The Last Time I Saw Paris - Lynn Sheene [98]
He took a deep draw from the cigarette and peeled back his lips in a bitter smile. “Everyone breaks a little.” He shoved his ruined hand back into his coat pocket. With the other, he pulled the cigarette from his mouth and pointed toward the note. “Go today.”
Claire caught the eastern train from Gare du Montparnasse out of the city at midday. The sunlight was brittle on the bleached countryside and scattered villages that passed outside the window. The Marne River snaked back and forth beneath the tracks; small boats loaded down with cargo sailed along their route.
The rhythmic chugging of the train’s wheels on the tracks sounded like a heartbeat. She remembered a warm afternoon, the sunlight on her skin, she and Grey lying tangled on their castoff clothes in a small grassy hollow. Her head rested on his chest, her eyes closed. She felt his heart beating against her cheek, strong and calm.
“Madame?”
Claire opened her eyes.
A French policeman stood in front of her. “Vos papiers, s’il vous plait?”
Skin prickling, she pulled the card from her purse.
“Reason for travel?”
“A friend in Noisiel is very sick. I am going to visit her.” Chin down, a sad sigh.
“Il est regrettable.” He handed her the card.
Her gaze returned to the window as his footsteps faded. Who could have betrayed them? She knew so few people. That was how the Resistance worked. Small cells that didn’t know each other, so one leak couldn’t bring them all down. Grey was apparently high enough that he knew more. She would damn well look through everything he had. If there were documents to be found, perhaps they would lead to the traitor.
The train reached Noisiel station in less than an hour. Claire exited with a small crowd. Even here, a patrol awaited on the platform, guns ready.
It took nearly an hour of asking in shops in Noisel to find Champs-sur-Marne. In the end, she paid a little boy to draw a map in the dirt to rue de Jardin. You will see it, he promised her. Another hour of walking along a picturesque lane before she found an ornate wrought-iron gate.
Gripping the curling bars, Claire peered in. A long straight gravel lane led to a château in the distance. On each side, cut green lawn was bound by tall hedges formed into curving parterre. Three rows of high windows marked the stone building. A grand portcullis was set out in the center. A second-story balcony overlooked the path and entrance.
A push and the gate opened with a creak. Claire slipped inside and started down the path, her mind racing. The challenge of carrying out her mission began to dawn on her. Near the house, the path split into two and circled a large fountain, with some sort of sea god crashing through limestone waves. She ran a hand over the marble edge. It looked like something at Versailles, designed by Le Nôtre. How did she know this? She sighed. An afternoon’s walk at jardin du Luxembourg. Grey had told her.
The massive stone portcullis shaded intricately carved wood doors at the château’s entrance. Claire gripped the gilded lion door knocker and rapped.
The heavy door swung open with a wheeze against wood parquet flooring. A woman stood before her, her face guarded but friendly. She was in her fifties with the polished look of aristocracy, strong bones, luminous eyes, firm mouth. “Yes?”
“Grey—Thomas Grey asked me to come by. I am Claire Badeau. A friend.”
The woman’s expression clouded. She looked in the distance behind Claire as if Grey might be there. “Where is he? He hasn’t called—”
“No, he can’t call, not now. He can’t come. That is why he sent me here.” Claire tried a reassuring smile.
The woman studied her a moment. “Your accent. You are l’Américaine?”
The American? Claire nodded.
“I am Yvette Wyles.” She squeezed Claire’s hand and led her inside the door. “If you are a friend of Thomas, you are welcome to our home.”
Yvette led her to an intimate salon filled with paintings and