The Paris Apartment, page 20
“That’s a pretty necklace,” Celine said, making Estelle start.
Estelle released the pendant and pulled the collar of her coat up. The woman was watching her with those unflinching, icy eyes, and she didn’t like it. It was as if she was peering directly into Estelle’s thoughts. “What do you require from me?” she demanded with more sharpness than she had intended.
Celine did not seem to take offense. “Your help.”
“The instructions I received were that I was to provide you with society introductions at the Ritz Hotel. I am assuming that that is still the case.”
“Yes and no.”
Estelle frowned. “I don’t like riddles. Speak plainly.”
“My partner, who was the other half of my cover story, is dead. I need a new one.”
“A new partner or a new cover story?”
“Both.”
“And what does that have to do with me?”
The tall blond woman reached into her handbag. She withdrew a small brass cylinder, a logo in crimson ink swirled across one side. “Here.”
Estelle took it from the agent. “Lipstick?”
“Yes. And this.” Celine delved into her handbag again and withdrew a beautifully engraved silver powder compact with the same logo across the top. She passed it to Estelle.
“What are these?”
“A sample of the small fortune in black market cosmetics I currently have in my hotel room. What I was supposed to help my husband sell.”
“Sell to whom?”
“To the wives of the German officers and diplomats staying in the Ritz suites, the mistresses of collaborators and industrialists enjoying their new position in high society in the Ritz dining rooms, and the actresses and starlets that seem to crawl out of the Ritz bedsheets at regular intervals.”
Estelle stared at her. “You’re well informed.”
Celine shrugged.
“And is this still your intention? To sell to the…women at the Ritz?”
“Perhaps. I still need entrance to the hotel.”
Estelle opened the compact and examined the pressed powder. “With an introduction from me,” she said, snapping the compact closed again, “these will sell quickly. These women you speak of will be delighted. Though I warn you, competition for the best of what you offer will inevitably incite fierce grudges.”
“Mmm.”
“The couture houses that still remain open would likely buy the whole lot from you without even blinking,” Estelle added, “if you needed to get rid of these and were considering a different approach.”
Celine seemed to ponder her answer. “How would you have introduced us if I had arrived with my husband?”
Estelle handed the compact and lipstick back. “Something very casual. A couple I met while shopping, perhaps. We fell into conversation, you mentioned your reason for being in Paris, and I would have suggested that you might get a better price presenting your wares to the discriminating individuals at the Ritz as opposed to wholesale liquidation to a couture house.”
“Clever.”
“Not clever. Safe. You know nothing about me, and I know nothing about you other than what we’ve presented publicly. Keep distance maximized and lies minimized.”
The agent gazed at Estelle, her expression impenetrable. Estelle hid a frown. She was generally very good at reading people but she couldn’t read this woman.
“I need someone who knows the Ritz,” Celine said after a long silence. “Its residents and, more importantly, its layout.”
“And you think that I have this knowledge?”
“You spend a great deal of time at the Ritz. With your wealth, your beauty, your style, you are accepted as one of them.”
Trepidation stirred within Estelle. “Who told you all that?”
“No one told me anything.” Celine shrugged and slipped the cosmetics back into her handbag. “Most of that was conjecture. Based on your appearance, your speech, and your familiarity with the possible reaction of the Ritz residents to my presence, as well as the needs of couture houses.”
“Conjecture?” Estelle repeated.
“Was I right?”
“Jesus.” This ice princess was disturbing. Estelle started walking, heading back toward the front of the basilica.
Celine fell into step beside her. “I need to become one of them too. Blend in. Just long enough to get what I came for. And I need you to help me do that.”
Estelle stopped. “You don’t need me. All you need is an empty Luftwaffe bed that requires warming,” she snapped. “You simply need to become a horizontal collaborator. That would seem like the obvious answer, no?”
Something flickered across Celine’s face, an emotion so fleeting that Estelle was unable to name it. “I’ve considered that. I’d prefer not to do so.”
Estelle regretted her impulsive words almost immediately but there was something about this particular agent that had her on edge. A cold intensity that Estelle wasn’t sure she could trust.
They had almost reached the top of the wide stone steps, still in the shadows of the low, overhanging branches. People were trudging up and down the expanse from the narrow street that snaked around the basilica, still more on the lower staircases below that fell away toward the city. Estelle scrutinized the crowds but saw nothing out of place. Still, she couldn’t shake the sense of disquiet that gripped her.
Estelle lowered her voice. “Look, I can provide you with introductions to these wives and mistresses and likely whatever officers or artists or industrialists you require. But I can’t get involved in whatever they’ve sent you here to do,” she said, shaking her head. “I have my own obligations and duties. I have people who depend on me, and I cannot afford the additional risk.”
Celine said nothing.
“I’m sorry. I truly am,” Estelle said. “There is a café in which you can find me at a certain time during the week. Vivienne will be able to tell you the specifics if you still wish me to make introductions. But beyond that, I can’t help you—” She stopped abruptly as her eye was caught by a man emerging from the center of the three massive archways.
Jerome was wearing his usual threadbare suit, a paper tucked underneath one arm, and he looked not unlike the other men milling at the entrance to the basilica. Except for the fact that he wasn’t milling. He was walking with purpose in her direction, looking neither left nor right, the expression on his face ominously tight. After the night they’d spent together, he’d vanished completely again, as Estelle had known he would. What she hadn’t expected was to see him here, now, at the basilica in broad daylight unless he was—
Estelle’s eyes flew to the space behind Jerome, and sure enough, a second man walked, following in his footsteps. He was young with sandy brown hair, a square jaw, broad shoulders, and deep-set eyes shadowed with fear. One hand was in his pocket, toying with whatever coins or possessions were in it, a cigarette held between the first two fingers of his other hand. He kept glancing over his shoulder, his entire bearing that of a flighty horse about to bolt. He took a desperate drag on his cigarette.
“Merde,” Estelle whispered. The airman hadn’t been adequately briefed on habits and mannerisms or had forgotten everything.
“He smokes like an American,” Celine commented casually. She had moved to stand beside Estelle and had followed her gaze. “A nervous one.”
And it was going to get him noticed, arrested, or killed. Worse, it might very well get Jerome noticed, arrested, or killed. Though death would come after both men were carted off to avenue Foch and put into sealed rooms where no one, save the Gestapo, would hear their screams. Where no one, save the Gestapo, would hear whatever secrets were torn from their lips. Like the identities of those who helped the line. Now and in the past.
The two Gestapo men who had passed Estelle earlier were now farther down the promenade, heading past the basilica, their backs still to her. But another pair of uniformed men had emerged from the shadows of the arches, moving slowly, craning their necks as they wove their way through a group of women. Their attention fell on Jerome, and one of them shouted and pointed.
Jerome was almost even with Estelle now. She could see the fear that dotted his forehead with perspiration. He looked up, shock blooming across his face as he recognized her. In a smooth motion, he dropped his paper and bent to pick it up.
“They were waiting,” he said before tucking the paper back under his arm. “They’re looking for me. Get him to Troyes. You know the house. Please.” His desperation was clear. He continued down the wide stone steps without a moment of hesitation.
“Your friend?” Celine asked, neither woman watching him go.
“Something like that.” Estelle was trying to think fast but right now her thoughts were muddled, her ability to deliberate and calculate frozen by fear. Which was even more terrifying. She needed to get the airman away from here. But how to do that without implicating or compromising herself?
There was a tiny part of her that simply wanted to run. To turn and walk away and not look back. But that safety would only be temporary.
“You two meet these…individuals often?” Celine asked quietly.
“Something like that.” Estelle would worry later about the consequences of the obvious conclusion the agent had made.
The two Gestapo men on the promenade were now storming back in pursuit of Jerome, people scattering in front of them as they gave chase down the staircase. Estelle shrank back, away from the top of the stairs and farther beneath the canopy of the tree, as if she could make herself invisible. Jerome had almost reached the narrow street at the bottom of the stairs below. If he could make it a little farther, he would be quickly swallowed by the twisting tangle of Montmartre streets that fell to the west—
Another pair of Gestapo soldiers appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Jerome came to a stumbling stop, frantically looking back and forth between the men who had him trapped and were closing in. He spun in indecision, his hesitation costing him everything. The men who had been chasing him from above reached him first and knocked him forward. He fell down a handful of steps, landing awkwardly on his side. The men from below closed the gap, and the smaller of the two delivered a vicious kick to his head.
Jerome went limp, and in the next second was hauled to his feet and dragged the rest of the way down the stairs. A black car had pulled up, and one of the four men pulled the back door open. An insensible Jerome was shoved into the back, two of his captors getting into the car with him. The vehicle rolled off quickly and quietly. People who had stopped or cowered from the scene resumed their travels, eyes fixed firmly on the pavement as if nothing had happened.
Estelle grasped the balustrade, trying not to give in to the helpless terror and panic that was crashing around in her chest. She heard a high-pitched, muffled whimper, and it took her a second before she understood that it was coming from her. She dropped her head and focused on her breathing. Focused on what had not happened instead of what had. Jerome had not been killed. He was not dead. Not yet.
And the airman he had been guiding had not been caught with him.
Estelle’s head snapped up. The American airman. Where was he? She turned and scanned the promenade.
The American had stopped like a cornered hare at the top of the stairs in front of the basilica, looking wildly about. Even a child would have been able to identify him as someone other than a Parisian visiting the basilica, and the two remaining officers were starting back up the stairs, heading directly toward him. Estelle had no idea what she could do to stop whatever was about to happen. She did know that Celine could not be here. Estelle turned to tell her just that but the agent was gone. She couldn’t see Celine anywhere. Just as well.
With shaking limbs, Estelle pushed herself away from the safety of the shadowed balustrade. She did not know what she was going to do but she had to do something. She hadn’t gone more than three steps before she stopped abruptly, horror mingling with disbelief. Celine was bearing down on the airman like a woman greeting a long-lost relative. Or lover. It was difficult to tell which.
Celine reached the airman, put a hand on his arm, and yanked the cigarette from his mouth, tossing it to the side. “Do you speak French?” she demanded.
The man looked at her without comprehension.
Estelle cursed inwardly. Of course he didn’t.
“Don’t speak no matter what,” Celine said in a low voice, switching to English. “And for fuck’s sake, look stupid.”
The American gaped at her, which, Estelle suspected, was exactly what she had intended with her language. She angled him casually away from the top of the wide stairway, where the Gestapo officers were almost upon them now, their boots thudding with an ominous rhythm. Estelle turned away slightly, still far enough away to avoid notice but still close enough to hear the conversation.
“Where have you been?” Celine’s sudden exclamation was loud enough to startle Estelle and make the people nearest her turn and stare. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You know what I’ve told you about wandering away from me.” The agent was checking the airman over with her hands the way a distraught mother might examine a toddler after he had a tumble on a playground.
No, not checking him over. Subtly searching his pockets. With her back to the approaching officers and the nimble fingers of an accomplished pickpocket, Celine lifted his papers from his coat pocket, glanced at them, and tucked them into her handbag. With the same easy movements, the agent adjusted her cuff and palmed a long, thin knife. The narrow blade flashed briefly before it vanished once again beneath the sleeve of her dress.
Estelle swallowed with difficulty. A small voice in the back of her mind wondered if this woman London had sent was not so much an agent as an assassin. And if she would spill blood on the pavement here long before she had a chance to reach her real target.
“You there!” thundered a voice. “Stop.”
Estelle’s heart hammered in her chest, fear crackling through like a lightning storm, and she edged a little farther away.
The officer who had spoken was broad and tall, silver hair visible beneath the brim of his hat. He wore a grey uniform with braid at his shoulder, the pair of jagged Ss on one side of his collar and the diamonds on the other. His partner was younger—much younger—with a narrow face, sharp nose, and equally sharp eyes. Estelle recognized him instantly. The Gestapo officer who had once watched her sing at the Ritz and then questioned her with the intense suspicion of a raptor. She searched her memory for his name.
Sergeant Schwarz.
He lacked both braid and diamonds on his uniform, though the strip of black at his shoulders still marked him as a sergeant. Clearly, the ambition that Colonel Meyer had alluded to that night had not come to fruition. His expression was drawn and bitter, and that, more than anything, terrified Estelle. He said nothing, only studied Celine and the American with the same intensity he had once regarded Estelle in a Ritz salon.
Celine turned and looked at the Gestapo officers, and her face split into a blinding smile full of gratitude. “Oh, thank you all for finding him,” she said. “I was so worried.”
The officers’ expressions momentarily matched that of the American—blank and confused.
“He keeps getting away on me,” Celine continued, switching effortlessly to German with a fluency that put Estelle’s to shame. “I can’t leave him alone for a second. Yesterday, he followed a child holding a kitten. Today it was someone else.”
The older officer—maybe a major, Estelle thought—stepped closer to Celine. “You sound German,” he said.
Another brilliant smile was bestowed upon the officers. “Half,” Celine said proudly. “My mother was from Berlin.”
“What is your name?” he demanded.
“Sophie Beaufort,” Celine replied earnestly, with just the right amount of respect.
“And this man? Who is he?”
“He is a family friend. Our mothers grew up together in Berlin. We’ve known each other forever. In fact, I think our parents hoped we would marry one day,” Celine babbled on.
“He should answer for himself,” the major growled.
“He can’t,” Celine explained.
The airman, to his credit, was staring vacuously up at the gleaming cathedral spires and seemed oblivious to the entire conversation.
“What is wrong with him?” Schwarz finally spoke, his hand playing with the holster at his waist.
“He was in Blois when it was bombed by the Luftwaffe,” Celine explained. “The doctors said it damaged his mind and his nerves.”
“Ought to put him out of his misery, then,” the sergeant suggested coldly.
Celine gasped. “What?”
The man shrugged. “You’d do the same for a dog. A kindness to just put him down.”
Horror boiled up into the back of Estelle’s throat. She’d seen men, women, and children shot in the streets for lesser reasons than being a simpleton.
“You can’t,” Celine said, her pale eyes widening and suddenly brimming with tears. “He helps keep me safe. A deterrent to those who would take advantage of an unaccompanied woman. He may not be the same man he once was, but he is still a good man.”
The American was now watching a pair of doves quarrel in the branches of the trees, an empty smile on his face.
“No one is putting anyone down.” The major frowned at his subordinate before turning back to Celine. “What are you doing here? In Paris?”
“Well, officially I am in Paris to sell beauty products. Cosmetics,” Celine said. “But—”
“Cosmetics?” It was Schwarz who interrupted her, his question thick with suspicion.
“Why, yes.” Celine slipped a hand into her bag and withdrew the lipstick and compact she had shown Estelle. She held them out to the older officer, who took them gingerly. “It’s a family company,” she went on. “You can keep those samples, of course,” Celine told him with renewed enthusiasm. “Perhaps you have a wife or a special girl who might like them?”
