The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(33)

As Hugh and Sarah mingled with a crowd of musicians and dancers, people stopped to stare at the beautiful couple. Hugh carried the black bag with Calvert’s papers and sand samples over one shoulder. “The drop-off’s here?” Sarah said softly in his ear as they smiled and nodded to other members of the company.

“I was told I’m looking for a man in a blue suit with a pink carnation in his lapel,” Hugh whispered back. “We’re going to sit with him, have a short conversation. Then he’ll take the bag when he leaves.”

Sarah spotted the man with the pink carnation. “There,” she said, pointing. He was small but wiry, with piercing eyes and an upturned nose. She pulled Hugh to the man’s table.

“Bonsoir, monsieur,” Hugh said to the man, in the prearranged signal. “Are you Raimond, the nephew of Lancelin Martin?”

When the man with the flower replied, “Lancelin Martin is my second cousin,” Hugh knew he was the contact. He and Sarah sat at his banquette. Hugh slid the bag under the table.

The man gave an imperceptible nod, his eyes on the other diners. “Would you like some wine?” was all he said.

—

Maggie approached the conductor and his entourage, all talking loudly with animated hands. She caught his eye with what she hoped was a suitably ingratiating smile. “Maestro Boulez—” she began, and he glanced up at her. He was short, barely five feet tall, and plump, with white hair. On his face was a light but detectable layer of makeup.

“What a wonderful performance,” she said, bending slightly. “I very much appreciated your tempi.”

“Why, thank you, mademoiselle. You must be a music lover, to notice such things.”

“I am,” she assured him. “I play the viola—quite badly, I’m sorry to say. But I’m a fan of conductors—a huge admirer of Miles Hess.”

“Ah, Hess!” Boulez exclaimed. “One of the greats. Back in Berlin now, I hear.”

“I’m friends with his daughter Elise Hess,” Maggie went on lightly, “and I heard she might be in Paris. Have you heard any mention of her being in town?”

“Afraid not, mademoiselle.”

But Maggie would not be dissuaded. “Do you happen to know where the Hess family stays when they’re here?”

“I don’t.” He looked to the other musicians around his table. “Anyone?”

“I do.” The speaker was a handsome man with a beak-like nose, smoking a Galois. Maggie recognized him as the first violinist. “Clara, that is, Frau Hess, once invited me to a party—”

One of the other men gave him a light punch on the arm. “A ‘party,’ now, was it?”

“It was,” the violinist protested, turning red. “I remember it perfectly. Had a great view.”

“Do you—do you happen to remember the address?” Maggie pressed.

He shook his head. “I do remember Clara, er, Frau Hess, mentioning that they lived in Germaine Lubin’s building.”

Bingo! Maggie thought.

Without warning, the double doors of the entrance banged open. Half a dozen German soldiers carrying machine guns walked in briskly, led by an SS captain in uniform and black leather boots. The pianist stopped midmeasure. All conversation and the scrape of silverware and clink of glasses ceased.

Hands clasped behind his back, the captain strode through the restaurant. The Germans looked on impassively, as if bored. The French, with the exception of Chanel, kept their heads down, studying their plates. The designer lit a gold-tipped cigarette, sat back, and settled in to observe.

Maggie’s heart caught in her throat when, on the other side of the restaurant, the captain walked up to Hugh and Sarah’s table. But he spoke only to the man with the pink carnation. “Monsieur, you’re to come with us immediately.”

The man raised his hands. “But, sir, I’ve done nothing!”

The SS captain nodded. Two soldiers grabbed the man with the pink carnation by the shoulders. When he didn’t get up, they dragged him. “Fucking Boche!” he screamed. One officer punched him savagely in the stomach.

As swiftly as they came, the SS officers were gone, taking the man with the pink carnation with them. The restaurant was left in silence. Leaning back with her cigarette between her teeth, Chanel clapped her hands, as if she had just witnessed a particularly delightful piece of theater.

“A round of Champagne for everyone!” Dincklage called. Slowly, people returned to their conversations and the piano started up again. Maggie, hands shaking, made her way back to Chanel’s table.

“You look pale,” the older woman observed, blowing smoke through her nostrils.

“I’m not used to this sort of thing.”

“What about those IRA bombs?” Chanel parried.

“You know I met Mademoiselle Chanel through Diaghilev,” Lifar interposed, before Maggie could reply. “I remember how he told Mademoiselle, ‘I’ve been to see a princess and she gave me seventy-five thousand francs.’ And then our Coco said, ‘Well, she’s royalty and I’m only a seamstress. Here’s two hundred thousand.’?”

Those around the table laughed, raising their glasses, eager to forget what they had just witnessed. Chanel nodded her head in acknowledgment, her eyes bright. “I prefer to give rather than lend money,” she declared, picking up her own glass. “In the end, it costs the same.”