The Librarian Spy(7)

He spun around, his jaw locked. “You. Stop.” A white-haired man at his right did as he was bade.

“Papers,” the officer ordered.

The man fished in his jacket pocket, his movements hindered by the arthritic curl of his fingers as he attempted to withdraw his identity card.

Hélène could be next. If she were caught without her papers, she would have to admit they were lost. She turned the next corner to avoid the irate officer lest she be looked to next. Her heart thudded in her chest with such rapidity that she found breathing suddenly difficult. But she forced herself to keep walking, her steps measured to match those around her.

“Halt.” The voice rang out from behind her.

She continued at her smooth stride.

“Madam,” the guard said in a harsh voice. “Halt.”

The area was unfortunately absent of women, leaving her his only victim. Three men on the other side of the street looked at her from where they stood, mute with the relief not to be the Nazi’s target. In another time, they would have been at her aid, armed with French gallantry and good intentions.

Hélène turned to face the officer. He thrust his hand out, palm up. “Papers.”

She tried to swallow but found her throat too dry. Her handbag felt unnaturally light where it hung on her shoulder, the tangible weight of the papers she’d given away poignantly absent.

“Of course.” She kept her reply casual as she rummaged through her purse. Sweat prickled at her palms despite the damp, cold day.

The officer flexed his hand. “Now.”

“Pardon.” She continued to rifle through nonexistent items at the bottom of her empty handbag. “I cannot seem to find them.”

Many of the Germans who paraded through Lyon did not speak much French. She hoped this was the case now. An inability to communicate might be her saving grace.

The gray of the officer’s eyes was like cold metal. “You do not have them?” he asked in perfect French.

Her stomach dropped. “I thought I did.” She lifted her shoulders in a delicate shrug and tried a pretty smile.

His expression did not soften. “You do not have your papers?”

Rather than acknowledge she did not, she turned her attention to her handbag once more and began to rummage. His hand shot out and caught her arm in a steely grip that pinched her skin.

She cried out in surprise. Her gaze flicked to the three men on the other side of the street in time to see them scuttle away, leaving no witnesses.

Cowards.

“If you do not have your papers, you are under arrest,” the German said in his immaculate French.

“Elaine,” a voice called out.

Hélène and the officer both looked to the breathless man jogging toward them, holding an identity card aloft.

Etienne.

“Elaine,” he chided. “You have left this at home yet again.” To the Nazi, he gave an easy, apologetic smile. “Women are more concerned about how they look when they leave the house than they are about having all their necessary papers.”

The Nazi officer gave him an irritated glower and held out his free hand for the papers Etienne extended toward him.

Hélène inwardly cringed, waiting to see what the officer would do to her when he realized it was not her identity card he had been given. The Nazi flicked the cover open one-handed, revealing an identity card for a woman named Elaine Rousseau whose picture was indeed Hélène.

She fought to keep her face impassive.

How did Etienne have such a thing in his possession?

All at once, the officer released her, folded the identity card closed with an audible snap and thrust it back toward Etienne. “Look after your errant wife better. She was almost arrested for her folly.”

“Oui, monsieur.” Etienne accepted the papers with a nod and put his arm around Hélène. She slowly released the breath she had been holding, grateful for Etienne’s strength. His hold steadied her as her knees seemed to wobble with how close she had come to being caught, to them realizing her papers were gone. To them looking for Claudine.

The officer turned on his heel and marched back around the corner the way he had come, shouting orders at someone to tear the remainder of the Resistance tracts from the wall.

Etienne spat on the ground where the Nazi had stood and turned to Hélène. “Did he hurt you?”

The place on her arm still burned from where the man had mercilessly restrained her, but she had not been arrested. Claudine would not be found out. That was all that mattered. Hélène shook her head. “I’m fine.”

“Where are your papers?” Etienne asked.

“Where did you get that?” She indicated the small book between his fingers.

“We cannot talk here.” He led her up to his fifth-floor apartment, one smaller than her own.

It was not customary for a bachelor to entertain and so she had not been inside his home before. She stood awkwardly now in the middle of the common living space as she took in the sparsely furnished room. The open area housed not only a tired green couch that sagged at its center, but also a circular kitchen table beside a narrow oven. Another door was visible to the right, which was most likely his bedchamber. No curtains hung from the windows, and no art lined the stained walls. The shutters were mostly closed, casting the room in shadows.