“You may be sure I will, if I should hear such a thing again.”
“There will always be those who are disgruntled, or jealous.” His tone conceded that not everyone felt as he did. “But the vast majority of Germans revere Herr Hitler, I assure you. Those of us in the SS would lay down our lives for him to a man.”
The fanatical intensity with which he said that made her heart beat faster. This was a man who would not only die for what he believed in but kill for it, she had no doubt.
If he were to suspect...
The thought brought with it an inward shudder.
“Tell me more about the work you do.” She did not bat her eyes at him. Well, maybe she did, a little. Damn Max for making her self-conscious about it. But she had to use what worked, and encouraging Wagner to think she was interested in him did. He had already told her a few generalities, using euphemisms like examine for interrogate and enemies of the people for those who fell into his hands, but nothing that led her to believe he had any knowledge of her mother or her whereabouts.
“I do what must be done for the good of the Reich. Having said that, everyone does not achieve the same results. There is an art to it.” He speared another bite of duck, mopping it in the bloody sauce, and chased it with a swallow of wine. A very good wine, brought to the table by the proprietor personally, who uncorked and served it with bowing assurances that it had been kept back especially for Herr Obergruppenführer Wagner, whose favorite Parisian restaurant this was. “I have the reputation of being somewhat harsh in my methods, I am aware. Perhaps you have heard such?” Genevieve essayed a small, noncommittal smile for him to interpret as he would. “But you must not think I am harsh with those in my personal life. At heart, I am a gentle man, I assure you.”
Genevieve felt her skin creep as she looked into his smiling blue eyes. He had always reminded her of someone, and it finally hit her who: Charles Lamartine. Wagner’s eyes held the same predatory gleam as Lamartine’s had when he looked at her, and as she recognized it, she promised herself that this night was the last opportunity she would ever give him to be alone with her. His cheeks were flushed with wine and the enjoyment of her company. He was once again sitting relaxed in his chair, and his expression was good-humored. None of that made a bit of difference. She’d already seen behind the mask into his true nature. The horrors of the torture inflicted on prisoners undergoing interrogation by the SS were legendary. Wagner’s reputation in that regard was particularly damning. She could not think about it and maintain her admiring posture, so, not for the first time since meeting him, she forced all such thoughts from her head.
She’d gotten really good at that.
“I don’t doubt it, Herr Obergruppenführer.” She smiled at him. He smiled back, then startled her by leaning forward and taking her hand, which rested on the table beside her plate. His hand was warm, with thick palms and sausage fingers.
Once again she was reminded of Charles Lamartine.
Do not shrink away.
His eyes were intent on her face as he looked at her across the table. Set with flowers, a small flickering candle in a glass globe and the finest china, crystal and cutlery atop a starched white tablecloth, the round table was tucked into a discreet corner. Nevertheless, Genevieve had been aware that she was the object of continual covert observation from the other diners from the moment she’d entered the restaurant. Several of the women—and there were far more chère-amie types in slinky dresses than matrons in pearls—watched even now in a side-eyed manner they no doubt thought was discreet.
“Please, you must call me Claus.”
Look pleased. Flattered. Smile. “Claus. And you must call me Genevieve.”
“It will be my great pleasure to do so. Genevieve.”
The dimples that gave him such an incongruously boyish look appeared. He was not an unhandsome man, but the physical sensation of his hand holding hers made her stomach churn. The thought of what those hands had done...
He slid his thumb over the back of her hand in a subtle caress, setting her teeth on edge. It took every ounce of willpower she possessed not to yank it from his hold.
Instead she smiled, endured his stroking thumb for a moment, and gently withdrew her hand. Then, breaking eye contact for fear of what he might be able to read in her eyes, she glanced toward the waiter as if she required his services. To Wagner she said, “I wonder if I could possibly get another napkin? I’ve dropped mine.”
Because she had pushed it off her lap.
“Certainly.” He snapped his fingers, and the waiter glided over. “Mademoiselle Dumont requires another napkin.”
The waiter draped the fresh linen over her lap with a flourish. For just a moment, as he straightened, their eyes met. She saw a flash of what she thought was real hatred in his eyes, mixed with cold contempt. The look was there for no longer than it took to blink, and then he dropped his lids and turned away. But she was shaken by what she had seen: he, a Frenchman, despised her, because he thought she was a collaborator.
It was the role she was supposed to play, the role in which she could best serve her country. But seeing the reflection of herself in that guise in someone else’s eyes made her sick.
“Everything is to your satisfaction?” he asked Wagner, all obsequiousness now. She did not think he realized what his eyes had just revealed. He could not have meant for her to see it. Certainly if she had called Wagner’s attention to it, or even intimated that his service was lacking or he made her uncomfortable, he would have been fired at the very least.
“Excellent as usual.” Waving the waiter away, Wagner said, “One of the reasons I truly enjoy my visits to Paris is because of its fine restaurants.”
“They’re quite an enticement,” she agreed.
The truth of the matter was most restaurants that remained in the city were of the storefront or sidewalk café variety, and of questionable quality. They were almost without exception plagued with the same scarcity of food that afflicted Paris’s citizens and, as a result, were able to open only two or three days a week. The restaurants had been separated into categories, with the types of food they could offer, the prices they could charge and the clientele they were allowed to serve strictly controlled. A, B and E categories obtained food supplies on the black market and were able to offer simple meals to a wide variety of customers. Categories C and D were at a lower price level. They served families and the working class, and their dishes were prepared with the same ingredients the average household could obtain for themselves, which was not much.
But a handful of restaurants had been designated as catégorie exceptionnelle, and La Tour d’Argent was one of these. Its sixth-floor location on the Left Bank featured an unrivaled view of Notre-Dame cathedral during the day (at night, like now, the heavy curtains were drawn to satisfy the conditions of the blackout). Even in these difficult times, the atmosphere was elegant, the service superb and the clientele exclusively rich, famous or German, or some combination of the three.
It was late—half past eleven—and yet the tables were full of high-ranking officers and their families or companions, and rich collaborators. Ordinary people, whether French or German, could not afford the prices and would not be permitted to pass through the hallowed doors in any case. Seating was limited, as was access. At up to a thousand francs per meal, the food was the best that Occupied Paris had to offer.
Each time she took a bite, the emaciated faces and hungry eyes of her fellow citizens rose up to haunt her. She had to keep reminding herself that to eat with the appearance of enjoyment was both her job and the best thing she could do for them.
Wagner said, “I hope you are enjoying the sole.”
I’m choking on every bite. “It’s as delicious as you promised it would be. One of the best meals I’ve had in Paris, in fact. Thank you for inviting me.”
“It is my pleasure. La Tour d’Argent is my f
avorite restaurant. I dine here several times a week.”
“I can certainly see why you would. Everything about this place is spectacular.”
She let her gaze wander appreciatively around the large candlelit room with its gilded arches and baroque details. The scent of wine and rich food, the glittering jewelry and fine gowns on the women, the well-dressed, well-fed-looking men seemed to belong to a place far removed from war-weary Paris. To be surrounded by so much opulence felt obscene.
“No more spectacular than you.” Wagner’s gaze slid over her. She was dressed with deliberate modesty in a long-sleeved, high-necked green silk dress accented only by a narrow black belt and a black silk rose pinned to her shoulder, but there was enough carnality in his eyes as they met hers to make her uncomfortable. “Allow me to tell you how beautiful you look tonight. I am the envy of every man present.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“It is my objective to surround myself with the spectacular, and the beautiful and the one of a kind. You are all three.” He tipped his glass to her in a salute, then swallowed the last of his wine.
The waiter appeared beside their table, saving her from having to reply. His eyes blank now, his face etched in lines of polite concern, he cast an experienced look at Wagner’s empty glass and plate and her nearly empty ones. “May I bring our dessert selections?”
Wagner looked at her. “Genevieve?”
There was a proprietary note to his voice, and she could tell how much he enjoyed addressing her in that familiar way in front of the waiter. The discomfort of being despised made her want to squirm in her seat, but she maintained her composure and replied with a nod.
The waiter removed their plates and brought a cheese board along with a selection of desserts. She settled on a demitasse only, pleading the richness of the meal. Wagner had cheese, and more wine.
“You must know everything that goes on in Paris,” she said in a last desperate attempt to learn what she wanted to know as, finally, the remaining plates were taken away and the waiter presented Wagner with the bill. So far, she had gleaned a great deal of information that might be of interest to Max, but nothing that would help in finding her mother. The problem was she couldn’t ask anything too direct. If he were to get the slightest inkling of what her true purpose was... She shuddered inwardly. The thought of finding herself in his power made her go cold with fear.
He smiled as he pulled out his wallet. “Not quite everything.”
“I bet you know—” But she broke off. As he extracted the necessary banknotes from his wallet, a delicate gold chain with a small red heart dangling from it was dislodged.
For a moment, as it hung there against the smooth brown leather, she gaped at it.
Fortunately, he was occupied with counting out francs and didn’t notice the sudden, stunned riveting of her attention.
“—everything that goes on in Paris,” she finished lamely, as he handed the payment to the hovering waiter, spotted the errant piece of jewelry hanging from his wallet and restored it to the inner compartment where it had been tucked away.
“Not quite as much as that.” Smiling at her, he pocketed the wallet, then walked around to pull her chair out for her. “But I confess to knowing a great deal.” His tone was light.
Managing a smile for him, she rose as though nothing had changed. But she was shaken to the core.
She knew that pendant. There was no mistaking it: a thumbnail-sized garnet heart on a finely wrought gold chain, complete with tiny gold letters E and G carved into the center of the heart.
She and Emmy had given it to Maman one long ago Mother’s Day.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Wagner has seen Maman...or has seen someone who has seen Maman.
That Genevieve knew for sure.
Is he the one interrogating her? Torturing her? Maman of the delicate skin and fragile bones...
The horror of it shook her, but there was no way to ascertain the answer.
My God, will he go to her after leaving me?
Her breath caught, even though there was no way to know that, either.
Perhaps someone gave him the necklace. Whoever is interrogating her. But why? Why does he have it? Could he know I’m her daughter? Could this all be a setup, part of an elaborate trap?
The thought sent terror shooting through her veins. Her gut said no. A lightning review of their interactions convinced her that his interest in her was just what it seemed.
But again, there was no way to be sure.
Her eyes fixed on his face, and she tried to look interested in what he was saying. She’d lost the thread: she had no idea what he was talking about.
Can we find her by following him?
That was the urgent question. A flutter of hope stirred inside her as the possibility occurred. It was certainly worth a try. Only...she couldn’t do it. The actual doing of it had to be left to Emmy.
I can’t get a message to Emmy until the curfew lifts.
The desperation she felt was almost unbearable.
Remaining in Wagner’s company, behaving as if nothing had changed, was one of the hardest things she’d ever done.
But she did it.
Smiling. Acting as if she liked him. Pretending nothing was wrong.
He took her back to the Ritz, sitting beside her in the back seat of his official Daimler-Benz, with his driver, a peach-faced boy he curtly addressed as Lutz, behind the wheel. It was a short ride through dark and deserted streets, but it seemed to go on forever. He didn’t try to squeeze her knee or paw or kiss her, which was a good thing, because at that point she was so racked with nerves she probably would have jumped out of the car. But he did sit so close to her that their bodies brushed, and even that was enough to require extreme self-discipline on her part to endure. She supposed she could thank the rigid code of behavior demanded of a German officer for his restraint. Her standard line of defense against such an attempt, which was always a possibility when carrying out these close-and-personal missions at Max’s behest, involved outrage, a “what kind of girl do you think I am” diatribe and the power of her stardom, which provided a certain amount of protection. If that didn’t work, she had no objection to slapping an offending face.
They talked for the duration of the ride. Or, rather, he talked and she listened, although her mind was in such turmoil that she barely registered a word. But her nods and smiles kept him going until they reached the hotel.
The burning question she wanted to ask him was Where are you going after you drop me off? But she didn’t ask it, afraid to alert him to her interest. Besides, if he was going to wherever her mother was being held, he almost certainly wouldn’t tell her. So she bit her tongue and stayed silent.
To her dismay, he came in with her, accepting the salutes of the sentries on duty at the door with a quick one of his own. The lobby was full of a mix of German officers and affluent civilians in stylish evening wear, many of whom flashed curious looks in their direction as, with his hand on the back of her waist, ostensibly to guide her while in reality seeking to claim public ownership, he escorted her across the room. She glimpsed familiar faces—Edward, the waiter from room service, carrying drinks on a tray; Georges, from the Little Bar talking on the telephone as he looked out at the ebb and flow of people; Charles Ritz, the owner’s son, glad-handing his guests; Coco Chanel with her German lover making her way up the grand escalier. The Ritz’s restaurants and bars were crowded, and the walls echoed with music and laughter. Though it was hours after curfew, the hotel, while observing blackout protocol, was in full swing. In those of the city’s establishments that catered to the occupiers and their sycophants, Paris’s nightlife flourished as if there were no such a thing as a war.
As they reached the lift, she was on pins and needles for fear that he expected to come up with her. To turn him down might make him angry, which she di
dn’t want to do unless there was no other course open to her. Angering a man like Wagner came with a price—danger. To avoid having to say no, she’d learned, the best thing to do was keep the question from being asked in the first place.
With that in mind, Genevieve hit the lift button and immediately turned to Wagner. In case he was harboring any misapprehensions about how this evening was going to end, she meant to make it clear that she was going upstairs alone.
“I had a lovely time tonight. Thank you.” Smiling, she thrust out her hand.
To her relief, he showed no disposition to argue.
“The pleasure was entirely mine.” Taking her hand, he lifted it to his mouth and kissed it. She felt the moist heat of his mouth against her skin and barely repressed a shudder. “Dare I say I hope this is only the beginning of our friendship?”
God forbid. “I hope so, too.”
The lift doors slid open.
“Good night.” Withdrawing her hand, she stepped into it.
“Good night, Genevieve.” It was only when the lift door was closing, and he added, “I’ll be there tomorrow night after your show. Just walk out the stage door and I’ll be waiting,” that she realized that, at some point—probably during the course of their one-sided conversation in the car, when she was too shocked from seeing her mother’s necklace to know what she was saying—she must have agreed to meet him again.
For another dinner? Almost certainly.
Every cell in her body recoiled at the thought.
There was nothing to do about it at the moment, though, other than hope her wide-eyed surprise hadn’t been noticed. As soon as the doors closed, she wiped the back of her hand against her skirt in an attempt to rid herself of any trace of his mouth. At the same time, she consoled herself with the reminder that she could always come up with an excuse to put him off. Then it occurred to her that, now that she knew he’d had contact with her mother, spending more time with him might be a good idea.
The Black Swan of Paris Page 25
