The Paris Apartment, page 30
“Not at all,” Sophie replied. “I’m embarrassed to say I simply tripped.”
“Oh,” he said, looking relieved.
They were almost past the salon. Sophie had no idea if Estelle had seen the sergeant or not.
As the group reached the stairs and no one shouted from behind to stop them, Sophie relaxed fractionally. She maneuvered herself so that she remained with the painting on one side, the wall on the other, and just ahead of the young officer. If the sergeant was still watching, the officer would provide a modicum of cover.
They climbed the stairs and made their way to the Imperial Suite. Along the way, they passed other uniformed men, many greeting Estelle by name and asking after her health, and two asking if the wrapped painting the Ritz employees still carried was another treasure for Göring. Whatever Estelle had been doing to integrate herself with the occupants of the Ritz, she had done it well. Sophie remained where she was, generally hidden by the bulky canvas.
A man in another grey field uniform met them at the door of the suite. He lacked any decoration or indication of rank on his uniform, and Sophie took him to be an aide of some sort. He had a narrow, pinched face that nevertheless managed to convey a smug, haughty expression. A magpie. That’s what Piotr used to call men like that. Loud, mean, attention-seeking birds that lorded over the scraps left by others but fled at the first sign of a challenge.
“Mademoiselle Allard. This is an unexpected surprise. I do hope you’re aware the Reichsmarschall is not in residence at the moment.” His greeting was rife with condescension.
“I’m not here to see the Reichsmarschall, Hesse. I’m here to see a painting hung in his suite in preparation for his return.”
“He told me nothing about this before he departed.”
“I cannot help that oversight,” Estelle said, sounding impatient. “Please let us in.”
“I don’t think I will,” the aide called Hesse said, crossing his arms and leaning up against the wall.
“Colonel Meyer wishes—”
“I do not care what the colonel wishes, for the colonel is not here. Therefore, I will do as I wish. And I certainly do not obey the whims of a whore.” His last sentence he uttered in German.
Müller sucked in an audible breath.
Estelle’s face remained utterly blank, looking back and forth between Müller and the aide.
“It is troubling,” Sophie said, stepping forward and addressing him in German, “the disrespectful manner in which you speak to a loyal servant of the Reich.”
“Who are you?” Hesse demanded.
Sophie ignored his question. “You took the Führereid, did you not? Pledged personal loyalty to the Führer?”
“Of course I did,” he sputtered.
“Then that is troubling also. Tell me, Herr Hesse, is it self-interest or just disregard for the Reichsmarschall, and thus the Führer himself, that arouses such disrespect?”
The aide pushed himself off the wall. “How dare you—”
“‘Posterity will not remember those who pursued only their own individual interests, but it will praise those heroes who renounced their own happiness.’ You should keep that in mind.”
The aide scoffed. “Of course a woman would say something so pitifully inane.”
“Oh, those aren’t my words, Herr Hesse. Those are the words of the Führer.”
The color drained from Hesse’s complexion.
“You may not like Mademoiselle Allard,” Sophie said, taking another step closer to the aide so that she was towering over him, “but she has, in her own way, proven her dedication and loyalty to the Reich. I would hope you would demonstrate your own loyalty by putting your self-interest and personal feelings aside.”
The aide’s superciliousness had been wiped from his face, and he seemed unable to formulate a response. “You will open this door, and we will see this art placed in a location of honour deserving of both the artist and Reichsmarschall Göring,” Sophie intoned coldly. “After that, we will return below, where I will order a Bee’s Knees from the bar and forget all about your…unfortunate lapse. Are we agreed?”
Müller was watching her with something akin to awe on his round face. The two Ritz employees looked like they were trying to follow the rapid German without much success.
The aide’s jaw had tightened. “I—”
“Colonel Meyer arranged for the assistance from the two Ritz employees you see here.” Sophie didn’t allow him to speak. “Hauptgefreiter Müller has agreed to supervise. Once you’ve opened the suite for us, you may go.”
Hesse stared at her and then seemed to recover. He threw up his hands with a sneer. “This is your problem then, Müller,” he barked. He yanked a set of keys from his uniform pocket and unlocked the door to the suite.
“Thank you,” Estelle babbled. “Oh, I’m so happy you changed your mind. The Reichsmarschall will be so pleased, I know it.”
The aide pushed the door open and stalked away, refusing to look at Sophie and muttering under his breath.
Müller entered the suite first, and Estelle indicated that the men carrying the painting should follow. When they were out of earshot, Estelle glanced at Sophie, her eyes wide. “That was…convincing,” she whispered.
“You may thank my German tutor for the inspiration,” Sophie whispered back. “She made me read Mein Kampf.”
Sophie entered the suite, and though Estelle had described the space in great detail, the luxury was overwhelming even in the failing light. It took every bit of her concentration not to gape like an awed tourist, and instead she swept through the gilded space as though such surroundings were the expected and not the exception.
She stopped in the center of the grand salon and turned in a slow circle, ostensibly deciding where the painting would best be hung. “Turn on the lights, please,” she said to Müller.
The soldier obeyed immediately. Sophie allowed herself a small sigh of relief. She had not been at all confident that she would be able to manipulate the arrogant aide who had barred their way into the suite but the young soldier was proving more than malleable.
“You may take the bindings off the painting, but leave it covered for right now,” she said to the two men who had set their burden down just to Sophie’s left. Without a word, they, too, obeyed Sophie’s request and bent to their task.
She put her hands on her hips and let her eyes linger on the doors that led to the dining room. Beside them, close to the corner, were the subtle lines of the hidden door, exactly where Estelle had said it would be. Had Sophie not been aware of its existence, she might not have noticed it at all.
“What do you think, Madame Beaufort?” Estelle came to join Sophie in the center of the large salon.
“I think the painting should be hung out here. It will set a tone, if you will, for the Reichsmarschall’s impeccable taste in fine art and to impress his visitors.” She paused. “What do you think, Hauptgefreiter Müller?”
The young soldier was still standing near the wall, openly gawking at his surroundings, now brightly lit. He jerked at the sound of his name. “Pardon me?”
“I was asking your opinion on the best location for this painting.” She turned a brilliant smile on him.
“Um.” He advanced slowly into the room. “I’m sure I don’t know.”
“Well, take a peek at the work and tell me where in this room it would be most dramatic. Most impactful. Where the Reichsmarschall will smile with pleasure every time he looks at it.”
“Er.” He approached the men still holding the painting and lifted the edge of the cover, his forehead creasing. “It’s very, ah…colorful.” He let the canvas cover drop back into place and wrung his hands, as though this single decision might determine his future in the Luftwaffe.
“What about near the entrance to the dining room?” Estelle suggested. “Visible from here, sure to be commented on by any guest invited to dine. There is the perfect space just above that sofa.”
“Yes.” Müller nodded. “A good idea.” He sounded relieved that the decision had been taken from him.
“I agree.” Sophie turned to the two Ritz employees. “You may lean the painting against that wall for now,” she said, gesturing across the space. “Perhaps one of you might move the sofa and tables?” She tipped her head as if deep in thought. “We will need a ladder and tools. Hauptgefreiter Müller, would it be possible for you to accompany one of these men to fetch those things?” She framed it as a question. “I would be indebted to you.”
“Of course.” The soldier nodded eagerly as the men set the painting against the wall.
“I will take care of the furniture.” The older of the two men spoke loudly to his partner. “Joseph, you have heard what the madame has requested. A ladder, a tool kit, proper anchors. The ladder you will find in the north cellars, the tools that you will need are in the workshop closest to the garden terrace on the Cambon side. Anchors should be there somewhere too. And please try to keep your return as discreet as possible. I don’t need resident or guest complaints.”
The man called Joseph had a thoroughly puzzled expression.
“You heard my instructions. Please heed them carefully.”
Joseph’s face cleared. “Of course.”
“Thank you,” Sophie told them easily, not looking at the man who had spoken. “We will wait here with the painting.”
Müller and the younger employee vanished, leaving Sophie, Estelle, and the older man in the center of the salon.
“I’m not sure what you are doing, Mademoiselle Allard, but you need to do it quickly,” the man said. “I sent Joseph and his Boche on a scavenger hunt, but they will be back soon. Fifteen minutes, maybe?”
“That’s all I need. And it would be best if you left right now,” Estelle told him. “For your own protection.”
“But—”
“Please. If anyone asks, you can tell them I ordered you to bring us drinks from the bar. In fact, why don’t you do that.”
“You want me to bring you a drink here?”
“Why not? All this waiting is so wearing on a soul.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. And please take your time. For your own sake.”
“Very well,” he said before he retreated and then vanished.
Estelle was already hurrying to the hidden closet, gesturing at Sophie to follow her. With quick, sure hands, she released the closet door. “Hurry.”
Sophie ducked in behind her, finding herself in a small, cramped space. “Did you see Schwarz?”
“Yes. And I’m not sure if we’ll have fifteen minutes.” Estelle was feeling along the edge of the rear wall, and the click as the hidden door at the rear swung open sounded overly loud. “Just get what you came for and get out. There is a light at the bottom of the stairs same as this one. I’ll wait up here and deal with Schwarz or anyone else.”
Sophie pulled the tiny Riga Minox camera, smaller than the length of her hand, from her beaded handbag and started her descent into the darkness. The air down here was stagnant, a metallic scent hanging heavily around her. She reached the bottom as quickly as she dared in the darkness and found the light at the bottom of the stairs where Estelle had said it would be.
The Tunny machine sat directly in front of Sophie on a long counter. It was squat and square in shape, perhaps a bit bigger than a wooden milk crate. Or at least she was assuming that it was a Tunny machine, never having seen one before. However, Sophie had seen many teleprinters at Bletchley, all similar to the teleprinter that was attached to this machine. Rolls of paper ribbon were stacked up next to it on the counter, used, perforated fragments curling out of a metal bin underneath.
Sophie went directly to the boxy machine and discovered that the box itself was simply that—a metal cover placed over the machine that sat beneath, presumably to protect it from dust and debris. She lifted it carefully and was rewarded by a maze of small electronic parts and pieces, all sitting above a neat row of twelve rotors that looked like sprockets from a bicycle. Sophie took a half step back and raised the little camera. With some shock, she realized that her hands were shaking. After everything that had happened, after everything that had brought her here, this close to achieving her mission, her nerves chose this moment to make themselves known?
A bubble of hysterical laughter rose in the back of her throat, and she swallowed it lest she make a sound. This was absurd, she reflected, but reassured herself that it was only a natural reaction. And on the heels of that thought, another gurgle of manic laughter threatened, because if ever there was a time for Sophie to embrace the unnatural accusations hurled at her since she was eight, now would be it. She took three deep breaths through her nose and out her mouth, focused on the mountain of sprockets and wires and gauges responsible for messages that wreaked death across a continent, and began taking photos.
The steady clicking as she opened and closed the camera to advance the film was the only sound in the tomblike space. She took photos as quickly as she could from as many angles as she could without risking blurring the image. When she was satisfied that she had captured as much as possible, she replaced the machine’s cover and turned her attention to the cabinets that sat exactly as Estelle had described.
She set the little camera down and pulled out her set of lock picks. It took her less than a minute to open the cabinet, the simple lock giving way easily. She pulled the upper of the two drawers open, and her stomach sank. It was empty. She crouched in front of the lower drawer and opened it. This one was not empty, and instead, contained a neatly organized stack of what looked like about a half-dozen thin manuals.
Estelle pulled the first one out, the familiar eagle above the swastika stamped on the red cover. SONDERMASCHINEN SCHLÜSSEL was written above. Special machines key, Sophie translated, and it was almost identical to the picture Miss Atkins had once shown her in a Baker Street flat. This was what she had come for.
She laid the manual out and began taking photos. Four times she changed the tiny film canisters, sliding each completed one into an empty Gauloises packet from her handbag. When she had finished the last book, she restacked them and placed them back as they’d been found. She closed the drawer, relocked the cabinet, and switched off the light. She estimated that the entire process had taken less than fifteen minutes but still Sophie hurried back up the stairs as soundlessly as possible. She reached the closet and pushed the hidden door closed, making sure it latched behind her.
She smoothed her hair, took a deep breath, and edged her way to the suite door, listening hard. She put a hand up to push the door open but just as her palm made contact she stilled.
They were no longer alone.
Chapter
21
Estelle
Paris, France
26 August 1943
Mademoiselle Allard. What are you doing up here all alone? I did not expect to see you again so soon. What a…happy surprise.”
Estelle froze where she had been pacing and tried desperately to smother the horror that bloomed through her chest. She lifted her chin and faced Scharführer Schwarz. He was standing in the door of the Imperial Suite, the weasel-faced aide, Hesse, hovering behind him.
“Scharführer,” she greeted loudly, not allowing herself to look anywhere near the dining room. “It is a happy surprise. Whatever are you doing here?”
“The same thing I was doing last time we met,” he said. “Looking for a traitor.”
“What?” Estelle let her voice rise, which wasn’t very difficult. “What are you talking about?”
“Madame Beaufort. Where is she?”
“What?” Estelle stalled, feigning utter bewilderment.
“The woman you entered this hotel with. Where is she?”
“You think Madame Beaufort is a traitor?” Estelle said, making an epic effort to sound merely appalled and not terrified.
“Where is she?” Schwarz demanded again, ignoring her question.
“I don’t know where Madame Beaufort is at the moment,” Estelle said. “She left. We have been waiting and waiting for Hauptgefreiter Müller to find a ladder and whatever things he needed to get a painting hung up properly on the wall. But it’s been an age, and she got bored of waiting. She probably went to get a drink. Did you check the bars?”
“She’s not in the bars,” the aide muttered in German. “I told you something wasn’t right. And I told you this whore here can’t be trusted.”
“Mmm.” The sergeant addressed Estelle in French. “I’ll ask you again, Mademoiselle, and I’d like you to consider your answer carefully. Where is Madame Beaufort?”
“You think I’m hiding her?” Estelle exclaimed. “Look around. As you can see, she’s not here.” She turned on her heel and flounced into one of the bedrooms. Away from the dining room. Away from the agent. “And she’s certainly not here either,” she announced. “Look for yourselves.”
The sergeant and aide followed her into the room. Estelle almost wept with relief. Sophie had minutes now in which she could slip from that damn closet and escape the suite and no one would see her go. Not from here, anyway.
“Tell me, how is it that you are acquainted with Madame Beaufort?” Schwarz asked.
“I met her while I was shopping the other day,” Estelle told him readily. “Her family owns a cosmetics company, you know. A stroke of luck indeed because to find a good lipstick these days is almost impossible. Such an inconvenience.”
The aide was sneering at her again, and Estelle kept right on going, hoping with all her might that Sophie had found everything she needed and was on her way out of this suite and out of this damn hotel.
“Anyway, she had a painting that she wanted to gift to the Reichsmarschall while she was in Paris, and I was only too happy to offer my help. Her father is from Berlin, you know. Or maybe it’s her mother. I can’t remember. She seems very German, and I thought she might appreciate the hotel. You know, being amongst her people here.”
“Her people?” The sergeant had a look of disgust across his face. “I am quite sure that we are not her people.”
