The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(79)

Gently, she removed the window bars and placed them on the floor. Then she climbed up on the chair. Opening the skylight, she grabbed on to the ledge and pulled herself up.

Sarah was already there, holding her sheet in her arms. The two women nodded, then edged across the length of the rooftop. It was a cool night, with the moon darting in and out of the clouds.

“Where’s Hugh?” Maggie whispered.

“Dead.”

Maggie stopped and gasped. She grabbed Sarah by the arm. “No.” But the pain in her friend’s eyes confirmed what she’d said. “Oh, Sarah!” Maggie bit back a sob.

“We can grieve later,” Sarah said, with a coldness that chilled Maggie. But she was right: they had to go.

Once they reached the house on the other side, each tore her sheet and knotted the strips together to make a rope. Story by story they climbed down, silently as cats. Maggie stepped over a bird’s nest on a rain gutter and slipped, one leg dangling over the black abyss of the garden. She bit back a cry as, slowly, she righted herself.

Together, they shimmied to the ground. Once they’d reached the grass, they put on their shoes. But just as they slipped through the back garden and out the gate onto the street, the air-raid siren sounded, a low, insistent wail.

“The RAF?” Maggie groaned, incredulous. “Now?” Already, antiaircraft fire was exploding upward as searchlights swept the skies. It wouldn’t be long until the guards checked their cells and discovered they’d escaped. “Once they figure out we’re gone, they’ll cordon off the area,” Maggie whispered to Sarah. “We need to get as far as we can, as fast as we can, even with the bombing.”

Keeping to the shadows, the two women crept down Boulevard de l’Amiral-Bruix to the park. They could see armed soldiers in helmets patrolling the gated entrance. “We’re going to have to make a dash for it,” Maggie whispered. Sarah nodded.

As they reached the entrance of the Bois de Boulogne, there was a terrifying whine overhead and, immediately, a volley of answering fire from antiaircraft guns on the ground. When the clouds parted and the moonlight spilled down, a Spitfire dropped its cargo. The wind from the dropped bomb whistling in her ears, Maggie grabbed Sarah and rolled into the park’s underbrush. The shell exploded on impact yards away, bursting into hot orange flames. The guards dove for cover as fire threatened to engulf them.

Around them, roused birds took off, calling and squawking. Tiny animals ran through the grass. Maggie’s ears were ringing. “You all right?” she asked.

“That was…close,” Sarah managed.

Praying the officers were distracted by the bomb and the fire, they made their way quickly through the shadowed park, keeping to the trees, listening for German hobnailed boots on pavement or the French Milice officers on their bicycles.

They found shelter under some overgrown shrubs, deciding to stay there until daylight. As the moon set and the sun rose, bright red in the east, Maggie whispered to Sarah, “I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. Hugh should be with us.”

Sarah flinched but did not reply.

“How are you—how’s the, I mean—”

“I lost it,” Sarah answered bleakly. Maggie bit her lip and squeezed Sarah’s hand tightly.

Maggie wanted nothing more than to console her friend, but first they needed to escape. “We’ll take the train to Chantilly—my sister is near there. She’s got an injured pilot we also need to rescue. Then, once we get the all-go signal, we’ll head to the airfield.”

“No.” Sarah shook her head. “We need to go to the Ritz.”

Maggie was ready to cut their losses and run. “We don’t have time to go, Sarah. Whatever it is, we need to leave it behind. The SS is no doubt already looking for us.”

“Hugh died for what’s in that damn bag. We’re going back to get it.”

“Delaying leaving Paris is suicide.”

“I’m not leaving without it.”

Maggie knew Sarah’s tone; there was no arguing with the dancer. And she wasn’t about to leave her friend behind. “All right then—we’ll go.” She heard a ghost of a chuckle from her friend.

“You can’t go to the Ritz looking like that, darling. Your dress is a disaster and you’ve got twigs in your hair.”





Chapter Nineteen




Sarah steered Maggie to the Rue Cambon entrance. “Ah, so this is why I didn’t find it before I was captured,” Maggie murmured. “As an ‘Irish national,’ I used the other entrance.”

“Well, how the bloody hell was I supposed to know?”

“No, no—it’s good—if I’d picked it up before, the Germans would have it now. We can only hope it’s still there. What does it look like?”

“Medium-size bag. Black. Anonymous. Heavy. They tied on a label with your name on it.”

Maggie entered the smaller lobby and approached the desk. The concierge was a man she’d never seen before, with sparse white hair combed over a sun-spotted pate. “Bonjour, monsieur. I am Mademoiselle Paige Kelly.” She smiled. “I’m a guest, and while I usually use the Place Vend?me entrance, I believe someone mistakenly left a package for me here.”

“Of course, mademoiselle, but first I need to see your identification…”