The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(71)
He took a sharp breath. “No, mademoiselle, no need for shame. Just tell the truth.”
“The truth is—” Maggie’s fingers played with the folds of her skirt. “I’d heard there was someone at Bar Lorraine, someone named Jeanne-Marie, a woman who has access to—” Von Waltz had to lean forward to hear Maggie’s whisper. “—what some call…‘Paris snow.’?”
“Cocaine?” he asked in genuine amazement. “Cocaine?” Obviously, this was anything but the answer he was expecting. “And who the devil told you that?”
Maggie remembered what Chanel had told her about concierges: they could procure anything, truly anything, for their guests. “Someone at the Ritz—I don’t remember who,” she evaded, fluttering her hands. “One of the staff. And that’s all I was doing at the café this evening, I swear to you!”
“I don’t believe you.”
Maggie straightened. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said firmly, “but I refuse to answer any more questions at all until I have the advice of a lawyer, one appointed by the Irish Consulate, of course.”
“Alas, mademoiselle, your request for a lawyer cannot be granted. Even if the Irish Consulate should send a lawyer here, he could not be admitted to this building. This is the headquarters of the German Secret Police. No lawyers are permitted to interfere with our investigations.”
Von Waltz changed tactics, interrogating Maggie—Paige—on her private life. Never taking his eyes off her for an instant, he asked question after question on minute details of her existence. Maggie was thankful she’d known Paige for so long, and had lived in close quarters with her. She answered easily, even managing to sound bored. Just the way the real Paige would deal with an inept waiter.
Over two hours had passed by the time von Waltz rose from his chair. His friendly smile had vanished. He looked like a schoolmaster, but a bad-tempered one, furious his pupil had outsmarted him.
Despite her exhaustion, Maggie felt a small glow of pride. Still, she was quick to temper it. Be careful. Don’t let your guard down. He’s not done yet.
A rap sounded on the door. “Come in!” von Waltz snarled.
The Gestapo agent with the white scar who had brought Maggie in swung open the double doors and stood in the frame. “Obersturmbannführer, is our prisoner cooperating?” he asked in German. “Has she talked?”
Von Waltz answered, also in German. “Yes, she talked. I’m quite satisfied with the results. The interesting part wasn’t what she said, but what she attempted to conceal.”
Maggie’s emotions churned. They’re speaking in German because they think I don’t understand it. What did I say? Did I inadvertently let some detail slip? Instead of my outsmarting him, has he outsmarted me? Maggie went over every word she’d uttered.
Of course, they might be saying I attempted to conceal something to try to confuse me, as part of their game. Her head hurt. The shock of her capture was beginning to wear off, and she was starting to feel real fear.
There was a scuffling sound in the hallway. Sarah was being marched through by a pair of uniformed guards, her hair matted and face bruised.
Maggie kept her face still, as did Sarah, but there must have been some flicker of recognition. Von Waltz pounced on it. “You know each other!” he exalted. “You are working together!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Maggie replied with hauteur. “I’ve never seen this woman in my life—”
“At Maxim’s!” Sarah interrupted, her eyes on Maggie’s. “We met at Maxim’s! You were kind enough to help me, in the ladies’ room, when I was feeling unwell. Remember?”
“Of course!” Maggie exclaimed, as if just remembering. “The ballet dancer—Madame…Severin, wasn’t it? I’m sorry—you do look a bit…different.” She looked to von Waltz. “A woman? Tortured?” She rose from the chair and clicked her tongue. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“You said if Hugh cooperated, you wouldn’t hurt me, you wouldn’t hurt either of us,” Sarah said—letting Maggie know Hugh had been captured as well. “Lies, all lies!”
Von Waltz looked to Maggie. “Hugh Thompson—do you know him, too?”
“No.” Maggie lied without hesitation. “Never heard of him.”
Von Waltz examined his buffed nails. The cuticle of his index finger had torn, and he began to pick at it. “Have you ever noticed, Mademoiselle Kelly, that when a string of pearls breaks and one of them drops off, the rest invariably follow, one after the other? It seems we have broken a string.”
He waved his hand. “Take them both up to the fifth floor!” he ordered the guards, then turned back to the women. “Sleep well, ladies. We’ll speak further tomorrow.”
—
Maggie and Sarah climbed the winding stairway; on every landing was an armed sentry. They were taken to the former servants’ quarters, which had been converted into small prison cells. The hallway walls were covered with yellow, faded wallpaper of swallows and satin ribbons.
Each of the women was thrust unceremoniously into a narrow, low room, with no furniture except an iron cot with a dirty mattress and a blanket, lit by a bare bulb hanging from a mold-stained ceiling. As the door of her prison room slammed shut, Maggie ran to the Judas grille cut into the door. She couldn’t see out. She twisted the lock, then pounded on the door until her fists were raw.