanked her back. The man in the shadows—the connard who hadn’t lifted a finger to save the old man—was dragging her away from the café. Claire elbowed him hard in the ribs as he pulled her into an alley.
He cursed and let go. Under the sandy beard, his face was sculpted with sharp cheekbones and deep-set eyes. Those eyes. The English bastard that insisted Laurent send her away. Thomas Grey.
“You sorry—” Claire gripped the cane and swung it toward his head.
Grey caught the ivory handle. “Claire? What are you doing here?”
“You stood there and let—”
“There was no help for him.” He tossed the cane across the alley.
She shoved hard on his chest. “You watched an old man die