The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(80)

“I don’t have it,” Maggie said, her heart beating faster. “I mean, I don’t have it with me. I, er—” She leaned in. “In truth, I spent the evening with a…friend,” she confided. Continuing the ruse, she looked down at herself, then back up at the concierge. “Which perhaps explains my dishabille. In my hurry to get back, I seem to have left my handbag behind.” She attempted a Gallic shrug. “L’amour,” she added by way of explanation.

The man was still hesitating when Maggie caught a whiff of jasmine and rose; Coco Chanel entered the lobby in a cloud of No. 5, en route to her Rue Cambon shop; her black silk scarf covered in white camellia flowers and green leaves. She took in Maggie and her wrinkled dress. “What are you doing, Mademoiselle Kelly, using this entrance and not the Place Vend?me side?” she demanded. “Slumming with the locals?”

“I—I’m picking up a package. And I seem to have left my passport with a…‘friend’ last night.”

“Hmmm…” said the couturiere, raising a penciled eyebrow. She turned to the concierge. “I vouch for this woman. She’s an Irish citizen named Paige Kelly. She has—” Chanel paused. “High-ranking Nazi friends.”

The concierge ducked his head. “Of course, Mademoiselle Chanel, Mademoiselle Kelly.” He bent under the counter. “I’m so sorry. I don’t see anything for you, mademoiselle.”

“It was left several days ago,” Maggie insisted. “It’s a bag, black. It should have a tag with my name on it.” She gave him her most persuasive smile. “Perhaps you could check again?” She tilted her head and widened her eyes. “S’il vous pla?t?”

The man sighed but deigned to look again. “Oh, this old thing?” he said. Maggie’s heart lifted. Then, reading the label, “I guess this is for you, mademoiselle. A thousand apologies.” He passed it over. Chanel watched the exchange without a word, an intrigued expression on her face.

Maggie took the dance bag and slung it over her shoulder. “Thank you,” she told the concierge, then nodded in gratitude to Chanel. Maggie began walking out to the narrow Rue Cambon; the couturiere joined her. Across the street and to the left, Maggie could see Chanel’s boutique, with its white awnings and distinctive bold black lettering.

“I’m going this way,” Chanel said, indicating her shop.

“And I, the other.”

As they parted, Chanel leaned in to kiss both of Maggie’s cheeks. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, Mademoiselle Kelly—or whatever your name really is—” she murmured, taking the jasmine-scented scarf from around her neck and wrapping it around Maggie’s. “But it’s been droll to watch.” She gave a world-weary smile. “And war is so rarely amusing.” She pulled away and turned to go. She called over her shoulder, “Bonne chance!”

—

Sarah was waiting at the café across the street. “Here—” Maggie handed her the bag. “You do the honors.”

“Happy to.” Sarah’s smile was grim.

Maggie took in Sarah’s bruised face. “Wait—” She draped the scarf Chanel had given her over her friend’s head and tied it under her chin, in an effort to camouflage the damage. Then, “After all this fuss, do you know what it is?”

“No. And I have no desire to. Did you look?”

“No. If we get recaptured, the less we know the better.”

“Hugh looked,” Sarah whispered. “That’s why I think he let them kill him—rather than tell—” Her eyes filled with tears.

Maggie put her arm around her friend’s thin shoulders. “Then we must get it back safely. For Hugh.” She squeezed. “Let’s go—the nearest Métro is—”

“Why, Mademoiselle Kelly!”

Maggie braced herself, then turned. It was Christian Ruesdorf, eyeing them both curiously. She forced the corners of her mouth up into a smile. “Why, Generaloberst, how lovely to see you.”

He crossed the café toward them, smiling broadly. Then, to Maggie’s astonishment, he bent and whispered in her ear, still smiling, “They’re searching everywhere for you. And for your friend, too.” Maggie stared up at him, wondering if he was part of a trap, desperately trying to think of a lie to tell.

“The German man you helped that day—the drunken fool sightseeing—was my younger brother,” Ruesdorf continued. “I didn’t mention it at the time, because I didn’t want to seem as if I were giving him preferential treatment,” he said, his blue-green eyes sincere, his smile serene, as if they were discussing favorite teas. “I would like to repay you in kind. What do you need?”

Maggie had no choice but to trust him. “Your car,” she replied urgently. “We need your car.”

“I have a little sports coupe today. Pale gray. It’s parked just down the block.” He reached into his pocket and drew out the keys, pressing them into her hand. “Be careful taking turns at high speeds. I just want you to know”—Ruesdorf leaned closer—“I like to read. I have a garden. I used to have Jewish friends. I never wanted to be a Nazi.”

“Thank you,” Maggie stammered, stunned by this sudden turn of events.