The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(19)
“Since I know where you’re staying,” the Generaloberst said as his driver opened the door, “may I call on you—when I arrive with your new gloves?”
Maggie accepted the driver’s proffered hand. “I plan on going to the Café de la Paix often,” she replied with a forced smile, as she stepped out of the car. She turned back to face the Generaloberst, hearing the approaching sound of marching jackboots in the square. She didn’t want his gloves or anything else he could give her, and there was no way she ever wanted to see him again. But she couldn’t say that.
“Perhaps we’ll meet there.” Note—stay far, far away from the Café de la Paix.
“I really do thank you—from the bottom of my heart,” he said.
Do you have one? Maggie thought but didn’t say, maintaining her glassy smile instead.
“So this is not au revoir, but à bient?t, mademoiselle.”
A thousand times no. “Merci…” Maggie realized she didn’t know his name.
“Generaloberst Ruesdorf. Christian Ruesdorf. At your service.”
As a bellhop swooped to take her trunk, suitcase, and hatboxes, Maggie attempted to hold on to her smile. She gave a small wave before a barrel-chested doorman in a long coat with brass buttons doffed his hat and whisked her through the revolving door.
His low voice rumbled, “Welcome to the H?tel Ritz, mademoiselle.”
Inside was a different world—a hothouse of gilded mirrors, marble, and damask, the air perfumed by lush arrangements of orchids and roses, the ripples of a harp’s arpeggios wafting through murmured conversations in both French and German. Maggie’s first impression wasn’t of a hotel but of a stately manor house, albeit one with its numerous Swiss clocks set precisely to Berlin time. Well-groomed men sat on Martin chairs reading freshly ironed newspapers.
But this was no fairy-tale palace—the lobby was also swarming with Nazis in gray-green uniforms. Maggie took a deep breath, raised her chin, and threw back her shoulders.
As she walked the long, carpeted hallway, past walls of silk moiré, Chinese pendant lanterns, and hopelessly banal artwork, she observed a slim, middle-aged man in a well-tailored suit. Topped by a dark widow’s peak, his face was worn and haggard, but his jaw was noble. He stood listening respectfully to a high-ranking German, short and balding, his chest decorated with medals, the Iron Cross at his throat. “I wish to thank you for arranging last night’s impromptu dinner party, Monsieur Auzello,” the officer was saying. “It was superb, as always.” He thrust out his right hand.
“You’re very welcome, sir.” Maggie watched as the Frenchman ignored the offered hand, then bowed gracefully, turned, and walked away—leaving the Nazi standing there with an outstretched palm and open mouth.
Resistance is alive, even at the Ritz, she thought, and instantly felt heartened.
Another French gentleman, this one with a lush mustache and fading hairline, passed Auzello and murmured, “Germans will come and go, my friend—but fly-fishing is forever,” in Swiss-accented French. Maggie could only assume he was César Ritz, the legendary hotelier.
At the reception desk, a dapper, fussy, tortoiseshell-bespectacled gentleman looked up to greet her. “Ah, yes, mademoiselle!” he exclaimed, his eyes enormous behind thick glass, when Maggie said she had a reservation and showed her passport. “We’ve been expecting you.”
He entered her information into the ledger with a fountain pen in script, adding, “As I mentioned on the telephone, our suites have been commandeered for high-ranking German officials. And so I’m afraid your room is on the top floor, under the mansard. It was originally intended to accommodate the traveling companions of the wealthy.” As an aside, he whispered, “The German officers find the ceilings too low.”
Maggie smiled as she signed her false name. “I’m sure it’s charming.”
“And, should you need it, our bomb shelter is renowned for its fur rugs and Hermès sleeping bags. France may have fallen, but not the Ritz! We—”
“The Rue Cambon entrance didn’t have anything for me, André,” a woman’s voice interrupted. The newcomer was enveloped in a cloud of jasmine and cigarette smoke. “But I’m expecting an envelope with ballet tickets. Would you be a darling and check for me?”
She waggled bony shoulders in exasperation, glancing at Maggie. “Sometimes things for the Rue Cambon side are left here and vice versa—one really must be careful of that.”
The woman was petite, slender, and somewhere in her fifties, Maggie guessed, although her gamine appearance defied age. Her skin was deeply tanned, her hair dyed black, and her cheeks rouged. She wore a simple black suit, but ropes of pearl and gold necklaces and bracelets rattled as she moved. She regarded Maggie with a basilisk gaze. “Nice dress,” she said finally.
Maggie suddenly realized who the woman was. “Th-thank you, mademoiselle,” she managed, glad she had chosen to wear the Chanel.
Gabrielle Bonheur Chanel, known by her nickname Coco, was one of the most famous couturieres and perfumers in the world. She was renowned for taking women out of heavy, frilly hats and fussy corsets, and dressing them instead in boyish toppers and creations of tailored, streamlined jersey. She’d also designed costumes for stage and film, alongside Jean Cocteau, Sergei Diaghilev, and Pablo Picasso, in addition to creating the world’s most famous perfume, Chanel No. 5, named for her lucky number.