The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(16)

“He seems to be all right,” she told the Generaloberst, doing her best not to look at the pool of the murdered Frenchman’s blood staining the street not far away. “I’d recommend a doctor examine him, though—he could have a concussion.”

The man wobbled to his feet.

“You—go see a doctor as the mademoiselle suggested. I’ll speak with you about your conduct later,” the Generaloberst rebuked.

The injured man hung his head.

Then the German officer extended his hand; Maggie grasped his fingers, rising. The Generaloberst took her in, from her chic Chanel hat to the balled-up, bloody gloves she held, then clicked his heels together and bowed. “May I see your papers, mademoiselle?”

“Of course.” Maggie couldn’t quite conceal the tremor in her voice.

She opened her purse, which she’d carefully prepared for such an occasion. Inside were Métro tickets, a silver compact, a deck of worn French playing cards, and a clipping from the Occupationist newspaper, Je Suis Partout, about Elsa Schiaparelli’s new collection. There was also a large wad of francs in a wallet; if asked, she would say she was obliged to carry the sum for hotel bills.

“Here you go, sir,” she said, handing over her passport. It had been carefully and deliberately frayed, as though handled at dozens of security points, to correspond with her cover story.

He accepted it, eyebrows rising. “Irish,” he said with some surprise, then handed it back to her. “Last weekend, I saw the film Leinen aus Irland. Excellent film. About the Germans and Irish working together.”

“Yes,” Maggie managed, voice stronger, dropping the passport back in her bag, along with the ruined gloves. “I read a review.”

“Ireland is neutral in this war. We Germans like neutrals—‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend,’ as they say.”

Yes, I’ve heard that before.

The Generaloberst clicked his heels together. “You must allow me to replace your gloves. It was good of you to help a young German boy, so far away from home.” He bowed again.

The German soldiers nodded in unison, staring at her with a mixture of admiration and longing. If they weren’t so terrifying—and if a man hadn’t just been murdered—it would have been almost comical.

“I would have helped anyone who was hurt,” Maggie replied.

The Generaloberst gestured to the trunk and cases. “Are these yours, mademoiselle?”

“Yes, my vélo-taxi driver became…winded.”

“He was obviously not German, then,” one of the soldiers said loudly. “A German would never have let a beautiful woman down!”

The Generaloberst made a dismissive gesture, and the soldiers hastily dispersed, two of them helping their injured comrade. “And where were you headed, mademoiselle—before all of this happened?”

“The H?tel Ritz,” she managed, folding her hands to stop their trembling. She noted there was blood on them, in half-moons under her fingernails. She battled a wave of nausea.

He inclined his head. “Permit me to escort you. To thank you for your service to the Reich.” He snapped his fingers, and the waiting driver opened the car’s trunk and began placing her luggage inside. “To the H?tel Ritz.”

“Yes, sir!”

Maggie realized the Generaloberst’s permit me was merely a nicety. She had no choice in the matter. “Thank you,” she said as he bowed again and then opened the door for her. She did her best to hide her trembling, blood-flecked palms. A man is dead, she thought. And yet no one even notices. Or thinks it’s important. The driver started the engine, then pulled the Benz out into the street, splashing through puddles.

As they drove, Maggie distracted herself by studying the Generaloberst’s face. He was somewhere in his late thirties, she guessed. Green eyes that sometimes looked blue. Brown hair. Tanned, with the beginnings of fine lines and a few sun spots on the bridge of his nose. Maggie guessed from his complexion that he’d served somewhere in the Middle East or Mediterranean before being transferred to Paris. He caught her gaze, and she looked away, out the window at the empty shops.

“Are you checking in to the Ritz?”

Maggie lifted her chin. “Yes.”

“And how long will you be staying?”

“I—I’m not sure.”

“Well, mademoiselle,” he said, smiling for the first time. “Now I know where to find you.”

—

Reiner left the Charcots’ house not long after Maggie did. He knew only to go to Café Le Jardin, where someone would meet him to lead him to the head of his network.

At the café, Reiner took his ersatz coffee to one of the wobbly round tables near the window. He picked up an abandoned copy of Le Petit Journal, mouthpiece of Colonel de La Rocque’s Parti Social Fran?ais, advocates of “Franco-German Peace and Balance,” and opened it to a random page, pretending to read.

In his peripheral vision, he watched as a woman in heavy orthopedic shoes shuffled by. At the bar, she ordered what passed for Cinzano and carried her glass to a table near his. She was short and round, wearing a much-mended dress with what looked to be a new collar, her wispy silver hair pulled back with a lucite clip. Her face was the picture of annoyance.

Reiner put down the newspaper and strolled over. “Excuse me, madame. Did you call for assistance with your ceiling?”