The Glamourist (The Vine Witch #2)(32)
The encounter with the young man, however minor, had left her jittery and unsettled so that she kept looking over her shoulder past the heads of the street sweepers and barrow men, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Even more desperate for the distraction of a smoke, she scanned the sidewalk for the news kiosk. Blessedly it was still in the same spot near the square, still run by the same old man who could barely straighten his back as he turned the pages of a newspaper. She felt the jingle of the only two coins she possessed and reconsidered spending them on something that was so easy to take. She ought not to test her luck—she really did want to avoid the lockup again—but she knew she could swipe a tin of ciggies easy enough. No harm done. And no old man to recognize her as she handed over her coins.
Mind made up, she leaned against the wall beside the kiosk to wait for the right distraction to come along. While she waited, the young man’s reaction to her scar continued to bother her. Not that he’d been all that handsome. Well, he was—in an openhearted, wide-eyed, bright-smile sort of way—but those types were always more trouble than they were worth. And if she was going to go straight at the end of all this, she had to start thinking differently.
A raindrop struck her on the nose. At last the distraction she needed. The clouds had converged to form a thunderclap signaling an impending storm. The newspapers on top of the stacks began to ripple in the moistening air. The owner would have no choice but to come collect the stacks before they were ruined. Once he did, she could swipe the tin of ciggies behind the counter quick enough. She inched closer to the window to wait for her chance, keeping her eyes down as if scanning a headline in Le Journal.
As the newsprint came into focus, she did more than glance. On the front page, in bold letters, read the headline: Fugitive Murderess Still on the Run.
The paper seller stepped out of his kiosk to move the stacks in from the rain as predicted. Instead of grabbing the cigarettes from behind the counter, Yvette swiped the top copy of the newspaper and stuffed it under her wrap the moment he turned his back, then ran for the nearest doorway around the corner. Tucked safely away in the alcove, she opened the newspaper. Not only was there an article asking for the public’s help in finding her, but the booking photo they’d taken at the prison was right there on the front page, the caption below noting her scar as the one identifying detail the public should watch out for.
Yvette plucked the paintbrush loose, letting her hair fall around her face. She pulled a few strands forward over her cheek, more self-conscious than ever. Why was she still front-page news? Twisting a strand of damp hair between her fingers, she read on, but there was no mention of Sidra, only her. “Merde, merde, merde!”
“That’s a spot of bad luck, isn’t it?”
Yvette snapped the newspaper shut and found the young man in the corduroy jacket standing in front of her. Blocking her escape, really. The biting scent of turpentine rose off his clothing.
“Are you often in the habit of accosting single women in the street and jabbering nonsense, monsieur?” she asked without looking at him, adopting an air of confidence that defied her racing heart.
“Nonsense?” The young man stuffed the leather folder under his jacket and pointed to the newspaper. “Knew it was you the minute I saw you.” He took in her entire appearance, head to toe, in one quick glance. “Circled around to make sure and saw you casing that kiosk back there.”
Damn it! Why had she left the room? She had the paintbrush, but stabbing someone with it would make a hell of a mess on a public street. She clutched the weapon in her fingers anyway. “What do you want? Money? I haven’t got any.”
The young man actually looked hurt. “I don’t want . . .” He took a step back and removed his cap. “Don’t you recognize me, Yvie?”
Yvie?
“It’s me, Henri.”
Underneath the foppish hair she slowly recognized the once familiar boyish face. Only now it was covered in stubble and a smudge of blue paint on the tip of his chin.
“Henri Perez?”
He’d filled out in some impressive places since their days of snatching bread and oranges from the food carts in rue Colline. He and his two brothers had lived in the two-story apartment on the street behind Tante’s place. The trio had grown up feral as cats, left on their own to discover the rancid underbelly of the city and all its vulgar beauty. They’d each ended up working the light-finger trade by the time they were ten years old, stealing a watch or a few loose coins to keep enough food in their stomachs so that they didn’t wash down the sewer with the rest of the rats and ragamuffins.
“One and only.” He grinned, and she thought of all the starry nights they’d run through the streets to hide behind rain barrels and spy on the men in top hats who’d journeyed up the hill to watch the cabaret dancers kick their skirts up over their heads, later seeking out courtesans once the lamplights dimmed.
He was all right, this one. At least he had been. Must be seven years since she last saw him, and that was a long time to measure whether someone was still a friend. People changed. “So, what now, Henri?”
Before he could reply, a middle-aged man in a black derby exited the building through the alcove. He “hmphed” disapprovingly at them, barging forward until they were forced to step into the street. Once he’d passed, they both noticed the police officer outfitted in a double-breasted uniform and flat-topped kepi speaking with the newspaper seller. He smoothed his bushy mustache with his fingers as the owner pointed first one way and then another.