The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(52)
Von Waltz picked up the telephone’s receiver and waved Fischer away. “Back to the radio for you.”
“Back to the radio!” Ludwig called after the older man. “Have you shot!”
—
Inside Our Lady of Sorrows Church, a few blocks from the Hess apartment, the light seeped around the edges of the taped and boarded windows and the damp air smelled of incense and candle wax. Maggie passed the cistern where worshippers dipped fingers into holy water to make the sign of the cross before walking past banks of candles flickering their hopes and prayers. Up in the balcony, an anonymous organist practiced; a Franck fugue echoed through the shadows.
A graceful, white-haired woman with impeccable posture was arranging blossoms and swags of greenery in a brass urn in front of the altar, where an ormolu-framed oil painting presided: Christ crowned by thorns, his bloody palms nailed to the cross.
Off-duty Germans with cameras looped around their necks walked along the aisles, gasping up at the great vaulted ceiling and Gothic windows. Some of the sightseers knelt in pews, eyes closed in prayer, which surprised Maggie—or at least made her wonder what they were praying for, exactly.
Maggie sat in a pew but didn’t pray. She was a mathematician and believed in science. She would find Elise—or not—but she was certain that kneeling and mumbling ancient words wasn’t going to help. She did like the contemplative feel of churches, though. They were good places to think and reflect, oases of comfort in an often disappointing world. She smiled, remembering Mr. Churchill’s take on religion and his place in the Church of England: “I am not a pillar of the church, but a flying buttress.”
After summoning her resolve, she made her way down the checkerboard marble aisle to the woman with the flowers. “Good day, madame—do you know where I can find the priest?” Maggie asked, noting the red roses, white lilies, and blue delphinium. The Tricolor—another act of resistance?
“Father Janvier is hearing confession now,” the woman answered, cutting thorns off of a long-stemmed crimson rose before placing it in the large urn.
“Ah,” Maggie replied. She had only a dim understanding of the Sacrament of Penance and other traditions of the Catholic Church. “Thank you, madame.”
She walked to the elaborately carved confessional and stood waiting, listening. There was only silence. Surreptitiously, she checked under the curtain: no feet. The confessional was empty. She pushed aside the purple velvet curtain to enter the small booth.
Across from her was a metallic grille; behind it, she could make out a man dressed in black with a white collar—the priest. “Bonjour, Father Janvier.”
“This is not how we begin confession, my child,” he scolded gently. “Please kneel.”
She did. “I’m sorry, Father, but I’m not looking for forgiveness today.” Or, at least, not from the Church.
“Actually, I’m searching for a woman—who may have recently visited your parish. Her name is Elise Hess—she’s young, twenty-five, with short blond hair. Probably quite thin, as she came to Paris after an incarceration in Ravensbrück. She was held as a political prisoner, for helping a priest named Father Licht from St. Hedwig’s in Berlin.” She slipped her hand into her purse and pulled out the framed photograph. “Have you seen her?”
The priest pushed aside the grille so he could see Maggie clearly, and then, after a moment, took the photograph. “This is most unusual, young woman!” he exclaimed. He was sharp-featured, as if he had fasted for too long.
“I know, Father. And I wouldn’t have come barging in on you like this, except I’m extremely worried about her. Her family’s apartment is nearby and she’s a devout Catholic. I’m hoping she might have come to Mass here, and that perhaps you may have seen her?”
He took reading glasses from the pocket of his cassock and studied the photograph. “What is your concern with this woman?”
“She’s my sister.” Half sister. Still…
“Well,” he said, thawing slightly, “I don’t know of this young woman, this Elise Hess, but I’ve only recently come to this church from Marseilles. Perhaps you could return and speak with one of the other priests, someone who’s been here longer? He might know.”
Maggie swallowed her disappointment as she took the picture back. “Thank you,” she said. Yet another dumb plan come to nothing, Hope…
But she had to try once more. “Elise wanted to be a nun at one point in her life—may still want to be one. Are there any convents associated with this church?”
“There is an order affiliated with our parish—the Convent of Labarde.”
“Is it nearby?” she asked, her heart lifting.
“Not too far. The sisters run a hospital for the insane in the countryside near Chantilly, about fifty kilometers away. You can get there by train.”
“Father, thank you. Thank you so much. This means— Well, it means more than you know.”
“Good luck, mademoiselle—your sister is lucky to have you looking out for her.”
Maggie’s lips twisted into a wry smile. “I just hope she feels the same way.”
He inclined his head. “I will pray for you both.”
Chapter Eleven