The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(34)

—

On the other side of the room, Hugh looked to Sarah. “Are you all right?” Then, “It’s here,” he whispered in her ear as he reached for the bag. “We still have it.”

She didn’t respond. Her face was white.

“Something to drink, darling?” he asked, putting his arm around her. “Something to eat?”

“No.” She shivered. “I’m fine, Hubert. Just need to splash some cold water on my face. Be back in a moment.”

—

From across the room, a man cast his eyes on Maggie and approached. “Mademoiselle Kelly.” The German officer placed one hand to his heart as if wounded. “You told me you frequented Café de la Paix—not Maxim’s. You aren’t trying to avoid me, are you?”

Maggie’s heart sank. It was the officer who’d given her and her luggage a ride to the Ritz after the shooting, now out of uniform and in black tie.

“Heavens, no!” Maggie exclaimed while Chanel looked on, one painted eyebrow quirked with curiosity. “When Mademoiselle Coco Chanel invites you somewhere, you go, of course. Would you like to sit with us, er…” She couldn’t remember his name.

“Generaloberst Ruesdorf. Christian Ruesdorf.” He smiled. “But, please—call me Christian.”

Chanel gave Maggie a side glance as he pulled out a chair. “You didn’t tell me you had friends in high places, Mademoiselle Kelly.”

The Generaloberst laughed. “I was privileged to give our Irish friend a lift to the Ritz after her vélo-taxi driver had given up in defeat, done in by her heavy Vuitton trunk.”

“The French are talented, especially with food and ballet, but lazy bastards in everything else,” Spatz remarked. “A German would never have given up!”

“And I was most grateful for your kind assistance,” Maggie lied, raising the corners of her lips in what she hoped looked like a smile.

“Mademoiselle and I spoke about German films with Irish themes—we have both seen Linen from Ireland.”

“I heard it was quite witty,” interjected Chanel. “And I do love linen.”

“Herr Goebbels has used Ireland as a setting for a number of his films. There’s also My Life for Ireland and The Fox of Glenarvon. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend, after all,’?” Ruesdorf repeated, alluding to their previous conversation, smiling at Maggie. She felt ill.

“How do you know so much about film, Generaloberst?” Chanel took a delicate sip of her wine.

“I’ve worked with Herr Goebbels,” he replied, accepting a glass the waiter proffered. “He will be coming to Paris soon to inspect the cinemas, and I hope to arrange a special screening for him.” He smiled. “Of course, you all must come, as my guests.”

“Really?” Maggie’s voice quavered. She had met Goebbels while undercover in Berlin, when she had also met Goering. If they met again, he would recognize her instantly.

The Generaloberst grinned, mistaking the tremor in her voice for excitement. “I must insist.”

From the corner of her eye, Maggie saw Sarah rise and move toward the ladies’ room. “Excuse me,” she said to her companions.

—

Sarah was washing her hands in front of a carved trumeau mirror, her bloodless face lit by gaudy sconces dripping with crystal daggers and crowns. Maggie wished she could comfort her friend but instead disciplined herself to say, “Ah, it’s Madame Severin, yes?” She added a reassuring smile.

Sarah nodded, giving Maggie a wary glance.

“You were wonderful in tonight’s performance.”

They were both keenly aware of the only other person in the room: the bathroom attendant, a stout woman with thinning gray hair and the faint shadow of a mustache. She stood in front of a table arrayed with a silver tray of combs and brushes, flagons of Mitsouko, Je Reviens, and Shalimar, and a bowl of violet breath mints.

“Thank you,” Sarah replied to Maggie as the woman silently handed her a hand towel. “And—you are?”

Good, we’re both playing the same game, Maggie thought. “Paige Kelly. Here in Paris from Lisbon, to shop for my trousseau.” She, too, began to wash her hands.

“All best wishes for your upcoming nuptials, Mademoiselle Kelly,” Sarah said in a measured voice, throwing the used towel in a basket. “Are you enjoying your time in Paris?”

“Well, this evening was quite…dramatic. And I’m speaking of the events just now, not those onstage.”

Sarah nodded, fishing out a coin and putting it on the attendant’s silver plate. “Yes.” She turned to Maggie, adding, “I’m so grateful not to be alone. When you’re married, you’ll know what I mean.”

“I am having a wonderful time at the Ritz, though,” Maggie said pointedly.

Sarah’s gaze flickered in acknowledgment. “Ah yes, the Ritz bar is wonderful. I’d always hoped to see Marlene Dietrich and Ernest Hemingway there—perhaps after the war.”

Maggie dried her hands on the proffered towel and she, too, placed a coin on the woman’s plate. The ladies’ lounge area was papered in a red Art Nouveau pattern and a trompe-l’oeil mural. A velvet recamier and a pair of Louis Quinze silk-covered fauteuil chairs ringed a low marble table. Sarah stumbled, then half-fell, half-sat on the sofa. Maggie’s breath caught in her throat; she ran to her friend. But Sarah had righted herself. Sitting up, she raised both palms to her face.