The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(44)

One model appeared in an evening gown of midnight velvet and bugle beads, with a froth of red, white, and blue chiffon peeping out from beneath the skirt. It was a poem of elegance—of specifically French elegance. Resistance! Maggie thought, with a jolt of delight.

Around her, the audience responded, crying out, “La, la!” and “Voyez c’est formidable!” One fat gentleman thumped his cane against the floor, while the German officers in attendance looked on impassively.

“Ah, this one should be on the cover of Vogue,” the woman next to Maggie whispered of the dress, her pencil scratching against the paper.

“Alas, French Vogue’s folded,” replied her neighbor.

“No!”

“It’s true—the editors refused to collaborate, and then the Nazis shut them down.”

The last outfit of the collection was a wedding dress, a white confection of lace and organza. As the model passed, a German officer in the front row reached out to touch the fabric, as if the young woman were a mere walking mannequin, not a living being.

Maggie studied it, impressed by the beauty of the image and by the technique and hours of stitching it must have taken to construct. But did she want it? Could she see herself, someday, wearing a bridal gown, walking down an aisle—or going to a courthouse in a simple suit? Marriage was, after all, most young women’s life goal. And yet, the image left Maggie cold. That’s because you need to be in love first, dummy.

When the parade was over, Maggie wrote a few scribbles in her notebook, for appearances’ sake, then, out of habit, stuck the pencil through her bun.

The shopgirl reappeared. “May we help you with anything, mademoiselle? Did you see anything you like?”

“The wedding dress was lovely,” Maggie replied, voice wistful. Don’t be a fool, Hope. “But, alas, not for me,” she added as she made her way out. Maybe someday…She tried to picture who might be waiting for her at the end of the aisle. Durgin? John? Someone she had yet to meet?

First, though, I need to find Elise. And she shook her head, as if to clear it of such unprofessional longings.

And the best place to start is the Hess family’s apartment.

—

Sarah had left the Hotel Crillon the night before with a feeling of dread and dismay. The evening had been a disaster.

As soon as the driver dropped her off at the flat she shared with Hugh near the Palais Garnier, she decided she was too easy a target there. She made her way instead to the Opéra House. In the pale moonlight and blue-painted streetlights of the blackout, she let herself in by the stage door. She had the heavy black bag slung over one shoulder.

In the women’s locker room, she had changed quickly out of her evening clothes and back into her dress of the day before, along with raincoat and scarf, rubbing at the red welts the bag had left on her shoulder. She gave the middle finger to the portrait of Pétain, then lay down on one of the low benches. But she couldn’t sleep. Horrific images of Hugh with Fortner haunted her.

In the morning, before any of the staff or dancers arrived, she’d made her way swiftly to the H?tel Ritz. She avoided the main, German-guarded Place Vend?me entrance, arriving instead via the French-only Rue Cambon doors.

“I’d like to speak to Mademoiselle Paige Claire Kelly,” she told the tiny elderly man at the desk. He was nearly hidden behind an urn of orchids. “My name is Madame Sabine Severin.”

“Of course, madame.” The little man picked up the telephone receiver and dialed the room; after the seventh ring, he hung up and shook his head. “I’m afraid Mademoiselle Kelly is not here now.”

“Merci.” Sarah gritted her teeth. “Do you happen to know when Mademoiselle will return?”

The clerk shook his head, looking truly regretful. “No, I’m sorry, madame.”

“May I leave this for her?” The dancer slipped the weighty bag from her shoulder, placing it on the marble countertop while keeping one hand on it possessively.

“Of course, madame.” He wrote out a label—Pour Mademoiselle P. Kelly—then affixed it with a ribbon. “Would you like to leave a note to go with it?”

“No,” Sarah replied. “No, thank you—she’ll know what it is.”

“Should I add your name to the label, madame? So she’ll know who it’s from?”

Sarah didn’t want to leave anything incriminating with the bag. It was far too dangerous. “No, thank you. She’ll know.” She swayed, feeling a wave of nausea pass over her.

“Is something wrong, madame? You look distressed.”

“I’m fine.” Sarah straightened her spine, pressed her shoulders down, and lifted her chin, as if onstage. “Please make sure she receives it.”

“Yes, madame—I’ll keep an eye out for Mademoiselle Kelly.” The man lifted the bag. “It’s heavy,” he remarked, smiling. “What do you have in there? Diamond tiaras? Ruby necklaces? Gold bars, perhaps?”

“Something like that.”

—

High on an exposed hilltop stood the ancient stone convent of the Filles de la Charité, an order of nuns devoted to caring for the mentally retarded, epileptic, and incurably ill. Besides the sixteen sisters, there were forty female patients in an adjoining infirmary.

The convent was outside Paris; in fact, the nearest farm was a half-hour walk, the village and the train station another hour’s walk on top of that. It seemed a world away from the Occupation.