Chapter Twelve
Paris, June 1944
GABBY
What are you doing? Get away from her!” Gabby charged forward, gripped the stranger’s arm and tugged with all her might, then shoved him away. With a groan, he staggered back, crashing into the dressing table. Panting and clutching at the edge of the vanity, he struggled to right himself. There was something wrong with him. She shouldn’t have been able to do that to a man of his size. At a glance she could see that he was weak—sick or possibly injured. But once she realized he was not a threat, her attention was all for madame.
“What happened? What’s wrong with her?” Gabby reached across the bed to take madame’s hand. It was slack in her grip. Madame’s eyes were staring straight ahead. Before she even felt for a pulse, Gabby knew what this meant.
“Ah, no!” Pain flooded her chest. There she had been, thinking only of herself and her hurt feelings, when madame lay lifeless in her own bed. She couldn’t stop the ragged keening that came from deep inside her chest.
“Please. Please don’t,” said the man hoarsely, panting as if speaking were a huge effort. “Please. Quiet. Fetch . . . Mademoiselle Dior.”
He had his back to the dresser, and he was sliding down it, his legs crumpling beneath him. His face had turned a pearly grey at odds with the fierce blue of his eyes.
She could not deal with him now. All she could think was that madame was gone. That enchanting smile would never strike warmth into Gabby’s heart again.
She bent her head and pressed it to the old lady’s temple and wept.
Everything else seemed to fall away and there was only Gabby and madame and her grief. She sobbed and held on to that lifeless hand, feeling the papery skin, the wrinkled knuckles, and the wasted palms.
If only she could have had just one more day. She would have used it wisely, had she known the end was so near.
After some time like this, Gabby heard the man rasp out, “I am sorry. She was a remarkable woman.”
Gabby was silent. In a distant part of her mind, she knew what the man was, that she risked her life simply by staying in this room with him. Yet her sorrow was too overwhelming for her to react.
Anger swelled deep inside. She wanted to accuse him, blame him. But despite what it had looked like when she’d entered the room, she knew that this had not been a violent death. The man—whatever he was doing here—had not murdered madame.
Slowly, thoughts came to her, drifting through the fog. The man who sat on the floor with his eyes squeezed shut was very ill indeed. Deathly ill. She regarded him dully. His breathing was labored and his color was ashen. His lips twisted as if he was in pain. She’d had the impression he was large and it was true that he was tall, but now that she saw him better, he appeared painfully thin. He looked like some of the French soldiers who had returned from the war, broken and starving.
So, this was madame’s secret. Madame’s and Catherine Dior’s.
“Frightfully sorry,” the man mumbled in English, “but I rather think I’m . . .” Then he slid into a dead faint and narrowly missed hitting his head on the knob of the lowest dresser drawer.
Gabby bit back a cry. She ought to do something for him. But what could she do? She doubted she could move him on her own.
And Madame LaRoq? How could Gabby bring an undertaker here, with this man occupying the room? She drew a deep breath and tried to order her scattered thoughts.
Madame first. Gabby reached forward and gently closed the lids of her eyes and whispered a quick prayer. She bit her lip to hold back more tears. She couldn’t afford to indulge herself now.
Reluctantly, Gabby left madame’s side and went to bend over the unconscious Englishman. On his shoulder, she saw a red stain seeping through his shirt. He must have a wound that had opened when he fell. Trembling with shock and grief, she hunted around for something to staunch the bleeding and came up with a towel from madame’s bathroom.
Kneeling beside him, she put a hand around his neck to support his head, then pressed the towel to his shoulder.
“Come on,” she muttered under her breath. He wasn’t regaining consciousness. He was wedged between madame’s dresser and the bed, impossible to extricate without help. “Monsieur?” Gently, she patted at his face with her fingertips. Maybe he’d rouse sufficiently to move himself. But it was no good. He was out cold.
She should fetch Catherine Dior. He was Catherine’s problem, after all, one she had never intended to share with Gabby. She slid her hand out from under his head and then used her scarf to bind the towel firmly in place. He gave a soft groan. She’d hurt him.
“So sorry,” she whispered. He was white to the lips, but even pale and sickly, he was a good-looking man.
When she eased her arm from beneath his shoulder, he immediately slid sideways, so she lowered him gently and shifted him so that he lay flat on the floor. “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she told him, though why she bothered when he was unconscious, she didn’t know. She felt sick, not at the sight of the wound, but at the danger the man’s mere presence represented.
Gabby went to the bathroom to wash her hands and saw her face in the mirror. Her eyes were wide and wild, her cheeks flushed. She looked guilty of something. She tried to tidy her hair, repinning the wispy black tendrils that had escaped from her chignon when she’d pulled off her scarf. She splashed her face with water, then gripped the sink, breathed in, breathed out, attempting to steady herself.
Get Catherine. Leave it all to her. Gabby made herself move. She cleared the broken crockery from the threshold of madame’s bedroom, locked up, and hurried down the corridor to Monsieur Dior’s apartment. She took a deep breath, then tapped on the door.
Sabine answered, feather duster in hand. She looked so normal, so untouched by danger in her perky little apron and cap, that Gabby wanted to shake her and yell at her to wake up.
“Is your mistress at home?” She tried to sound casual but her voice trembled.
Sabine didn’t seem to notice her distress. “Mademoiselle Dior is in Callian.”
“What?” Gabby stared at the maid. Of course! What an idiot. She’d forgotten Catherine had left already. Oh, good God, how would she possibly manage this situation without help?
Sabine frowned at her, curiosity dawning, but then she gave a start. “One moment, I have something for Yvette. Will you take it to her?” She left the room without waiting for an answer.
Gabby squeezed her eyes shut. She felt as if the ground had been whipped out from under her. How could Catherine leave the Englishman in madame’s apartment like that and not arrange for his care? She might have let Gabby know who had taken over in her absence. Whom could she possibly trust to help her now? Not Sabine with her German boyfriend, that was for sure.
Who would know, then? Monsieur Dior? But if he wasn’t aware his sister was working for . . . them, it wasn’t Gabby’s place to endanger him by revealing that information. The wounded man was British. A pilot, maybe, or perhaps a spy. Simply knowing about him could get all of them arrested, tortured, and killed. With a huge effort of will, she pushed the panic away.
If only Simeon, the handyman, still worked at number 10, she could ask for his help in moving the injured man. Could she wait until Yvette came home? She didn’t think so. And anyway, she couldn’t involve Yvette. It was too dangerous.
The Englishman must be hidden before the undertaker could be called. Gabby ran through the able-bodied men of her acquaintance, but she could not think of one she might trust.
An inkling of an idea was forming in the back of Gabby’s mind. One so abhorrent, she did not truly wish it to flourish and grow into a fully fledged thought.
Sabine came back into the room and handed Gabby a small, light package. “Stockings,” she said with a wink. No doubt a gift from her German soldier.
Bemused by the great chasm between Sabine’s concerns and her own, Gabby blinked, then shoved the package into the pocket of her housecoat. Yvette would throw them o
n the fire.
“Are you feeling well, Gabby?” said Sabine. “You look as if you’re about to faint.”
That made Gabby pull herself together. “No, no, I’m fine.” She hesitated. Should she ask Sabine to alert her if anyone called for Catherine? But no, she could not afford to raise any suspicions, particularly not Sabine’s.
“When will Catherine be back?” She tried to sound casual rather than desperate.
The maid shrugged. “She does not keep me informed of her movements. I believe there was some problem at home and she had to dash away. Perhaps she will be back tomorrow. Perhaps not.”
At a loss to know what to do next, Gabby turned and almost collided with Liliane Dietlin.
“What is this?” demanded Liliane, walking into the apartment and stripping off her gloves. “Catherine not here? I didn’t know she was going away.”
She sounded most put out. Gabby could identify with the sentiment. On closer inspection, Liliane’s ordinarily cheerful demeanor had deserted her this morning. She looked pale and drawn.
Gabby hated to add to her troubles, but if anyone knew what Catherine was up to, it would be Liliane. And Gabby desperately needed her help.
As Sabine repeated what she had already told Catherine’s first visitor, Gabby watched Liliane closely. If only there were some secret handshake or password Gabby could use to test whether Liliane was a part of Catherine’s resistance group. There was no way around it; given the situation in madame’s apartment, Gabby had to take the chance of revealing her own involvement. But she would do it away from the inquisitive Sabine.
Liliane hesitated, as if debating a difficult decision. Then she thanked Sabine and turned to leave.
Gabby followed Liliane out of the apartment. When the door shut behind them, she whispered, “Mademoiselle Dietlin! I must speak with you.” Before Liliane could respond, Gabby boldly gripped her wrist and drew her toward Madame LaRoq’s suite.
Meeting Liliane’s astonished gaze, she murmured, “Are you aware of Catherine’s . . . er . . . nighttime activities?”
Liliane smiled. “Nighttime activities? That sounds mysterious. What on earth do you mean?”
Gabby licked her lips, glancing down the corridor. “A few nights ago, Catherine asked me to ignore certain visitors who arrived after curfew. I did it, of course. But now things are a little precarious. She has gone, and she has left behind a . . . a difficulty, shall we say.”
“A difficulty.” Liliane stared hard at Gabby, as if she were calculating the odds. Then she said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It is dangerous to make insinuations like this, Gabby. I’m surprised at you. Catherine is a sensible woman. She just wants to get along with the Germans like the rest of us.”
Gabby could not tell anything from Liliane’s demeanor. Had Catherine truly kept this secret from her friend? Or was Liliane Dietlin just a very good actress?
With Catherine gone, Liliane was her only chance. “I found something in Madame LaRoq’s apartment,” she said, trying to put as much meaning into her words as she could. At least if Liliane were not a resistance worker, no harm could come to madame now. She shuddered inwardly at the cold pragmatism of that thought.
“Something?” said Liliane.
“Someone,” said Gabby. She gripped Liliane’s elbow. “Please, Mademoiselle Dietlin, you must come.”
Liliane’s gaze darted toward madame’s apartment. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
In a low voice, Gabby said, “It is madame. She has passed away in the night. And there is a—a person in there, wounded. He fell down and I cannot move him.”
Liliane’s quick nod said she comprehended the implications. “It is broad daylight,” she whispered. “I cannot bring anyone in to help until nightfall. We will have to see what we can do ourselves.”
They slipped inside Madame LaRoq’s apartment and went through to her bedroom. Liliane took in the situation with one cool glance. She put her purse on the dressing table and bent to the injured man. “He has stopped bleeding,” she said, “but he is unconscious. We need to get him back to his hiding place before we can arrange for the undertaker. Help me.”
Careful of the wound, Liliane hooked her hands under the man’s armpits, which made him groan in pain but did not rouse him fully. Gabby took him by the ankles and together, they hefted him up. “My goodness, he is heavy,” said Gabby.
When they’d half-carried, half-dragged him out of the boudoir and shuffled into the sitting room, Liliane said, “I have to stop for a minute.” She jerked her chin toward the sofa. “Over there.” Panting, they carried him over to the sofa and lowered him onto it. With quick, gentle hands, Gabby raised him and placed a cushion behind his head.
They took a few moments, staring down at their burden. Gabby’s heart pounded—from both fear and exertion. “Where are we taking him?”
“Come and see.”
The maid’s room was not much larger than a cupboard. There was space only for a cot and a bedside table inside.
Liliane waved a hand. “All we had to do was pull something in front of the door, and it’s as if there is no room there at all.”
Gabby gazed in wonder. “So that’s why madame had the cabinet put there!” The glass-fronted armoire was enormous, made of burl walnut and cluttered with madame’s family silver. Gabby had been so preoccupied lately that she’d scarcely questioned Madame LaRoq’s decision to rearrange the furniture.
“Catherine had casters fitted to make it easier to move. See?” Liliane pressed her palms flat on the side of the cabinet and pushed. The cabinet stuttered to the side, silver rattling.
“It seems Mademoiselle Dior has thought of everything.” Gabby could not help but admire Catherine’s ingenuity. She had achieved all this right under Gabby’s nose. She looked to the tiny room again. “There is no way out for him if there is a raid.”
“That is true,” admitted Liliane. “But you can’t have everything, can you? Believe me, it is safer and more comfortable than many other places he might be at this moment.”
Just peering into that room made Gabby’s throat close over with anticipated panic. She hated small spaces. “Must we put him back there? Could we not hide him in the spare bedroom while the undertaker comes?”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Liliane. “He needs treatment and we need easy access to him. I think putting him in the spare room should work in the short term. Now that you are in on the secret, it will be easier.”
“I can nurse him,” said Gabby. “Just until Catherine comes back.” The quicker he got better, the sooner she would be rid of him. “Do you have any medical supplies?”
“In here.” Liliane went to the bathroom and fetched bandages, ointment, a solution for cleaning the wound, and a precious vial of morphine. “It might not seem like much, but we can ill spare it.”
Given the apparent seriousness of the man’s condition, it would not be enough. He must be important for Catherine and Liliane to bring him here, to take such a risk. She burned to ask who he was, but it was safer not to know.
Gabby drew up the coffee table beside the sofa and perched on its edge. She took the scissors and carefully snipped away the bandages, laying the shoulder wound bare.
She sucked air between her teeth. “That does not look good.” The wound was ugly, jagged and wet, the skin surrounding it striated with red, as if infection had set in. She saw other evidence of infection. Smelled it, too. “I’ll do my best, but I am untrained, you understand.”
“You have experience?” said Liliane.
“A little.” She had nursed Didier through the long, painful weeks leading to his death.
“Then you are the best we have at this moment.”
While Gabby worked to clean and dress the wound, Liliane went to see to the spare room. The man had more than just this wound wrong with him, Gabby suspected. His breathing was shallow and rattling. She hoped he wasn’t going to die.
She wished she could bring a docto
r to him, but that was far too risky. People were being arrested and shot for helping Jews and dissidents escape capture. She, Catherine, and Liliane were giving aid to the enemy. If she approached the wrong person and he informed on them, it would mean their arrest, followed by weeks of interrogation and torture. They’d be shot or transported to Germany to be worked to death in the camps. Yvette, Maman, perhaps even Monsieur Dior might be rounded up as well.
“Help me bind the wound again,” Gabby said when Liliane returned. Liliane hefted the man up while Gabby passed the bandage around his torso and secured it in place.
“There,” she said. “That is the best I can do.” She eyed the Englishman again. His breathing had grown more regular.
“What next?” said Gabby when they’d washed up and put the medical supplies away. “Look, Mademoiselle Dietlin, I made it clear to Catherine I didn’t want to get involved in this.” What was Gabby doing now, aiding and abetting these resisters without so much as a second thought? With madame lying cold and alone just a few feet away?
A fresh wave of grief broke over her. She dashed the tears from her face with the back of her hand.
“Madame LaRoq is dead,” said Liliane with unwonted brutality. “That changes things.” She rose and paced the room. “Now that madame is gone, we must be rid of him. He is a millstone around our necks. I told Catherine this from the start.”
Despite Gabby’s reluctance to get involved, this seemed callous. She ought to be glad to be freed of this liability as well as the burden of his care. But he was her patient now. She felt a duty to him. “You can’t. He is in no fit state to be moved.”
“Let me worry about that. But you do need to keep quiet about his presence here. You must.” Liliane’s gaze drilled into her. “You are in it now, too, you know.”
“Of course, I know that.” Gabby was torn. On the one hand, every cell in her body urged her to nurse her patient back to health. On the other, her family’s safety would be in jeopardy every second the man remained in this apartment.
For the moment, however, what could she do but be practical? Only a true coward would leave Liliane to deal with all of this on her own. Gabby gathered up the bloody bandages and put them in the fireplace, set them alight.
Sisters of the Resistance Page 13
