The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(29)
“This is where things become truly wonderful. In addition to smuggling agents in and out of France, he picks up their mail going back to London and various letter drops around Paris and hands it over to the pilots of outgoing flights. He brings it to me first, however, so that I can read and photograph anything of importance. In addition, to arrange a landing, the Allies will need to send their agents materials in advance. The information on maps, blueprints, and drawings can’t be transmitted by radio. It’ll have to be in papers handed off by courier. These pages will ultimately provide the secrets of the invasion.”
“Tell me, who is this mystery man, this double agent?” Bretz was nearly giddy with pastis and curiosity.
“I can only tell you his code name: Gibbon. I chose it specifically—it’s French for ‘friend with a gift.’?”
Bretz grinned. “Well then, let the Radio Games commence!”
“Come by Avenue Foch with me tonight. I’ll give you a little demonstration.”
“Now?” Bretz protested, grabbing his crotch. “I’ve barely begun!”
“No, after. After, of course!”
Chapter Six
It was l’heure bleu—the blue hour, when one couldn’t tell if it was afternoon or evening—when Maggie and Chanel arrived at the Palais Garnier. Signs outside the theater proclaimed the Paris Opéra Ballet’s opening night performance of La Belle au bois dormant was sold out.
Once inside, Chanel gestured toward the monumental marble staircase. “Shall we?” Lights blazed, and golden reflections danced along the marble and gilt as if the theater were a palace in a Belle époque fairy tale. Graceful female torchères, created by Albert-Ernest Carrier-Belleuse, held candelabra aloft. Don’t their arms get tired after all this time? Maggie wondered, trying to distract herself. The ceiling above the sweeping staircase had been painted by Isidore Pils with a number of murals, including Minerva Fighting Brutality Watched by the Gods of Olympus.
Both women were exquisitely dressed: Coco, of course, in one of her own creations, a gossamer black tulle gown with a ruby Maltese cross brooch, Maggie in a clinging, pale blue silk, bias-cut gown by Vionnet with a black embroidered net overdress. She caught Chanel eyeing it with a look of both envy and approbation. Together, they made their way up the marble steps. The crowd, recognizing the iconic couturiere, parted before them.
It was clear to Maggie that Paris, like London, had turned to ballet to ameliorate the grim misery of war. From the German-inflected French she could hear, it seemed that the occupiers were great balletomanes—although whether it was because ballet had no language barrier or because it was a superb opportunity to see pretty girls in skimpy clothing, she couldn’t say.
As they reached the top step, Chanel pulled Maggie aside to one of the balconies to watch the continuing procession on the wide staircase, her eyes wandering over the crowd. Maggie could smell cigarette smoke, perfume, and hair tonic; all around them rose birdlike chatter.
“This is my stage,” the designer announced as they looked down over the people making their entrances. “The most important runway in all of France, perhaps in all the world. You know, Hitler adores the architecture of the Palais. It was the first thing he went to see when he came to visit.”
On the grand stairway, Parisian socialites flirted with handsome Luftwaffe officers. Frenchmen in evening dress—powerful industrialists, designers, and politicians—held out their arms to be clasped by women clad in silk and satin gowns covered by ostrich-feather capes. In their gloved hands, they carried beaded evening bags, hanging by fragile gold chains.
Maggie looked up and around warily. The theater’s interior was a bit ornate for her taste, but that was part of its charm. Looking down over the milling French and Germans, she realized that the Occupation was re-creating in real life the predemocratic era they’d craved. Like royalty of the good old days, these die-hard noblemen and noblewomen were enjoying outrageous privilege, while misery lay just outside the palace gates: the Jewish quarter was only minutes away.
Chanel leaned in, and Maggie realized that the designer was wearing Chanel No. 5. The same perfume Clara Hess—Maggie and Elise’s mother—wore. Stop it, Hope. No time for that. “That one’s mine”—Chanel was saying, pointing to a gown—“and that one—and that one—and that—”
Finally satisfied, Chanel led the way to their seats, the first box near the stage, a grand red-velvet jewelry box completed by a formal antechamber with wide fauteuil en Bergère chairs, coat hooks, and a large girandole mirror for last-minute primping. It’s almost as if we’re the performers, Maggie thought as she took one last look to make sure she didn’t have lipstick on her teeth before making her entrance.
As they took their seats in the box’s front row, Maggie felt a bit like the girl with the pink roses in Renoir’s La Loge. She looked around the theater, an otherworldly place of storybook glamour. The walls were gold and gleaming, and the seats upholstered in scarlet. Every inch of the high coffered ceiling was painted with cherubs and flowers or carved with scrolls and garlands of roses, illuminated by the infamous glowing crystal chandelier from Gaston Leroux’s Le Fant?me de l’opéra. There was no question that Parisian cultural life was glittering under the Occupation—obviously, the Germans had money and wanted to be entertained. “It must be wonderful to see so many women wearing your fashions,” Maggie murmured to Chanel.