The Paris Apartment, page 8
“Looking for something in particular?” Hesse was back, a hard look on his narrow face. He was holding a gauzy mass of lemon-yellow fabric that cascaded over his arm.
“Oh, no,” Estelle breathed. “I’ve just never seen so many lovely pieces in one spot before. It’s like a…like a grand museum. And I do so adore museums.”
“Of course you do.” Clear antipathy made his lips curl unpleasantly. “Here. You’re to put this on.” He thrust his arm and the bundle of yellow fabric in Estelle’s direction.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Reichsmarschall Göring was very pleased with your gift. He would like to extend a thank-you. You are to wear this the next time you…sing.”
His inflection made it clear that he still believed that she was a whore. Estelle didn’t bother to correct him. She stepped toward him and took the garment from his outstretched arm. It was a dress of lightweight crepe, lined with silk, the straps beaded with crystal. The irrational part of her wanted to throw it back at the German. The rational part of her wondered if she would be able to sell it and, if so, for how much.
“He also asked me to give you this.” He handed Estelle a rectangular card.
A postcard, Estelle realized as she took it. The front depicted a long, columned building adorned by a Nazi flag. She turned it over. For the lovely Estelle, With thanks, Hermann Göring. Her stomach churned.
“He would like you to try the dress on now,” Hesse said. “While he sees to Reich business with the colonel.”
Estelle found herself unable to reply, fighting the urge to simply turn and run.
“You really are as stupid as you seem, aren’t you?” the aide muttered irritably in German.
“I don’t understand what you said.” She forced herself to focus and slipped the postcard into her handbag.
“The Reichsmarschall would like me to ensure that you are pleased with your dress before you go,” the aide prompted with clear contempt, slowing down his speech as if Estelle were a half-wit.
“Is it couture?” she asked, grasping for the single most self-absorbed comment she might make in this moment.
Hesse sneered. Hell, Estelle was sneering at herself, standing as she was in the middle of such desolation that she could do nothing about. Accommodating a morphine-riddled general who was destroying everything she knew and loved. And for what? For the chance that she might overhear something that would make a difference?
God, London might already be on fire, and she had heard nothing until it was a fait accompli. What was she even doing here? Did anything she might hear or see even matter?
“Lanvin, I’m told,” the man said derisively. “I’m sure it will satisfy your…impeccable taste.”
Estelle lifted her chin and looked down her nose at the man as imperiously as possible. “I demand you show me to a suite where I might change.”
The aide shook his head in disgust. He glanced back at the doors that were still tightly closed on Meyer and Göring and then smirked. “Yes. For you, I have the perfect place.” He indicated that Estelle should follow him.
He led them across the salon, weaving between the piles and stacks of stolen art, to the far side of the room. On their left, a set of ornate doors was open, and what looked like a luxuriously appointed dining room sat in shadows beyond. Just in front of them, another door existed, though this one was camouflaged as part of the wall itself, like the secret doors in the bedchambers of Versailles.
A closet? Estelle wondered, thinking of the many cleverly concealed cupboards and storage spaces César Ritz had built into his hotel. Or a servants’ entrance? Or possibly a portal by which guests could arrive and leave with secrecy and discretion? Hesse released a catch near the wainscoting, and a thick, heavy door swung silently inward. He stepped forward and reached above his head, switching on a light.
“I think this will be suitable for you.” He was enjoying this.
Estelle let him. It suited her to be underestimated. Better yet, dismissed. “A closet? I refuse.”
“One does not refuse the Reichsmarschall, Mademoiselle,” the aide said. “Do let me know if you require further assistance.” He finished with an unmistakable leer before stepping back and closing the door behind him.
Estelle looked around the space, lit only by the bare bulb over her head. It was indeed a closet. A drafty, somewhat dusty broom closet, and she did not doubt for a second that he had put her in here to humiliate her. There was a small latch on the inside of the door, and Estelle slid the bolt across. At least Hesse wouldn’t be able to humiliate her further. She knew his type. The sort who could feel big only if they could make those beside them feel small.
The closet had clearly been part of the renovation in some manner, given the scent of newly cut lumber that lingered in the air and the wisps of sawdust beneath her feet. Against the wall to her right, a set of narrow shelves housed a collection of tins. Furniture polish, Estelle discovered, set beside a small stack of cloths. She put her handbag on the shelf next to them.
To her left, in the back corner, three brooms of varying sizes were propped together, a dusty toolbox at their base. Above them, a twist of what looked like heavy wires emerged. They were newly installed, Estelle judged, based on the shiny, gleaming tacks that secured them. The wires climbed the wall, ran across the ceiling, and then vanished into the opposite corner closest to the lightbulb. Estelle frowned. What was the purpose of having a nearly empty closet in the Imperial Suite that housed a few tins of furniture polish and brooms, other than to humiliate would-be whores?
She turned, the yellow dress slipping from her arm before she could catch it. It landed at her feet, creating clouds of dust that swirled around the floor at her feet. The dust rose, only to be sucked to the back of the closet by a draft, vanishing under the back wall. Estelle kicked off her shoes and, in three steps, crossed to the rear of the closet. Here, she could feel the draft tickling her bare toes and instantly recognized what that meant. The back wall was not a wall at all but a door. Something she would never have been able to identify had she not just finished a similar renovation in her own apartment. How very ironic.
Estelle ran her fingers around the edges of the wall. It took her only seconds to find the latch, and seconds more before she was able to release it. The back of the closet swung silently inward on well-oiled hinges. Beyond, a narrow, wooden staircase vanished down into darkness.
She had minutes, she knew, before the German aide would start to wonder what was taking her so long. But those were minutes she could use. Without stopping to consider what she was doing, Estelle started down the stairs. A hiding place for more stolen art, she guessed, keeping her hands along the uneven plaster of the wall as she descended. Or maybe a place to secrete the most valuable of all Paris’s treasures.
Or maybe a dungeon where they kept assumed whores too curious for their own good.
The air became cooler as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and she guessed she was somewhere at the level of the Ritz cellars. Here, the light from above was losing its battle against the shadows. The scent of newly cut lumber was as strong as it had been above, mingled with the oily, metallic aroma of machinery. Someone had recently been working down here, though she could see nothing in the space beyond. She lifted her hand over her head and was not at all surprised to find a light cord identical to the one in the closet. The Germans were nothing if not predictably efficient.
She wrapped her fingers around the cord and tugged, flooding the room with a bright glare.
The space down here was far bigger than the closet above and closer to the size of her bedroom at home. Fresh lumber had been used to construct a heavy bench that ran the length of the room. On it, at the far end, sat a machine that looked like a bulky typewriter. Next to it, close to the center of the table, was an empty space, save for an array of disconnected cords coiled and resting at the rear. Closest to Estelle, stacks of what looked like rolls of paper ribbon were lined up in neat rows, and bundles of plain paper and boxes of pens and ink were set out in ordered groupings. Beside that, small canisters of what might have been oil were gathered next to a toolbox. Four wooden chairs were tucked in under the bench, waiting, presumably, for operators.
Not a hidden room for stolen art at all, Estelle understood. This looked like a radio communications station of some sort. The familiar, twisting collection of wires that she’d first seen secured in the closet above ran down the side of the room here and seemed to end somewhere behind the bench. Estelle had never seen a teleprinter before but she guessed that the machine that looked like a typewriter was exactly that. Waiting idly beside an empty space for the sophisticated encryption device that Meyer was expecting, though there was nothing on the bench that suggested what that device might look like.
A file cabinet stood just to her right inside the door. She crept forward and pulled the handle on the top drawer. Locked. As were the next two drawers. She knew she did not have the time to try to open them.
Instead she looked hard at the room one more time, trying to memorize its contents, and then snapped off the light. Hustling quietly up the stairs in her bare feet, she heard pounding on the door above.
“Is all to your satisfaction, Mademoiselle?” the aide’s muffled, mocking voice filtered down.
She closed the hidden door, the click of the latch sounding overly loud.
“Mademoiselle?”
Estelle deliberately knocked two tins off the shelf with a deafening clatter. “This space is not to my satisfaction at all,” she snapped loudly as she yanked her dress off. She tossed it aside and retrieved the yellow confection from where it still lay on the floor. She pulled it hastily over her head. “It is filthy.”
On the other side of the door, the German laughed.
The yellow dress was a good fit, the cut beautiful, the fabrics luxurious, and the color, she knew, would flatter her complexion. She hated everything about it.
The closet door rattled. “Mademoiselle?”
Estelle retrieved her own dress and jammed her feet into her shoes. She snatched her handbag from the shelf, unlatched the door, and pulled it open.
“A horrid room,” she complained. “Not even a mirror.”
Hesse only smirked. “Whores do not need mirrors.”
“I am not a whore.” She tried to sound suitably indignant.
“You are all whores,” he spat in German. “An entire city full of entitled, weak women.”
Estelle crossed her arms. “Is Colonel Meyer done yet?” she demanded.
“Shortly, I’m sure.”
“Then you may tell him that I will wait at the bar,” Estelle said with as much haughty arrogance as she could manage. She needed to get away. Needed to get out of these rooms. Needed to gather the information that was swirling around in her head into a logical, clear list that could be passed on to London.
Provided London still existed.
“And you may tell the Reichsmarschall that his gift has left me speechless,” Estelle continued.
The aide’s expression was sour. “Of course.”
“And you can also tell him that, one day soon, I hope I can repay him for what he has done.”
In the end, it hadn’t been Colonel Meyer who had seen Estelle back to her apartment. He had sent his regrets along with a wrapped parcel from the kitchens and a driver and car to escort her home. The ride had been almost intolerable, the big, black car rolling through the carcass of a once vibrant city. Instead of neighbourhood streets filled with throngs of evening revelers, the boulevards and avenues were now silent and empty, a bleak warren devoid of life. Windows and doors that once blazed with warm, welcoming light were now sealed and shuttered, adding to the sense that the entire city had been abandoned.
Perhaps, Estelle mused as the car slipped through the suffocating darkness, this was a little like how it might feel to be buried alive.
The Citroën had barely stopped before Estelle was out, slipping into her building with both a profound sense of relief and an overwhelming feeling of exhaustion. Every moment she spent in the web of the Reich bled the soul something terrible. She reached the stairs and put a hand on the bannister, a mere suggestion in the gloom, and hurried up toward her apartment. She reached her door and unlocked it by feel, closing it silently behind her as if a wooden barrier could insulate her from the misery outside. She took a single step into her darkened apartment before she stilled, the hairs on the back of her neck rising. There was something that wasn’t quite right—
A hand covered her mouth.
“Don’t scream, Allard,” a rough voice whispered from behind her. “It’s me.”
“Jerome.” Estelle twisted her head, and the pressure against her lips fell away. At her back was a solid, warm presence, a steadying arm at her waist. For a moment, she had an insane urge to simply lean against that strength and close her eyes and pretend that none of this was happening. Which was indeed insane because no amount of pretending would end this nightmare. She pulled away from him and took a deep breath, trying to steady her pounding heart.
“Merde.” Estelle turned toward the man standing before her in the darkness, unable to make out his features. “How did you get in here?”
“You keep a spare key above the door. You’re lucky it was I who found it.” His words were an accusation, and one she deserved.
“I’ll remedy that.”
“You should.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Long enough to watch the sun go down waiting for you.”
“Are you all right? Has something happened?” Estelle asked, still whispering.
“No. I’m fine.”
She ran a hand through her hair. “You scared the life out of me.”
“I’m sorry.” He didn’t sound sorry.
“Do you know what they would do if they caught you out at this time?” The idea of Jerome shot or hanged in the streets turned Estelle’s stomach.
“I know exactly what they’d do.” His voice was hard. “I’ve seen exactly what they do. Though you seem to have found a way around such injustice.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“From the window, I saw you get out of that car a few minutes ago. I didn’t expect you to have your own personal Nazi driver.”
“I was at the Ritz,” Estelle said, feeling defensive. “And accepted the ride home that was offered because the alternative is dangerous.”
“You could have spent the night. I’m sure you would have been welcomed.”
Estelle frowned at the harshness of his tone. She moved away from him and felt her way cautiously around the writing desk. She dumped the wrapped package on its surface, left her handbag and fur wrap on a sofa, and made her way to the windows, ensuring that they were tightly covered before returning.
She switched on the small lamp that sat on the corner of the desk. “Why are you here, Jerome?” she asked abruptly.
The medic hadn’t moved but stood perfectly still. He was bareheaded and dressed simply, his thick hair longer than she remembered and falling over his forehead. He looked thinner, too, his face leaner and his cheekbones sharper. He was watching her now with those caramel-colored eyes that, tonight, seemed more critical than kind. “I came because Vivienne said she hadn’t spoken to you in a while. She was worried something was wrong.”
“I haven’t had anything of significance to report,” Estelle told him. “But tonight I—
“This apartment is something else,” he said, interrupting her.
“I beg your pardon?”
“So many losing so much, and yet here you live alone amid such opulence, untouched and unscathed.”
“I’ve lived here alone my entire life. With the exception of the rotating series of nannies, au pairs, and tutors my parents hired to oversee the raising of their daughter.” She stopped, regretting her words. She sounded like the spoiled, entitled heiress she had sworn never to be. Jerome was right. She was lucky to be surrounded by luxury. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t how I wanted that to come out.”
Jerome finally moved and made his way over to the small table at the end of one of her sofas. He picked up the copy of Signal that was lying on its surface and examined it carefully. “Your subscription seems to be up to date,” he said coldly without looking at her. He dropped the magazine and lifted the framed black-and-white photo of a German officer from the previous war. “A relative of yours?”
Estelle felt her jaw slacken. Surely, he couldn’t possibly think that she—
“Doesn’t matter,” he said before she could reply. He set it back on the table carelessly and watched it wobble and then topple facedown. He left it where it lay and wandered over to the hearth, gazing up at the painting that hung above. “Is this painting supposed to represent betrayal?”
Estelle blinked at the abrupt question before she came to stand beside him and considered the image. It depicted a beautiful maiden with flowing auburn locks, arms outstretched, her bosom bare above a tunic of cobalt blue, her expression one of sorrowful resignation. A soldier had her restrained while another stood just behind her shoulder, ready to plunge the dagger he held into her heart. On the farthest edge of the painting, an older woman reached desperately for her daughter, trying to stop the inevitable.
“Not betrayal, exactly. It’s called The Sacrifice of Polyxena by Charles Le Brun,” she told Jerome. “She’s being sacrificed to appease the ghost of Achilles. The artist, Le Brun, became the official painter for Louis XIV. Which, I think, is the only reason why my mother bought it and had it hung—”
“I understand that we all need to make our own choices when it comes to surviving this war, but I thought you were better than this, Allard,” he said quietly, interrupting her again. “I thought that, after everything, you were with us.”
“What?”
He still hadn’t looked at her. “At least promise me that you will not betray Vivienne.”
Estelle recoiled. “Jesus. You think I’m one of them.”
